Vergil was lying in his room at the Palace of Sparda, staring at the ceiling as if he expected some answer to be hidden among the soft shadows cast by the curtains. The room was silent. There was no meeting, no voices arguing around a table, no witches preparing forbidden seals, no primordial goddesses emerging from the dark to offer servitude. Only him, the wide bed, the high ceiling, and the irritating sensation that the world had found yet another way to drag him into a crisis he could not ignore.
He took a deep breath.
Then slowly let it out.
"There is no way not to get involved in this," he murmured.
The sentence remained suspended in the room.
