Vergil kept his eyes raised toward Yggdrasil's distorted sky for a few more seconds, watching Niddrog's colossal figure continue gnawing at the roots of the World Tree with an almost offensive naturalness. The creature showed no hurry, no concern, and no awareness of any moral scale. She simply existed there like a living calamity, bound to her own monstrous habit of devouring what sustained countless realms.
The entire scene seemed designed to remind anyone watching that this was not an ordinary battlefield. It was a domain older than empires, gods, and even most of the logic that organized the worlds. The air was thick, dunes of gray dust stretched like the remains of dead ages, and Yggdrasil's massive roots rose and fell like organic walls, some already partially destroyed by the dragon's absurd teeth.
