Vergil blinked once.
Then again.
He tilted his head slightly, assessing the golden-scaled colossus before him—a living legend, an entity that should only exist in old books and stories told around campfires.
"…Sapphire," he murmured with the calm of someone trying to make sure he's not delirious, "that's Fafnir. Fafnir."
Sapphire twirled her finger, as if to say "yes, yes, go ahead."
Vergil took a deep breath.
And finally blurted out, completely perplexed:
"Shouldn't he be dead? I mean… in the story, Siegfried kills him, doesn't he?"
The effect was immediate.
The air vibrated.
The magma behind Fafnir rose in columns like explosions of indignation.
And the entire dragon rose, opening its gigantic wings that tore through the air of the cave. The sound of the friction was so deafening that Vergil almost thought he was under an avalanche of rocks.
His golden eyes narrowed, burning with rage.
"HUMAN…"
