Vergil walks unhurriedly through the coliseum's inner corridors.
There's no urgency in his steps, nor that constant tension that usually accompanies him before battles. For the first time since the tournament began, he simply… walks. His hands in his coat pockets, his gaze wandering, his mind too occupied to focus on anything specific.
There were still about twenty-five minutes left until the second phase.
Too much time to stand still. Too little time to truly rest.
The corridors stretch like veins in a colossal organism. Wide doors marked with golden seals indicate VIP rooms belonging to pantheons, ancient families, entities that prefer to watch the chaos from afar. Some are closed. Others are ajar, revealing fragments of exaggerated luxury: floating sofas, arcane energy sources, music too low to be truly heard.
Vergil passes by them all without interest.
He's not looking for anyone.
Perhaps he's just avoiding thinking.
