The golden doors loomed before him—impossibly vast, their surface alive with celestial engravings that breathed with ancient power. Each carved symbol pulsed softly, not with light, but with the essence of something older than time itself. The air hung heavy with divine radiance—a weightless pressure whispering of unfathomable authority.
As he stepped forward, the polished Divinium floor beneath his feet thrummed, reacting to his presence. At his touch, the golden gates trembled—not in defiance, but in recognition. Slowly, they parted, revealing a brilliance so pure it threatened to consume all shadow.
He did not flinch.
Instead, his smirk deepened.
Through the parted doors, he strode effortlessly. Twelve colossal wings unfurled behind him—six dark as the void, six radiant with divine brilliance beyond mortal comprehension. They stretched wide, exuding an aura that blurred the line between annihilation and ascension. Strands of unruly black hair fell across his face, barely veiling a gaze of piercing contrast—one eye glowing with ethereal blue, the other a deep, foreboding crimson. His black waistcoat clung to his form, refined yet ominous, the long tails shifting like shadows beneath the divine glow.
With each step, the celestial palace seemed to flicker—uncertain, unstable.
Then, he looked up.
And reality unraveled.
The grand halls of Divinium—the golden walls, the towering pillars of light, the cascading waterfalls of radiance—peeled away like illusions. They dissolved into nothingness. Space, time, and truth collapsed.
And there—he waited.
A lone figure, seated in a space that could not be defined.
There was no throne.
No ground beneath him.
No sky above.
No place—because place did not exist here.
Below stretched a sight beyond imagination: rivers of unseen colors bleeding into each other, flowing in directions that defied understanding. Vast structures—towers, bridges, cathedrals of impossible geometry—emerged and collapsed in an instant. This was not a realm. It was something far beyond the concept of existence.
His white hair, pure as untouched void, drifted around him as if suspended in still water. Though it fell across his face, it did nothing to obscure the gaze beneath—eyes that did not glow, did not blaze, but simply were, seeing not with light, but with absolute understanding.
His body was clothed in something that defied definition—not fabric, but creation itself, woven from the foundation of reality. It shimmered with paradox: infinitely complex, perfectly simple.
He did not move.
He didn't need to.
Everything moved around him.
And as he gazed downward, surveying all that lay beneath him, there was silence.
Not an absence of sound, but a presence.
A silence full of meaning—a language no voice could form.
A silence older than the first word.
And one that would outlast the last.
> "To think you would make it this far," said the man in white. His voice was calm and unshaken, as if existence itself spoke through him. His white hair swayed gently, though there was no wind in this place beyond comprehension.
Across from him, the man in black stood unfazed, smirk still etched across his face.
> "Sheesh. No faith, huh? It's like you never believed in me."
His tone was light, almost playful. But beneath the jest lay something far heavier—resolve.
His wings stretched wide—half abyssal black, half divine white.
The man in white scoffed, arms resting at his sides.
> "Why have you come? To beg for your wish? The only thing waiting for you is failure. Or death."
His gaze sharpened, a glint of cold amusement flickering through his otherwise unreadable expression.
> "Wrong," the man in black said, voice stripped of levity.
"I wish for it. I yearn for it. And I will succeed… where you could not."
His eyes burned—not with light, but with unwavering conviction.
Silence again.
Reality pulsed. Nothingness and infinity folded into each other.
The man in white exhaled. Then slowly, he rose.
The very fabric of this space twisted with his movement.
> "Very well," he said. "If you would defy reason itself… then transcend me. Prove me wrong."
The man in black raised his hand—and a weapon formed.
A pitch-black blade rippling like the void, faintly aglow with ghostly silver. It resonated with his will, pulsing like a living extension of his soul.
> "Then try me," he whispered, smirk returning.
"I'll devour you—and ascend."
And then—
He moved.
Faster than thought.
'Godspeed.'
The void bent around him as he vanished—reappearing an instant later, blade aimed for the man in white's heart. A thrust so fast it carved through space itself. The force behind it would have shattered entire realities.
But it did not land.
A blinding clash erupted between them—steel of the void met steel of the divine. The man in white had drawn his own weapon: a blade of pure radiance, forged from the essence of existence itself.
The impact sent a shockwave that shattered the boundaries of reality, rewriting the cosmos in its wake.
The man in black pressed forward—raw strength meeting refined grace. But the man in white deflected his strike with ease, retaliating with a blinding slash.
The black-winged warrior twisted midair, narrowly evading the counter. The attack tore past him, splitting the infinite.
He flipped backward, wings propelling him aloft, and reappeared above—blade descending like a divine judgment.
The man in white raised a single hand.
And weight ceased to exist.
The black-winged one felt it instantly. No force. No resistance. No ground. No gravity.
Then—gravity returned tenfold.
He was slammed downward, his body plummeting faster than light, as if the cosmos itself sought to crush him. But before he struck—
His wings flared.
His aura erupted, shattering the false force.
And he vanished again.
Above, he reappeared—his weapon shifting, warping as he poured his entire will into it. It stretched, infused with darkness and faint silver, and he swung it downward.
A single arc.
A crescent of devouring shadow laced with divine light.
It tore through the unreal, splitting the unseen heavens.
The man in white met it with no retreat.
His blade flashed.
He cut through the arc.
The clash sundered the silence of eternity.
Light and shadow consumed the battlefield, spiraling outward in chaotic, beautiful destruction.
Neither man spoke now.
There was no longer any need.
The battle had begun.
---
But before this moment—before the clash of absolutes—
Let us return to where it all began.
To the very beginning.
---
Chapter 1: To Be Average
"Is it wrong to be average?"
The words slipped from my lips like a whisper into the void.
"I told myself if I just worked hard enough… I could do it. I could make something of myself. But maybe…"
I laughed.
A hollow sound—dry, brittle. It cracked in the still air like glass.
"Maybe 'hardworking' is just another word for pity. In this case… self-pity."
My whole life, I envied those with talent. Because I had none.
I hated how easy it was for them. The grades. The praise. The smiles.
I wanted to be great.
I wanted to prove them all wrong.
But the world doesn't reward effort.
It never did.
No… the world isn't cruel.
It's honest.
Brutally honest.
All I ever did was push forward.
Because for someone like me, choice is a luxury—one I was never born with.
No family. No connections. No support.
Just a name, whispered by a dying woman who brought me into this world.
My mother.
And a father who never looked back.
When I look in the mirror… I don't see hope.
I see trash.
A discarded thing.
Studying was my escape. I believed if I worked hard enough, I could claw my way out.
But that was a lie.
A delusion I wrapped around myself like a blanket in winter.
Because every time I reached for the light…
It moved further away.
That—is what it means to be hardworking.
Not everyone was meant for greatness.
---
The rain fell in endless rhythm, soaking into the cracked pavement outside the orphanage gates.
Thin streams of water ran through the gutters like veins in a dying world.
Vergil stood still, the downpour matting his black hair to his brow.
His brown eyes, once lit with resolve, had dimmed to dull embers.
No graves to visit.
No family to mourn.
Just him.
'I'm lonely,' he thought.
He should've felt something. Regret. Anger. Grief.
But emptiness doesn't feel.
It devours.
His fists clenched, trembling—not from cold, but from erosion.
The world hadn't broken him in a single blow.
It had chipped away.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Until all that remained was a husk pretending to be a boy.
He had tried everything. Grades. Labor. Sacrifice.
And yet—
Only dead ends.
'Would it be better to die?'
Would death be kinder than this unrelenting spiral of sorrow and regret?
Then—
A hand.
Rough. Leather-gloved.
Clamped over his mouth.
His eyes widened—
But it was too late.
A sharp pain bloomed at the base of his neck.
Something pierced him.
He thrashed—gasped—
But the drug coursed through him like fire.
And the world went black.
---
Vergil drifted in and out of consciousness, the edges of time smeared like wet ink.
When he finally awoke, his body felt distant.
Heavy.
He was lying flat. Strapped down.
Leather restraints cut into his wrists and ankles. The ceiling above him was harsh and sterile—blinding white, stained with flickering shadows.
Figures loomed.
Not doctors.
Surgeons.
A voice to his left.
"The kid's awake, boss."
Vergil's head lolled weakly. He couldn't see the speaker's face—only the blur of motion, the glint of surgical tools being prepared.
Another voice, clinical and detached:
"Sir, the boy's organs are in excellent condition. Blood type matches the client. Liver, kidneys, heart—all viable. The rest can be sold on the black market."
A slow chuckle echoed.
Then came the words that made Vergil's chest seize with cold rage.
"Well, if we can't find the father to pay us back… the son's organs will do just fine."
Vergil's blood froze.
'The bastard…' he thought.
Even now. Even now that man was ruining his life.
'Damn that old man… still finding ways to torture me.'
Something inside him snapped.
He began to laugh—softly at first. Then louder. Hysterical.
The surgeons glanced at each other, uneasy.
"...Is he delirious?"
"He won't be for long," one muttered, raising a syringe.
The mafia boss leaned over him, a wicked smile twisting his lips.
"Keep him awake during the procedure. Let him feel it. That's what his father bought him."
Pain lanced through Vergil's spine as the injection hit. His body went limp—paralyzed—but his nerves screamed.
He couldn't scream.
He couldn't move.
But he felt everything.
The scalpel bit into his flesh.
He felt the cold steel kiss his chest.
Then came the sound—a whining, high-pitched buzz—
a bone saw.
They cut through his ribcage.
Each vibration shook his body like an earthquake, but he couldn't even twitch.
"Kill me..."
The words formed in his mind. On his tongue.
But his lips didn't move.
His voice never left.
He stared at the ceiling as red mist blurred his vision.
---
His heart was slowing.
His vision darkening.
The sounds became distant—faded beneath the pulse in his ears.
"No…"
The word echoed in his soul, even as the light inside dimmed.
"I want to live… I want one more chance…"
But no one answered.
Only silence.
And the sound of dripping blood.