The divine energy surged through him, knitting flesh, bone, and thought back into existence. His head reformed in an instant—only to detonate again.
A brilliant flash. Agony. Darkness. Then light again.
It was an endless cycle of pain and rebirth. Even when his face was charred, his torso torn open, or his limbs blown apart, none of it compared to the soul-shattering torment of his head exploding over and over again. Vergil was no stranger to pain. He had faced it, endured it, and even wielded it as a weapon. But this was different. This was existence reduced to suffering.
The divine energy refused to let him die.
A day passed. Then another. Time outside barely ticked—thanks to the space-time array surrounding him, no more than a few minutes had slipped by in the real world.
On the tenth day, after dying every second and being reborn the next, something shifted. Amid the storm of agony, clarity began to bloom like a flickering flame in the dark.
Vergil gritted his teeth as another wave of searing pain racked his body. He was learning. Slowly. Imperceptibly. But learning.
He had begun to direct the energy flow—only slightly. Enough to feel a difference.
Then—
[Predation is reacting]
[Energy flow being directed to the right eye]
"Oh come on, not again."
The pain surged once more, and while the directed flow was still excruciating, it was nothing compared to the agony of spontaneous cranial combustion.
In the crucible of torment, Vergil realized two key truths:
First—he possessed far too much divine energy. It overflowed like a tidal wave through a cracked dam, flooding every inch of his body, leaving little room for the demonic energy to stabilize.
Second—the quality of the divine energy wasn't just high. It was peerless. A purifying, absolute force that dwarfed the demonic energy within him.
He had to fix both problems if he wanted to survive.
The first solution was simple, in theory— he just had tobleed it off. Keep dying, keep letting it explode, and let the divine energy burn itself out. After all, it wasn't his to begin with. That was the "easy" part.
The second was the true challenge—elevate the quality of his demonic energy. Fold it, condense it, refine it. He would need to sacrifice quantity for quality, to purify it until it could stand on equal footing with the divine energy. But there was no guarantee it would work. No promise that the demonic energy, even refined, could match the divine.
Vergil focused. Four seconds.
That's how long he could control the demonic energy in his head before it ruptured. He'd timed it.
Then, it blew again.
Another second passed.
He returned, again. Breathing in ash, forcing stillness. Focusing.
'How much divine energy do I have, system?'
[5 million units. Maximum quality rating: 10.]
'Advise me.'
[Continue the cycle. Once the divine energy lowers to a manageable level, I'll provide your next instructions. My friend.]
Vergil closed his eyes—just before they regenerated again—and sighed.
Hell was repetition. But in this repetition, he would evolve.
---------------
A month passed like that.
Vergil continued the cycle.
Explode. Regenerate. Control. Explode again.
The agony never dulled. It simply became routine—an agonizing rhythm etched into his nerves. But amid that torture, progress crept forward like a dying ember resisting the wind. What once was four seconds of control grew to five. Then six. Seven. Slowly, incrementally. There were no sudden breakthroughs. No genius insights. Just pain, repetition, and the stubborn will of someone who refused to be consumed.
He was average—but he was enduring.
[User has gained the skill: Divine Energy Manipulation – Rank F]
[User has gained the skill: Demonic Energy Manipulation – Rank F]
Another month dragged by.
His control reached one full minute. That was when he stopped pushing. The goal now shifted: reduce the divine energy. Let it burn out.
[Divine Energy has decreased to 2.5 million units]
Another month.
Each second was agony, but the divine energy began to thin, slowly withering away from constant combustion. At 1 million, he pivoted his focus. It was time to refine the demonic energy.
He began folding.
The demonic energy was chaotic—alive, like a raging beast trying to break its cage. On the first day, it resisted. On the second, it rebelled. On the third, it still refused to yield. But on the fourth, something changed.
On the fifth, it obeyed.
By the tenth day, all 50 units of his demonic energy had been compressed—folded into 10 units of improved quality: Rank 2.
But when he tried folding again, condensing even further, he realized the cost. The energy needed to rise to Rank 3 was massive. He didn't have enough—not even close.
So he returned to the divine energy. Somewhere along the way, the system had alerted him:
[User has obtained: God's Divine Right Eye]
But he hadn't paid attention. He had no time to care. The only thing that mattered now was control.
He began the delicate process of harmonizing demonic and divine energy.
But the moment a divine unit formed, it surged into his right eye—and violently rejected the demonic presence trying to coexist. It was like oil meeting fire.
He unfolded the energy again. Tried to reweave it.
The unfolding process was even more taxing than folding—painstaking and delicate. One wrong thread, and it would explode again.
Another month passed.
The divine energy refined itself down from unit at Rank 10… to 1 million at Rank 9. He released the excess, purging it from his body. Repeated the process again.
Rank 9 → 1 unit (Excess: 1 million)
Rank 8 → 1 unit (Excess: 750,000)
Rank 7 → 1 unit (Excess: 500,000)
Rank 6 → 1 unit (Excess: 250,000)
Rank 5 → 1 unit (Excess: 125,000)
Rank 4 → 1 unit (Excess: 62,500)
Rank 3 → 1 unit (Excess: 2,000)
Then, after days of strain—
10 Rank 3 units → 1 Rank 2 unit (Excess: 200)
He stored the refined energy—exactly ten Rank 2 divine units—in his right eye. The rest was purged. He could not allow imbalance. The risk of detonation was too high.
Then came the final and most complex task: control.
Not simply containing the energy—but directing, harmonizing it. Preventing them from clashing after the regeneration factor faded.
He began studying their nature.
Demonic energy was wild, violent. Like a dam that cracked under pressure, spilling chaos in every direction.
Divine energy flowed with intent—structured, serene. Like a river carving a path through bedrock. But when it touched the demonic current, it reacted. Violently.
One touch, and his left leg exploded in a burst of sacred and profane flames, reforming a moment later—his regeneration still intact.
He gritted his teeth. Again.
Another month passed.
The training ground—once known as The Spike—was unrecognizable. The floor had been stained a deep, permanent scarlet. It pulsed faintly, saturated with dried blood and the residue of divine detonation. The air was dense with spiritual pressure and the charred scent of regeneration magic.
And then—
He stood.
For the first time in months, Vergil stood without falling apart.
His right eye pulsed with a cold, eerie brilliance—an unnatural star set in the canvas of a living sky. The sclera shimmered. Vibrant blue of a midday firmament, luminous and boundless as if it repsrresent the heavens and captures it within its gaze
The iris. A masterpiece of chilling precision at its core, rhe piercing cyan spark, burnt like a concentrated blue flame, encased bh rings of glacial turquoise that rippled outward into stormy navy. The light fuckered restlessly within each of the lauers. Frozen waves struggled to move. Sharp and unyielding and alive with intent hidden within.
The centre nestled withing a vertical slit similar to his other pupil. It pulsed a subtle, almost ethereal mechanical gleam. It was no natural eye. It was hones beyond restless will and crowned by a divinity to precise to be pure. However it was similar to Luminares.
And his arm.
His mechanical arm had undergone a miraculous change—flesh and spirit converging. What was once cold steel and humming circuits now pulsed with life. A smooth, alabaster hue wrapped the limb like sculpted marble, crisscrossed with faint, glowing blue lines that resembled veins. They weren't merely aesthetic—they pulsed with divine rhythm, as if the very breath of heaven flowed through them.
Then, the system's tone echoed into his consciousness—a sound both familiar and impersonal.
[User has gained a Divine Arm]
[This will be shown under 'Bonds']
[User left eye has reached stage 1, Gained demonic energy manipulation (F-EX)
[Users right eye- stage 0, User has gained Divine energy Manipulation (F-EX)
[User's Demonic Energy and Divine Energy Manipulation have reached E-]
[User has finished Mission 001]
[User has received 15 Stat Points]
[User has received Conversion Heart Schematic]
[User has gained the ability: Projection (Source: Divine Arm)]
Vergil's gaze rose to the abyssal expanse above him. Far overhead, a jagged ledge jutted from the dark stone like a broken tooth. He narrowed his eyes.
"Projection," he said quietly.
A luminous arm burst forth from his own—ethereal, immense, and shimmering with divine blue energy. The lines along his actual arm glowed bright, threading light into the summoned projection like veins feeding a heart. It reached out, surged upward with fluid motion, and clamped onto the ledge above with immense force. In a moment, Vergil was hoisted up, weightless as a feather pulled by faith.
His feet touched the stone. "Not bad," he muttered.
The projection shimmered, then dispersed in a flash. His right arm, still white and divine, shifted its form, skin growing more tan and mortal—returning to its human shape. No presence remained, no aura—just silence.
"At least I won't have to use transformation ," he noted, almost with a sigh of relief.
He made his way back toward the cottage one last time, its silhouette small against the fading sky. Inside, nothing had changed. The divine spear still rested at the center of the wooden floor, a sentinel with no master. Its stillness was deeper than silence—it had known. Known the moment her soul left this world.
Vergil sat before it, folding his legs and placing his hand over his knee. His eyes never left it.
Then he spoke, voice low.
"Are you coming with me?"
The spear, silent for a moment, finally responded. Its tone was not sharp—but weary. Bitter.
"Devil-Spawn… it's your faul—"
"Don't," Vergil cut it off. "Don't pin her death on me. You and I both knew her lifespan had nearly run out. Even if I had never set foot here… she would have died. Alone. Miserable. And you…"
He exhaled, steady and slow. "You would have stayed here, rotting with time. Waiting. Hoping someone else would come."
He reached a hand toward the spear—not to grab it, but to gesture, to offer.
"So let me be your master. Not for me. But for her."
Silence followed. Then came the spear's defiance, sharp like the tip of its blade.
"I will not come with you. You are a devil. That is final."
Vergil stood, brushing dust from his coat. "That's fine."
He turned to leave when the spear spoke again. Its voice, this time, was quieter. Resigned.
"On behalf of my master… I'll give you two pieces of advice. First—under the bed. There's a concealment band she used to wear. It'll hide your demonic energy."
Vergil said nothing. He simply nodded.
"Second… your soul is overflowing. Whatever technique your body is using has had an effect—your soul has reached the Profound Heaven Rank. If you keep going at this pace, the moment you reach Ethereal-level cultivation, your body will collapse from the strain. Stop doing whatever your doing… at least until Bone Tempering."
Vergil paused. Then, with a flicker of polite curiosity: "You're not going to explain the stages?"
"You're going to an academy, are you not?" the spear replied. "Go there. Learn like everyone else."
He ducked under the bed, finding the white band hidden beneath worn linens. Slipping it onto his left wrist, he felt a sudden shift—the tight aura that clung to him, that screamed demon, faded into nothing.
[User's demonic energy is being concealed]
Vergil collected what food and water remained, stowing it away in his inventory with practiced hands. As he turned to leave, he cast one final look toward the divine spear. A moment passed—then he reached out, grasping it with his right hand.
It resisted. Hummed. Rejected him.
His right arm pulsed once more, reverting to the divine form, veins glowing blue.
"What are you doing?" the spear asked, uncertain.
Vergil said nothing.
He walked outside and made his way to the remains of the spike—the shattered remnants of the place where she had fallen. Carefully, deliberately, he placed the spear into the ground where it once stood, blade pointed skyward like a gravestone. Then he sat. Just sat, cross-legged in front of it, the weight of grief veiled beneath his stillness.
The wind whispered through the trees.
Here, in the shadow of the past, he said nothing. He simply remembered.
Time passed. The shadows stretched long.
Then he rose.
"Authority of Transformation," he said.
His hair shifted—from silvered strands back to natural brown. His eyes dimmed to a muted shade, human again. He poured water over his head, letting it run down his face. He slicked his hair back, some strands escaping—refusing to fall in line. He let them be.
He didn't complain.
And without another word, he turned toward the cliff and began to climb.