The monitoring room was cold, bathed in a bluish gloom, lit only by floating runes on panels of black crystal. Echoes of arcane vibrations coursed through the walls, each one pulsing with fragments of what was happening beyond… The deepest, most cursed, most tragic cell in the entire prison lay before her.
Sepphirothy stood motionless.
Her silhouette was projected against the enchanted glass that revealed, like a window into a personal hell, the cell that should never be used… a sealed space reserved only for hopeless abominations.
And now… there he was.
Her son.
Vergil.
Kneeling at the center of the obsidian floor, his body pierced by demonic rune-bladed swords of sealing, driven in with cruel precision. Each one vibrated with incandescent runes, written in demonic tongues, containing the impossible: the power of a being who had already surpassed the limit of what a body—or a soul—could endure.
