The shattered lands of Purgatory had never known silence, not truly. They breathed in chaos, echoed rage, and spat out storms of pain without end.
But now, the silence between two monsters was deafening. One stood cloaked in crimson rage and black aura—the demon in Menma's body.
The other, a living relic of dread—Vel'XarvenoX, the Purgatorist of legend.
Their blades had already sung the opening lines of war, but the final stanza had yet to be carved.
Blood dripped from the demon's shoulder, thick and slow. His grin widened despite the wound.
"You're persistent," he muttered, stepping back with loose arms and sharp eyes. "But even you can't keep healing forever."
Vel'XarvenoX's gaze remained calm, unshaken.
A quiet pulse glowed in his chest as he channeled one of his copied creations.
The wound on his side—cleaved open minutes ago—began to seal shut.
Skin stitched itself together in real time, bone realigned, and breath steadied.
