Vergil surveyed the devastated village, his eyes scanning the wreckage with a cold, calculating gaze. The streets were now a wasteland, littered with the remnants of a recent battle: shattered shields, broken spears, and the scattered remains of fallen soldiers. Smoke rose from the smoldering ruins, mingling with the acrid scent of decay.
A few near-death villagers wandered aimlessly among the wreckage, their clothes tattered and their faces etched with fear and despair. Their eyes were filled with a haunting emptiness, a reflection of the devastation that had befallen their home. Some clutched at their wounds, their faces contorted in agony. Others simply sat on the ground, staring into the distance, their minds numbed by shock and grief.
The villagers were weak, vulnerable, and in desperate need of help. They were the perfect pawns in his grand scheme.
A group of ragged warriors stood guard at the entrance to the inner part of the village, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger, hands tightly clenched to their various makeshift weapons, crudely fashioned from scrap metal and broken tools. Despite their inferior equipment, the warriors remained determined to defend their home, their faces etched with a grim resolve.
As the sun began its descent, casting long, ominous shadows across the ravaged landscape, a lone figure emerged from the distance. Vergil, his form silhouetted against the setting sun, approached the village with a deliberate stride. The warriors tensed, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons.
Alarm spread through the village as Vergil's figure grew larger. The villagers, their nerves frayed by the recent attack, were quick to react. Archers drew their bows, their fingers tightening around the strings. Swords were unsheathed, their blades glinting in the fading light.
Vergil, sensing the growing tension, raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "I mean no harm," he called out, his voice carrying over the wind. "I am a traveler who has stumbled upon your village."
The villagers hesitated, their eyes darting between Vergil and their weapons. Elara, the weight of leadership already settling upon her young shoulders, stepped forward. Her gaze, piercing blue eyes that belied her age, locked onto Vergil's. The tremor in her voice, however, did little to mask the steely resolve that glinted within. "Who are you, stranger?" she demanded. "And what cruel fate brings you to this scene of devastation?"
Vergil was taken aback. He hadn't expected to be questioned by a child, especially in a time of such crisis.
With a speed born of desperation, he plastered a smile on his face, a mask of concern devoid of its usual predatory glint. "My name's Corvus. Just a healer passing through. Had no idea…" he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the tableau of carnage.
Elara's gaze remained a skeptic's ice pick, piercing through his flimsy facade. But within it, Vergil saw a flicker – a desperate hope clinging to the edge of despair. It was a chink in the armor, a crevice he could exploit.
"These wounds," he continued, his voice low and gravelly, "they need tending to. And quickly." He took a calculated step closer, his posture feigning concern as his gaze swept across the field of suffering, landing deliberately on a particularly gruesome injury. "I may be able to help. But time," he emphasized, letting the urgency settle, "is of the essence."
Elara nodded, her eyes scanning Vergil's face for any signs of deception."You are a healer?" she asked.
"Very much so," Vergil replied.
Elara's hesitation stretched into an eternity, punctuated only by the ragged chorus of moans from the wounded. Then, with a slow, almost defeated exhale, her warriors lowered their bows a fraction. With a resigned nod that spoke volumes of the burden she carried, Elara stepped aside.
"Very well, Corvus," she said, her voice edged with weariness. "Show us what you can do. But if you're playing us false…" The unspoken threat was a promise of retribution as swift and merciless as the war that had ravaged their village.
The villagers exchanged relieved glances. A healer was exactly what they needed. Perhaps there was still hope for their village.
Vergil stepped into the makeshift hospital, his senses assaulted by the stench of blood and decay. The scene that unfolded before him was a horrific tableau of suffering. The walls were stained with blood, the floor littered with discarded medical supplies and the remains of those who had not survived.
The injured villagers lay sprawled across the makeshift beds, their bodies twisted and contorted in agony. Some had lost limbs, others were bleeding profusely from deep wounds. Their eyes, filled with pain and fear, pleaded for help.
The sight of so much suffering, so much pain, was enough to make anyone's stomach turn. But Vergil remained indifferent, his face a mask of cold detachment, his mind already calculating the potential benefits of this situation.
He began to assess the patients, his eyes scanning their injuries with a clinical detachment. He quickly realized that many of the villagers were beyond saving. Their injuries were too severe, their vital signs too weak.
Despite their grave wounds, some still clung to life's thread. A skilled healer would have fought tirelessly to mend them. Yet, Vergil, though cloaked in the guise of a physician, possessed a cold heart.
He couldn't care less.
Vergil's eyes fell upon a young woman with a bloodied bandage wrapped around her arm. Her injuries, while painful, were not life-threatening. Yet, Vergil chose to focus his attention on her, leaving the guards stunned by his decision.
The guards had expected him to prioritize the most critically injured patients, those who were on the brink of death. But Vergil seemed to have a different agenda.
Xena, a warrior's spirit trapped in a woman's frame, gritted her teeth in defiance upon seeing Vergil's decision while gripping her spear with iron-clad strength, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
Vergil spent countless hours tending to the wounded, his hands calloused and his spirit weary. The villagers, grateful for his help could not help but notice Vergil's plain expression. He was unmoved by his good deeds, his heart cold.
The Halo of Merit, the twisted system that had promised him power and redemption, seemed to have forgotten him. Despite his tireless efforts, the bracelet remained inert, offering no sign of reward. Vergil's frustration grew with each passing minutes.
Once, Vergil had been a powerful sorcerer, capable of healing the sick with a mere wave of his hand. Now, reduced to a shadow of his former self, he struggled to mend even the simplest of wounds. The Halo of Merit, the twisted system that had promised him power, had betrayed him.
As he applied a poultice to a young villager's wound, Vergil couldn't help but feel a surge of frustration. "That damn God really did a number on me," he muttered inwardly, his voice filled with bitterness. He cursed Axios, the God of Redemption, for the cruel bargain he had been forced to accept.
The once proud and powerful being reduced to tending to the wounded, was a humiliating fall from grace, a bitter pill to swallow.
As the first rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and orange, Vergil completed his treatment on the young boy. The boy's mother, who had been sitting nearby, her face etched with worry, let out a sob of relief. Her eyes, filled with tears of gratitude, fixed on Vergil. She could see that her child was doing fine, his breathing steady and his color improving. The healer had saved her son's life.
"Thank you, good healer," she said with a grateful heart. Her hands clasping his right hand.
Vergil, already on his feet, acknowledged her gratitude with a nod while pulling away. As he turned to leave, Xena intercepted him. She was one of the guards assigned to watch him.
"In what way may I assist you, miss...?"
"I am Xena," she replied, her voice a whisper, the fierce warrior's facade crumbling. "Please," she managed to say, her voice barely audible, "help my husband."
"Your husband?" he asked, his tone dismissive. He had already seen the extent of the injuries in the patients, and he knew that many of the them were beyond saving.
Xena nodded, holding back tears. "He's dying," she whispered, "Please, you're the only one who can help him."
Vergil's gaze shifted to the man lying on the makeshift bed. He was a towering figure, his body battered and bruised. His chest heaved with each labored breath, his eyes glazed over. It was clear that he was fighting for his life.
A flicker of contempt crossed Vergil's face. He had no desire to save whoever the hell this is and intended to dismiss Xena's plea. Her husband was as good as dead. But then, a thought occurred to him. Perhaps saving the man, and indeed, all these critically injured patients, was the key. Perhaps preventing their tragic death (if at all possible) was the great acts of compassion and god damn selflessness to get the reward he longs for, the power he craved. The thought was intoxicating, a tantalizing prospect that filled him with a renewed sense of purpose.
With a newfound determination, Vergil knelt beside the injured man. He would save the man, not out of pity or compassion, but for his own gain.