The golden rays of morning sunlight broke through the gaps in the clouds, gently illuminating the forest. Birds chirped cheerfully as the village of Draconoa slowly awoke. But within the walls of Lord Andrew Farmana's estate, the warmth of morning light brought nothing but dread.
A scream echoed through the halls.
"KYAAAAAAA!!!"
The scream belonged to Lady Emilia Farmana, the wife of Lord Andrew. She stood frozen, her trembling hands covering her mouth as her eyes widened in terror. Her gaze was locked on the lifeless body of her husband.
Lord Andrew lay sprawled on the balcony, his eyes wide open, still staring at the distant sky. A small, clean hole pierced through his forehead, the flesh around it unburned and bloodless. His expression was one of shock, as if his mind hadn't registered his own death.
"WHAT HAPPENED?! WHAT HAPPENED?!" shouted one of the guards, his voice frantic.
The estate burst into chaos. Soldiers rushed into the room, their armor clanking as they drew swords, scanning every direction for an intruder.
"Protect Lady Emilia!" barked the captain. "Find the assassin! How did someone kill him in his own home?! Search every inch of this estate! NOW!"
Several soldiers inspected the body, noticing the clean, precise hole in his skull. It was not the result of a sword, arrow, or any conventional weapon. No burn marks, no shrapnel, no residual magic aura.
The captain's eyes narrowed.
"This isn't the work of an ordinary assassin."
The smell of freshly baked bread and roasted meat filled the common room of the Blue Fang Inn, where travelers, merchants, and adventurers gathered for breakfast. The atmosphere was lively, with the sounds of clinking cups, hearty laughter, and casual conversation.
In the corner of the inn sat Vergil Ragnaros, casually enjoying his morning meal. His calm demeanor was the very image of peace. He sat alone, slicing his bread with a small knife, placing it on a plate alongside roasted meat and cheese.
Around him, adventurers chatted about their quests, bounties, and the latest gossip. Vergil observed them in silence, his eyes flickering between conversations. His appearance — black armor beneath a cloak of shadow — attracted attention, but his sharp blue eyes and the calm, calculating air he gave off kept most people at a distance.
But despite his appearance, Vergil had earned a reputation as a traveling doctor.
"My arm's been numb since I fought that stone golem," muttered a beastman adventurer with lion-like features. "I think something's wrong with my nerves."
"Go see that doctor," his companion, a half-elf, replied while motioning toward Vergil. "He doesn't charge much. Even for beastmen."
Hearing this, the beastman approached.
"Doctor... can you take a look at my arm?" he asked.
Vergil didn't even glance up. He simply gestured with his hand.
"Sit."
The beastman sat, and Vergil calmly placed two fingers on the man's wrist, checking his pulse. His eyes were sharp, focused. After a brief moment, he lifted the beastman's arm and lightly pressed on a few pressure points.
"It's nerve compression. Rest it for two days, or you'll end up with permanent numbness. No heavy weapons, no two-handed swords, and stop blocking with your arm."
"Tch, you can tell all that just by touching me?" the beastman asked, amazed.
"If you don't listen, you'll be back here asking me to fix a paralyzed limb. Take your pick."
"Heh, alright, doc. You win," the beastman said, scratching the back of his head. He left a small silver coin on the table.
This was Vergil's routine in the mornings — treating adventurers, warriors, and travelers, regardless of their race or status. He didn't care if they were human, elf, or beastman. To him, everyone was a patient. Titles meant nothing in the eyes of death.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed from outside.
The chatter in the inn quieted. Adventurers and travelers glanced toward the door, their instincts sharp. Moments later, the door slammed open with a loud THUD.
Six soldiers in full armor entered the inn. Their movements were swift and precise, and their eyes scanned the crowd with predatory intent. Their presence alone suffocated the room, filling it with an air of dread.
"We're looking for the doctor named Vergil!"
At first, the adventurers went silent. Their eyes darted around, cautious, trying to avoid trouble. But several of them slowly turned their gaze toward the corner of the inn.
Vergil didn't flinch. He simply finished chewing a piece of bread. Slowly, he wiped his fingers with a cloth, then raised his hand.
"That would be me."
The guards approached, their captain stepping forward. His eyes met Vergil's, filled with suspicion and anxiety.
"You're coming with us."
The adventurers' faces grew tense. Some placed their hands on the hilts of their weapons, ready to defend one of their own.
"Oi, what's this about?" one adventurer growled. "He's been treating injuries for cheap prices. You knights got a problem with that?"
"Yeah, he saved my arm after that golem job!" the beastman added.
The captain raised his hand, signaling the soldiers to stand down. He turned to face the crowd.
"This is not an arrest. It's an emergency."
His gaze returned to Vergil.
"The Lord of Draconoa's estate has been found dead. Lady Emilia demands the presence of a doctor immediately. You're the only one qualified."
The crowd murmured in confusion. The Lord of Draconoa was dead? Some of the adventurers' faces lit up with surprise, while others showed signs of relief. They knew how corrupt Lord Farmana was.
Vergil tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable.
"And if I refuse?"
The soldiers tensed, gripping their weapons. The captain's eyes hardened.
"Then I have orders to drag you there."
The inn grew tense. Silence stretched on for a moment that felt like hours.
"…Fine." Vergil rose slowly from his chair, pulling his black cloak tighter over his shoulders. "I'll come."
The captain exhaled in relief. He gestured toward the door. "We have a carriage ready. Move."
Vergil followed them outside, stepping into the carriage without resistance. As he sat down, he gazed out of the window, his blue eyes cold and sharp as ever.
(How amusing.)
(They're calling the one who killed him to investigate his death.)
The sound of rolling wheels echoed along the dirt road leading to Lord Andrew Farmana's estate. The sun was high, casting beams of warm light through the dense forest canopy. Inside the carriage, Vergil Ragnaros sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the view outside.
His mind, however, was focused elsewhere.
(This is familiar... I've seen it too many times before.)
He knew the process. Crime scenes. Investigations. Corpses. This was not his first time playing the role of "doctor" at the scene of an "unexplained death." And it certainly wouldn't be his last.
(They called me here... and yet they don't even know that their 'doctor' is the one who pulled the trigger.)
A small, satisfied grin crept onto his face before he wiped it away, replacing it with a look of calm indifference. The carriage shook lightly as it passed over uneven ground.
"Doctor, we're almost there," said the captain of the guards, glancing at him.
"Understood," Vergil replied with a nod, his voice as calm as the morning breeze.
The grand gates of Lord Farmana's estate slowly opened with a loud creak. Soldiers lined the courtyard, their gazes sharp, their hands gripping their weapons with heightened caution. News of Lord Farmana's sudden death had already spread through the estate like wildfire.
"Stay alert!" barked the guard captain, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "No one enters or leaves without my approval!"
Vergil stepped out of the carriage, his cloak fluttering behind him like a shadow. His eyes swept across the estate, his mind already analyzing possible escape routes and vantage points. He wasn't just a doctor here — he was the executioner returning to his own crime scene.
(Hmph... Security's tighter than before. Too late for that.)
The soldiers watched him with suspicion, but none dared question his presence. He was "the doctor" after all, the one summoned to diagnose their lord's cause of death.
Vergil approached Lord Andrew Farmana's body, which lay exactly where it had fallen — on the estate balcony. Lady Emilia Farmana was in another room, hysterical with grief, while guards hovered over the corpse like vultures.
"Stay back," the captain ordered the soldiers. "Let the doctor work."
The soldiers moved aside, giving Vergil space. He crouched beside the body, his gloved fingers lightly touching the lord's face. His blue eyes scanned the scene with the precision of a hawk.
(The body's cold. Rigor mortis has set in. He's been dead for… at least six hours.)
He tilted Lord Andrew's head slightly, revealing the small, clean hole in the center of his forehead. A perfect entry wound. No signs of burning, tearing, or magical residue.
(No magic traces... no shrapnel... and definitely no mana imprint. Just as I planned.)
With his finger, he traced the edge of the hole, his expression neutral.
"Hmm... interesting," he muttered, letting the soldiers hear him.
The captain approached, his eyes filled with worry. "What is it, Doctor?"
Vergil leaned back, wiping his hands on a clean cloth.
"The cause of death is clear. A small, precise impact to the head — straight through the skull. He died instantly."
The soldiers' faces tensed. "What kind of weapon could do that?" one of them asked.
Vergil's gaze remained calm.
"It's hard to say." He glanced at the hole again, as if thinking deeply. "No traces of mana or enchantment. No sign of a spell."
"Could it be a crossbow bolt?" asked one of the guards.
"Unlikely," Vergil replied. "There's no splintering of bone, and the wound is too clean. I've seen crossbow bolts lodge into skulls before. This…" He pointed at the hole. "…this is different."
Silence fell. The guards exchanged uneasy glances, their minds scrambling for answers.
"Then... what killed him?" the captain asked. His voice was hoarse, filled with dread.
Vergil shrugged, his face neutral but his words precise.
"Something fast. Something precise. But not something from this world."
The soldiers fell silent once more. Their imaginations began to wander, and paranoia settled in. Was it a spirit? A curse? A divine punishment?
The captain stepped forward, his face grim. He knew what had to be done.
"Double the guards! Reinforce every entry point to the estate!" he barked. "No one enters or leaves without a thorough inspection!"
The soldiers saluted and ran off to carry out his orders. The entire estate went on high alert.
But as the soldiers moved to strengthen their security, Vergil stood still, unmoved, gazing at Lord Andrew's body.
(Tighten your guard all you like. You're guarding against ghosts.)
After the examination, the captain offered Vergil a ride back to the village. The carriage ride was uneventful, but the captain had one more question for him.
"Doctor, are you planning to stay in Draconoa Village?"
Vergil leaned back, his arms crossed, gazing out the window.
"No."
The captain raised an eyebrow.
"No?"
"I'm heading to the capital," Vergil said calmly. "The city has more patients. I'll set up a clinic there."
The captain nodded, stroking his beard. "The capital, huh? Dangerous place for a man like you."
"Danger invites opportunity," Vergil replied with a faint smirk.
The captain chuckled. "You're not wrong. The capital always needs skilled hands." He pulled a small leather pouch from his belt and handed it to Vergil. "For your services."
Vergil accepted the pouch of coins without a word, tucking it into his cloak.
(They're paying me for cleaning up my own mess. How generous.)
The rest of the ride was silent, save for the sound of wheels crunching against the dirt road.
When Vergil arrived back at Blue Fang Inn, he didn't waste time. He returned to his rented room and began packing his belongings. His goal was clear: the capital city of Britalienne Empire.
(The Empress herself rules from there. The heart of the empire… and the best place to start my Brotherhood of Shadows.)
He stashed his black armor, travel gear, and his medical tools into a leather bag. His weapons, however, were never far from reach.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.
"Doctor?"
It was one of the adventurers from earlier — the beastman whose arm he had treated.
"I heard you're leaving."
"That's right," Vergil replied, glancing over his shoulder.
"You're really heading to the capital?" the beastman asked, his tone curious but hopeful.
"Yes. There's more work to be done there."
The beastman scratched his head, glancing away before speaking again.
"…Take me with you."
Vergil turned fully, his eyes narrowing.
"Why?"
"You're strong. You know things. And I'm tired of wasting away in this backwater village." The beastman's eyes burned with determination. "Take me as your apprentice. I'll follow you anywhere."
Vergil's gaze locked with his. He saw the resolve in the beastman's eyes.
(Heh... My first recruit, huh?)
Vergil didn't answer right away. He turned back to his bag, closing it slowly.
"Fine." He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes sharp as daggers. "But if you follow me, there's no going back."
The beastman grinned, his sharp teeth flashing. "I wasn't planning on it."
(A Brotherhood of Shadows… it begins with one.)
With his preparations complete, Vergil left Draconoa Village with a new companion in tow. The capital awaited — the grand stage where kings, queens, and tyrants played their games of power.
But from the shadows, an unseen force would begin to rise.
The birth of the Brotherhood had begun.
The Beastman following Vergil was a woman who introduced herself as Freya of the Wulfern race. The Wulfern were a tribe known for their wolf-like ears and tail, as well as their physical prowess and agility, both of which far surpassed those of ordinary humans. Her sharp golden eyes glowed faintly under the dim light of the tavern, observing Vergil with a mix of caution and curiosity.
For Vergil, however, the presence of a Beastman was neither shocking nor unsettling. Having ventured across many worlds, he had long since grown accustomed to the sight of such races. His knowledge of Beastmen, along with countless other races, had been meticulously recorded in the official archives of the Kainaldia Empire—a personal endeavor he undertook during his journeys beyond the world of Magnacarta VII. To him, Freya was not an oddity but a familiar sight in an unfamiliar world.
Once all preparations were complete, Vergil and Freya stood at the entrance of the Blue Fangs Inn. The clamor of adventurers behind them was quieter than usual. Whispers floated through the air, some of awe, others of curiosity. It wasn't every day that a figure as enigmatic as Vergil graced the village, and now he was leaving with a Beastman by his side.
"Take care out there, stranger," called the innkeeper, his rough voice carrying a note of respect. "These woods aren't as quiet as they seem."
Vergil glanced over his shoulder, offering the man a simple nod before stepping into the open. Freya followed, her ears twitching as if already aware of the distant echoes of the forest ahead.
The two ventured beyond the borders of Draconoa Village, their footsteps soon swallowed by the soft earth of the forest path. Sunlight pierced through the canopy in fractured beams, illuminating patches of the ground. The air smelled of damp leaves and wildflowers, but there was also a faint trace of something more... something predatory.
"Between here and the next village lies the Greywood," Freya said, her voice steady but alert. Her golden eyes darted from shadow to shadow. "It's home to wild beasts, but there are darker things that linger near the heart of the forest."
"I know," Vergil replied calmly, his gaze fixed ahead. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, his senses sharp as ever. "Predators stalk places like this. But it's not them I'm worried about."
Freya raised a brow, her tail swishing behind her. "Then what are you worried about?"
"Silence," Vergil muttered. His eyes scanned the treetops, watching for movement. "The moment the forest goes quiet is when you know something's wrong."
As if on cue, the distant chirping of birds ceased. The rustling of small creatures in the underbrush faded, replaced by a stillness so absolute it pressed against their ears. Freya's eyes narrowed, and her claws subtly extended from her fingertips.
"Looks like you jinxed it," she muttered, her eyes locked on a dense patch of foliage ahead.
Vergil's hand moved to the hilt of his sword, his eyes glowing faintly beneath his hood. His voice was cold, his tone unyielding. "No. I called it."
From the shadows ahead, a low growl echoed, followed by the sound of something heavy moving slowly through the brush. Branches creaked, and leaves shifted as a silhouette twice the size of a man began to emerge. Its glowing red eyes pierced the darkness, locked onto its prey.
"Freya," Vergil said, his voice steady and commanding. "Stay close. If it attacks, don't hesitate."
"Understood," she replied, crouching low, her eyes glowing like molten gold. Her fangs were bared, and her muscles tensed, ready to spring into action.
The beast stepped fully into view—a hulking, wolf-like monstrosity with jet-black fur matted with dried blood. Its claws dug into the ground, and its breath came out in sharp huffs like a war drum marking the start of battle.
Vergil's lips curled into a faint grin. "Let's see which wolf is the predator here."
Vergil drew his sword and dagger in a single fluid motion, their steel glinting coldly in the fractured light of the forest. Beside him, Freya readied her sword, her sharp gaze locked on the approaching pack of Dire Wolves. Their growls echoed through the trees, deep and menacing, like the rumble of distant thunder.
Vergil's eyes, cold as an endless winter, swept across the pack. He analyzed their movements with precision, tracking the subtle shifts in their muscles and the way their gazes flicked toward potential openings. Slowly, he took a deep breath, his focus narrowing to a singular point.
"Let one of them come," he muttered, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening.
As if on cue, one of the Dire Wolves lunged forward, its jaws wide open, aiming for Vergil's neck. But Vergil's movements were sharp and calculated. With a sidestep as smooth as flowing water, he evaded the beast's fangs. In the same motion, his sword flashed. The edge of his blade sliced clean through the air and struck with deadly precision — severing the Dire Wolf's spinal cord in a single, flawless strike.
The beast's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, its eyes dimming as the light of life faded. Blood seeped into the forest floor, staining the dirt red.
The other Dire Wolves, seeing one of their packmates fall so quickly, erupted into a frenzy. Two of them turned their attention toward Freya, their eyes filled with primal hunger.
"Two at once?" Freya's ears twitched as her golden eyes flicked between them. "Tch, fine by me."
The first Dire Wolf darted forward, claws raking through the air. Freya spun on her heel, narrowly avoiding the attack. But before she could catch her footing, the second wolf leapt at her from the side.
Her eyes widened. "Too fast!"
Before the beast could reach her, a shadow moved faster.
The sickening crunch of steel piercing bone echoed through the clearing. Freya blinked, stunned to see a dagger embedded deep in the Dire Wolf's skull. Blood poured from the beast's head as it collapsed, lifeless, at her feet.
"Don't let them flank you," Vergil said coldly, standing just behind her. His gaze never wavered, his eyes still fixed on the next threat.
Freya's heart pounded in her chest, but it wasn't fear she felt — it was awe. She glanced back at Vergil, her eyes filled with shock and something else she couldn't place. "That speed… he was faster than me."
Her moment of distraction cost her.
Another Dire Wolf, seeing its chance, lunged at Freya with its jaws aimed straight for her throat. But this time, her instincts kicked in. Her eyes flashed with fury, and she gritted her teeth.
"Not this time!"
With a swift, feral reflex, she twisted her body and swung her sword in a wide arc. The steel bit into flesh, bone, and sinew, and in a single clean motion, she cleaved through the beast's neck. The Dire Wolf's head separated from its body, falling to the ground with a dull thump, its body crumpling just a second later.
Panting, Freya glanced at her bloodstained sword, then at the headless corpse at her feet. Her ears twitched, listening for any sign of more attacks.
The remaining Dire Wolves, seeing three of their packmates slain in moments, hesitated. Their growls became low whines, and their glowing red eyes darted toward the deeper shadows of the forest.
Vergil took a step forward, his cold, unyielding eyes locking onto the pack. His presence alone was enough to send a shiver down their spines. "Leave. While you still can."
The wolves' ears flattened, their instincts overtaking their bloodlust. With a snarl of frustration, they backed away, one step at a time, until they vanished into the undergrowth, their glowing eyes disappearing into the shadows of the forest.
Silence returned. Only the distant rustle of leaves remained.
Freya wiped the blood from her blade with a cloth, her breath steadying. She glanced at Vergil, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You didn't have to save me," she muttered, more out of pride than anger.
Vergil glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "I didn't save you. I ensured the journey continued."
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before she gave a small, knowing smile. "Heh, fine. Next time, I'll be faster."
"Good," Vergil replied, sheathing his sword. His gaze flicked toward the deeper woods ahead. "There will be a next time."
And with that, the two pressed forward into the heart of the forest, their path darker and more treacherous than before.
Not long after, faint clatter of wooden wheels echoed along the dirt road as a merchant's carriage rumbled through the forest trail. Its driver, a middle-aged man with a weathered face and a kind smile, hummed a quiet tune, his hands steady on the reins. The rhythmic creaking of the carriage blended with the rustle of leaves swaying in the soft afternoon breeze.
Vergil spotted the carriage approaching from afar. His sharp eyes assessed the driver and his cargo, noting the reinforced iron frames on the sides and the small sigil of a merchant's guild etched onto the carriage door. Beside him, Freya's ears perked up, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"Looks safe," she muttered, her hand still resting on the hilt of her sword.
"Safe enough," Vergil replied, stepping onto the path and raising a hand to signal the driver.
The merchant tugged on the reins, slowing the carriage until it came to a stop in front of them. His eyes darted toward Vergil, taking in his dark cloak and weapons. He glanced at Freya, noting her Wulfern features—wolf ears and tail—before offering a cautious smile.
"Greetings, travelers," the merchant said, his voice polite but wary. "You need a ride?"
Vergil gave a small nod. "If you're headed to Châteauclair, then yes."
The merchant raised a brow in mild surprise. "As a matter of fact, I am. I was going to stop at the next village, but if you two are willing to ride quietly, I don't mind going straight to the capital."
The merchant's eyes flicked toward the bloodstains on Vergil's cloak and Freya's armor. His smile widened as realization dawned on him. "Saw you two handle those Dire Wolves back there. Mighty fine work. Consider this a small reward from me."
Vergil gave him a glance of acknowledgment. "Appreciated."
With that, Vergil and Freya climbed into the back of the carriage. The ride to Châteauclair was uneventful but peaceful. Freya leaned back, her eyes gazing at the passing trees, her thoughts adrift. Meanwhile, Vergil remained still, his eyes half-closed but fully aware of every shift and sound around them.
By the time they reached Châteauclair, the sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson. The grand walls of the capital city loomed in the distance, their white stone glowing faintly in the evening light. Châteauclair was a sight to behold — towering spires, bustling streets, and the distant toll of a bell marking the arrival of evening. The stone-paved roads were crowded with merchants, adventurers, and townsfolk, each moving with purpose.
The merchant pulled the reins, bringing the carriage to a stop near the adventurer's district — a lively section of the city where inns, guild halls, and supply shops were packed into narrow streets.
"This is as far as I go," the merchant announced with a grin. "Best of luck to you two."
"Thanks for the ride," Freya said, hopping down from the carriage. Vergil followed with a quiet nod of gratitude.
The two stood in the heart of the adventurer's district. The air smelled of roasted meat, ale, and the faint metallic tang of iron. Voices of adventurers echoed around them, some boasting of their conquests, others bartering for supplies.
"Busy place," Freya remarked, her eyes darting toward the groups of adventurers gathered near a weapons shop. Her ears twitched with every shout and laugh.
Vergil glanced around and quickly spotted an inn with a familiar symbol — the twin swords and shield of an adventurer's haven. "That one will do," he said, leading Freya toward it.
The inn, known as The Gilded Roar, was bustling with adventurers of all kinds. Their eyes turned toward Vergil and Freya as they entered, but most quickly returned to their drinks and conversations. New faces were not uncommon here, but Vergil's presence had a weight to it — something about his calm, calculating gaze made people think twice about staring for too long.
Without delay, Vergil approached the innkeeper, an elderly man with a long gray beard. "We need a room."
The innkeeper glanced at Freya, then Vergil, before nodding. "One silver for the night, two if you want meals."
Vergil handed him two silver coins. "We'll also need a place to work. I'll be setting up a clinic."
The old man's brow lifted in surprise. "Clinic, huh? We don't get many healers in this part of the district. Most of 'em stay at the temple."
Vergil tilted his head. "I'm not like the temple's healers."
That evening, Vergil set up a simple healer's station in a quiet corner of the inn. A clean table, a set of bandages, some medicinal herbs, and a few bottles of alchemical potions were all he needed. At first, the adventurers eyed him with suspicion. "Another fraud," one of them muttered. "Probably just a quack charging for bad potions."
But everything changed when a young adventurer limped into the inn, blood trickling from a deep gash on his leg. His party members tried to help, but the injury looked serious.
"Over here," Vergil called.
The young man hesitated at first, but his companions nudged him forward. "Just try it," one of them said. "Better than bleeding out."
Vergil sat him down and inspected the wound with cold precision. His fingers traced the edges of the injury as if calculating the depth and trajectory of the strike. Without hesitation, he began cleaning it, his movements precise and efficient. With a flick of his finger, a faint blue glow emanated from his hand. The adventurers gasped as the glow sank into the wound, causing the bleeding to slow and the pain to fade.
"What… what kind of magic is that?" the wounded adventurer asked, his voice awed.
Vergil didn't answer. He simply finished bandaging the leg and looked up at him with eyes as sharp as steel. "One silver."
Word spread fast. By nightfall, adventurers lined up for treatment. For one silver coin, they received expert care, and for many, that price was a blessing compared to the priests of the temple who charged three times as much. By the end of the night, Vergil had a small pouch of silver coins, and the eyes of the adventurers in the inn were filled with respect.
Later that night, Vergil and Freya sat in their shared room. The sounds of the city below had quieted, and only the distant clamor of a night patrol could be heard. Freya lay on her bed, her tail swishing lazily, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"Doctor…" she said suddenly, breaking the silence.
"What is it?" Vergil asked, his eyes half-closed but still sharp.
Freya tilted her head toward him, her golden eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. "During the fight with the Dire Wolves… I noticed something about your technique. It's different from other fighters. Your attacks were so precise, so fast… almost inhuman."
Vergil didn't respond at first, his eyes still closed. Then, with a faint smile, he said, "Call me Vergil. You know my full name, don't you?"
Freya blinked. "Vergil… Ragnaros, right?"
Vergil opened his eyes, gazing at her with calm intensity. "Correct. And second, I'm not just a doctor." His eyes sharpened, his tone colder. "I'm an Assassin."
Freya's eyes widened. "Assassin…?"
"An Assassin fights in many ways," Vergil said, his voice like a whisper of death. "Clean or dirty, noble or dishonorable — none of it matters. We strike to end the fight before it begins."
Freya sat up, her ears alert. "Then… being a doctor is just a cover?"
"Not quite," Vergil replied. His gaze grew distant as if recalling something from long ago. "To be an Assassin, you must know the weak points of every race — human, beastman, noble, or king. And when you know how to break something..." He glanced at her with a faint, knowing grin. "...you also know how to fix it."
Freya stared at him for a long moment before a small grin tugged at her lips. "An Assassin, huh…?"
Vergil leaned back, resting his head against the wall. "When the time comes, I'll teach you everything I know… even how to kill from the shadows."
Freya's golden eyes glowed in the dark, a sharp, hungry glint in them. "I'll hold you to that."