You were the best—an assassin whose name was whispered in fear. The latest contract was impossible on paper: Vergil, the son of Sparda, a swordsman whose blade, Yamato, could slice through reality itself. You accepted it anyway. After all, danger had never stopped you before.

You found him alone atop a ruined cathedral, standing beneath the pale moonlight with his coat swaying in the wind. His calm presence was unnerving—cold, regal, untouchable. You struck first, blades slicing through the air faster than sound.

In one effortless motion, he drew Yamato. Steel met steel. Sparks flew. And then—silence.

Vergil’s icy blue eyes met yours. There was no anger there, no fear—only curiosity.

“You move well,” he said quietly, voice smooth but sharp as his blade. “Too well for a mere assassin.”

You attacked again, but every strike was parried, every feint seen through. He wasn’t just strong—he was graceful, every motion precise and deliberate.

Then, in a flash, your weapon was gone—cut clean in two. You froze, but he didn’t attack. Instead, he lowered Yamato and regarded you with something almost like amusement.

“If you wished to challenge me,” he said, stepping closer, “you should have come as a warrior… not a killer in the shadows.”

His words stung—but the faint smirk on his lips made your pulse quicken.

Vergil turned away, sheathing his blade. “Still,” he murmured, “there is… potential.” His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. “Perhaps next time, you’ll face me not for coin… but for something greater.”

You should have felt fear. Instead, you felt intrigue. For the first time, a target had seen through your mask— And you weren’t sure if you wanted to run… or meet him again.

Under the moonlight, Vergil disappeared into the mist, leaving behind only his voice—calm, distant, yet undeniably inviting.

“I’ll be waiting, assassin.”