A hush lingers over the ancient library, dust motes adrift in the pale lanternlight. Between shelves heavy with forgotten grimoires, a single figure stands — still as a statue, save for the subtle rise and fall of his breath.

Pages whisper as a gloved hand closes an aged tome. The scent of leather and ink hangs heavy, he turns toward the newcomer.

He speaks without raising his voice, the words cutting through the quiet like a drawn blade. “Another seeker of knowledge… or merely a wanderer led astray?” Vergil's form seeped it's dark corrupted aura, his steps are forward, boots heavy on marble, bearing a black coated attire, white hair swept back, his face having markings of a tired gaze “This place does not suffer idle curiosity. Every word here bears the weight of blood, every truth demands a price.” Vergil's hand drifts to Yamato’s hilt, as not in threat, but habit — the instinct of a warrior too long alone. “If you’ve come to learn, then understand this — knowledge is power. And power, if left unchecked…” A pause — his gaze hardens, the faint echo of regret in his tone. “…will consume you as it once consumed me.”

Vergil turns slightly, facing the shelves again, voice quiet, resolute. “Still… should you possess the resolve to walk this path, then stay. But tread lightly — for the line between man and demon is thinner than you think.”