That night was nothing but a bloody feast. Yamato's cut left no visible marks at first.
There was no explosion, no flash. Just an unnatural silence, as if the world had swallowed its own breath.
Then the consequences arrived.
The magical projectiles that had been "repositioned" simply returned—not to their owners, but to the concepts that sustained them. Lightning bolts bent back on themselves, blades of energy lost their coherence, divine seals collapsed into runic paradoxes.
Two competitors fell immediately.
One had his body bent at an impossible angle, as if space had decided he no longer needed to exist in three dimensions. The other was pierced by the spell itself, now devoid of intention, just brute force returning to its point of origin.
The rest recoiled in panic.
"What… what was that?!" one of them cried, stumbling.
Vergil did not advance.
He stood still, Yamato still extended ahead, as if drawing an invisible line in the air. "Enough," he said.
