Vergil advanced without haste.
There was no longer any attempt to follow paths.
There was no longer any interest in understanding the labyrinth.
The Yamato no longer made a sound as it cut. The blade glided through the space as if it—walls, runes, mechanisms—were nothing more than an inconvenient concept. Each blow opened a clean, precise fissure, and everything in front simply ceased to exist as an obstacle.
Stone split.
Runes disintegrated.
Entire structures lost their meaning.
He walked in a straight line.
A new dead end appeared ahead.
Vergil didn't even slow down.
The blade lifted slightly—and descended.
The wall was split into two perfect halves before even completing its formation. On the other side, there was no corridor. Only the raw interior of the labyrinth, threads of mana, runic gears, and structural layers pulsating like exposed organs.
He passed through.
As if that had been the right path from the beginning.
Silence.
Controlled steps.
