In Muspelheim, the sky was not merely a firmament—it was a burning ocean, a living vault of liquid fire that now trembled as if about to collapse upon itself. The flames that normally danced in chaotic harmony began to oscillate erratically, as if something had disturbed the primordial order of that realm. Streams of magma rose in gigantic columns, cracking the black, incandescent ground as an invisible pressure built up in all directions, crushing the very concept of stability. The entire world reacted... not to an attack, not to an invasion... but to an awakening.

In the heart of that eternal hell, buried beneath countless layers of living lava, something stirred.

First, a tremor.

Then... another.

And then, as if Muspelheim’s very core had decided to breathe, the lava exploded upward in a colossal eruption, opening an incandescent abyss from which an ancient presence began to emerge. A gigantic hand burst through the surface, formed of volcanic rock and fissures of pure primordial fire, followed by a titanic body that seemed to carry entire ages within its structure. When its eyes opened—two blazing suns tearing through the darkness—the world trembled.

Surtr had awakened.

His body still partially submerged in the bubbling lava, he slowly raised his head, like someone jolted from a deep, unwanted sleep, his breath escaping in waves of heat capable of distorting the very space around him. But there was no confusion in his gaze.

There was... irritation.

And something else.

Recognition.

The name came even before any rational thought had fully formed, echoing like thunder that pierced the entire dimension:

"AGARES—!!!"

The cry was not just a sound.

It was an event.

Entire mountains split in two, seas of fire rose in impossible waves, and the very sky cracked in multiple directions as Surtr’s fury reverberated throughout the realm.

"HOW DARE YOU...?!" his voice roared again, now thicker, more charged, each word carrying an overwhelming pressure that made even the flames hesitate.

His eyes burned even more intensely.

He felt it.

Clear.

Undeniable.

The presence of Ifrit.

Not there.

But... on another plane.

Summoned.

Forced.

Called by external will.

And this...

This was not allowed.

"SUMMON... THAT... OUTSIDE THE CYCLE...?!"

His body now rose completely, colossal beyond any mortal scale, his mere existence making the fabric of the dimension creak under the weight of his presence. The heat intensified exponentially, not just in terms of temperature, but as a concept—as if the very end were being rehearsed at that very moment.

And then—

In Asgard...

Panic had already begun.

The golden skies trembled.

The bridges of light vibrated like ropes about to snap, while a wave of absurd energy swept through the realms, causing even the divine walls to react with deep cracks. The Valkyries, scattered throughout the halls and towers, stopped simultaneously, their expressions hardening as they felt that brutal shift in the cosmic balance, their wings trembling slightly as if ancient instincts had been forcibly awakened.

"This... this can’t be..." one of them murmured, her voice heavy with disbelief as she gripped her spear tightly.

In the distance, Thor was already standing, his body tense, the air around him charged with unstable electricity as his eyes scanned the horizon like a predator trying to identify a threat he couldn’t yet fully see. "This pressure... comes from Muspelheim..." he said, his voice deep but clearly tense. "He’s awakened...? Now?!"

The words needed no confirmation.

Because everyone felt it.

The unspoken name.

The inevitable.

Surtr.

"Ragnarok..." another Valkyrie whispered, almost breathless. "It’s beginning...?"

Chaos threatened to spread.

Questions arose.

Preparations began.

Fear... grew.

Until—

"Silence."

The word cut through everything.

Like a blade.

Immediate.

Absolute.

In the center of the hall, Odin remained seated on his throne, but his posture had changed. His eyes, deep and full of knowledge, were fixed on something beyond that space, beyond that time, as if observing directly the cause of that collapse.

He didn’t seem surprised. But... he was serious.

Much more so than usual.

"No," he said slowly, his voice carrying a weight that made even Thor hesitate for a moment.

"This... is not Ragnarok yet."

A heavy silence fell over the hall.

Expectation.

Tension.

And then—

Odin spoke again.

And this time...

Even he seemed cautious.

"The Primordial Demon..." he began, his eyes narrowing slightly as he finally named that which had triggered the awakening of something as ancient as the end itself...

"...Agares..."

A pause.

Short.

But charged.

"...has just summoned Ifrit."

And in that instant—

Even in Asgard...

Fear has changed form.

...

[World of the Celestial Tournament]

The battlefield had taken on a new meaning—no longer a place where two opponents clashed, but the execution point of something inevitable. Agares didn’t hesitate for a single instant. The moment Dante began to recover from the previous flames, Belial had already pierced his body again, impaling him with precise violence, without any theatrics, without any excess—just absolute efficiency. The impact wasn’t merely physical; the spear carried multiple layers of fire that reacted directly against his essence, burning, corroding, nullifying any attempt at regeneration before it could even fully form.

Without giving him room to react, Agares spun her body and hurled Dante as if he had no weight at all, launching him across the battlefield with enough force to tear the air in his path. But she was no longer where she had been. Space warped, and in the next instant, she reappeared directly in his path, intercepting his own throw with a downward kick that smashed his body against the ground with a thud that made the entire dimension vibrate. The impact opened a deep crater, but she didn’t stop. There was no pause. No breath. Only continuity.

Before the ground had even finished giving way, Agares had already grabbed Dante by the face, her fingers sinking into the unstable flesh of that deformed form, and brutally lifted him again, completely ignoring any resistance he still tried to offer. His Nephilim form... was wrong. Horribly wrong. His structure was no longer cohesive, his regeneration failed to keep up with the damage, creating layers of malformed flesh, exposed bones that appeared and disappeared, tissues that grew chaotically, as if his own body was losing the ability to maintain a stable form under the absurd pressure it was suffering.

And then—

She launched.

Straight to the sky.

Straight to Ifrit.

The colossal entity didn’t hesitate.

The instant Dante came within its reach, Ifrit’s incandescent jaws snapped open, and a continuous stream of primordial fire erupted like an absolute flamethrower, completely engulfing his body in a whirlwind of heat that not only burned but disintegrated at a structural level. It wasn’t just destruction—it was annihilation. Every layer of his body was reduced, consumed, erased, while his regeneration tried to keep up... and failed. For the first time, it truly failed.

But it didn’t stop there.

Ifrit’s claws descended next.

Massive blows, slow only in appearance, but charged with a force that distorted the surrounding space, crushing, tearing, ripping apart what remained of Dante’s body repeatedly. Each impact was accompanied by explosions of magma and condensed fire, each movement attempting not only to destroy, but to ensure that nothing remained to be rebuilt.

And yet...

He still existed.

Badly.

Broken.

Deformed.

But still there.

And then Agares appeared again.

Directly above him.

Without warning.

Without sound.

Her foot descended like a hammer, striking his body and tearing him from Ifrit’s grasp, hurling him back to the ground like a flaming meteor. The impact was even more violent this time, creating a fissure that expanded for kilometers, the ground unable to withstand the repetition of that absurd force.

She said nothing.

Not a single comment.

Because it wasn’t necessary.

His body moved again, disappearing and reappearing in sequence, each teleport accompanied by a new blow—punches, kicks, cuts with Belial—a continuous, uninterrupted, crushing sequence where Dante had no space to even think, much less react. It was a pure, absolute beating, where each attack not only caused damage but nullified any attempt at recovery.

His Nephilim form... was crumbling.

Literally.

Parts of his body regenerated in the wrong places, limbs appeared and collapsed, his structure became increasingly grotesque, as if his very existence was being forced beyond its natural limits. His regeneration, once absurd, now seemed like a looping error, unable to keep up with the brutal pace imposed by Agares and Ifrit.

And Agares...

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

Didn’t hesitate.

She was... devastating him.

Completely.

Without limit.

Without mercy.

As if determined to prove, at that very moment—

That there were things...

That not even someone like Dante...

Should have to face.

...

[Dimensional Rift]

The dimensional rift remained completely oblivious to the chaos consuming the other planes, a void without direction, without defined time, where even the concept of existence seemed too unstable to be comprehended. And yet... something had changed there.

Vergil was on his knees.

His entire body trembled.

But it wasn’t weakness.

It was overload.

His head throbbed brutally, as if something were being forced inside, as if information, energy, and structure were being rewritten simultaneously, without any concern for stability. He brought his hand to his face, his fingers digging into his own skin as a low growl escaped between his clenched teeth.

"GH—!!"

The pain intensified.

Not in peaks.

But steadily.

Deep.

Uninterrupted.

As if something were trying to align his soul... by force.

Veins throbbed on his forehead, his eyes trembling slightly as his breathing became irregular, heavy, laden with a growing irritation that stemmed not only from pain... but from the loss of control.

Beside him, completely unaffected by the scene, Ophis remained seated on the edge of that "island," slowly swinging her legs, as if none of it were particularly relevant. Her empty gaze moved just enough to observe him, without haste, without emotion.

"You have to endure it," she said, in a completely flat, almost bored tone, as if she were commenting on something too obvious to require empathy.

A brief pause.

And then, tilting her head slightly:

"Or did you think achieving absolute resistance to sacred energy would be easy?"

Vergil slowly raised his face.

His eyes were heavy.

Irritated.

Painful.

And dangerous.

"I already have resistance!" He growled, his voice heavier than usual, laden with the tension that had built up as his body continued to react violently to the process. "I have a sacred sword in my soul—!" His fingers clenched tightly, as if grasping something invisible within himself. "Why the hell would I need more?!"

His aura flickered.

Unstable.

As if trying to grasp something he didn’t yet fully understand.

Ophis blinked once.

Slowly.

And then turned her face slightly toward him, her eyes finally focusing more directly.

"Because it’s not the same thing," she replied, simply, directly, without any emotional inflection.

Silence.

For a second.

Vergil frowned.

"...explain," he said, his voice lower now, but still heavy with tension.

Ophis tilted her head slightly.

"You have positive energy," she said. "Not sacred energy."

A pause.

Short.

But enough to make a difference.

"They’re different things."

Vergil fell silent.

But not out of acceptance.

Out of processing.

His mind began to reorganize it, cross-referencing information, experiences, sensations... trying to find the logic behind what, until then, he had treated as equivalent.

But something...

Didn’t fit.

His body trembled again.

More strongly this time.

He growled softly, his teeth grinding as he pressed his hand even harder against his head.

"...something’s wrong," he murmured, more to himself than to her, but still audible. "This isn’t just adaptation..."

His breath hitched for a moment.

"...my body..." he continued, now in a denser, more suspicious tone. "...isn’t reacting as it should."

Ophis observed. No rush.

No surprise.

Her eyes slid over his body, analyzing not with curiosity, but with an almost absolute awareness of what was happening.

And then—

She spoke.

"It seems that Progenitor helped you."

Silence.

Vergil froze for a moment.

The pain was still there.

But his attention shifted completely.

"...Progenitor?" he repeated slowly, his eyes narrowing as he tried to fit this new variable into the already chaotic picture his mind was trying to organize. "What are you talking about?"

Ophis blinked again.

Once.

As if accessing an irrelevant memory.

"I think they call her..." she began, without any hurry.

A short pause.

"...Lilith."