Sephirothy was not a simple anomaly, nor an isolated error within a perfect system, but rather a living contradiction that existed even before being understood, an entity that carried within itself three incompatible natures coexisting in an unstable way, as if its very existence were a direct challenge to the fundamental rules that underpinned both Heaven and Hell, and yet... it not only existed, but thrived within this impossibility.

She was, at the same time, an angel, a demon... and something in between.

But reducing this to simple words was an insult to the complexity of what she truly represented, because each of these parts was not just a characteristic, but an absolute inheritance, a complete lineage that, in isolation, would already be enough to place her at the top of any existing hierarchy, and yet, within her, these forces not only coexisted... they constantly collided.

Her birth was not a common event.

It was not natural.

It was not expected.

She was born from something that should not have happened.

From love. But not just any love.

The love of Lucifer... before the fall.

And of Lilith... the progenitor of demons.

Two entities that, in themselves, already represented absolute extremes of existence, opposite poles of the same distorted truth, one being the light closest to divine perfection... and the other being the origin of all demonic corruption.

And yet... they met.

And from that encounter...

She was born.

Sephirothy inherited not only power.

She inherited concept.

From Lucifer, she received original purity, the perfect structure of a being created directly under divine logic, an existence aligned with order, with light, with the absolute.

From Lilith, she received the opposite.

Freedom.

Instinct.

Chaos.

The rejection of order.

The ability to evolve, to adapt, to break rules without even recognizing them as real limits.

But what made her existence truly unique...

It wasn’t possessing these two heritages.

It was surviving them.

Because they didn’t mix.

They didn’t integrate.

They didn’t accept each other.

Within her, the angel didn’t coexist peacefully with the demon.

They fought.

Constantly.

Without pause.

Without truce.

Without resolution.

And it was in this conflict... that something new emerged.

The fallen angel.

But not as others knew it.

Not as a consequence of the fall.

Not as punishment.

But as a transition.

A phase.

An intermediate state between the absolute and the corrupted, between the perfect and the free, between the created and the chosen.

Sephirothy did not fall.

She... transitioned.

Because her existence was never fixed.

She wasn’t just a being.

She was a process.

First... the angel.

The pure form.

The foundation.

That which she could have been, if she had only followed Lucifer’s lineage, if she had remained within the order, within the structure, within what was expected of someone with that level of perfection.

If it were only that...

She would be an Archangel.

Without discussion.

Without opposition.

Her wings would be sufficient to support the weight of Heaven, her presence would be accepted as a direct extension of the divine will, her existence would be stable, defined, complete.

But she wasn’t just that.

And then... came the second stage.

The fallen angel.

Not as a mistake.

But as an inevitable consequence.

Because carrying within oneself the essence of Lilith meant rejecting limits, it meant questioning, it meant not simply accepting what was imposed as absolute truth.

This state...

Was unstable.

Dangerous.

But also... necessary.

It was the point where the two forces within her met and collided with the greatest intensity, where the conflict reached its peak, where her existence became more volatile, more unpredictable, more... powerful.

Because in that state...

She was neither one thing nor the other.

She was both.

And neither.

But then...

The third stage.

The demon.

The final form.

Not in the sense of an end... but of liberation.

Sepphirothy, by fully embracing Lilith’s legacy, would not only gain power, but also identity, a clear definition within the chaos, a position within a hierarchy that, though brutal, still offered structure.

If it were only that...

She would be a Queen.

A Demon King.

A supreme entity within Hell.

Her strength would be undeniable, her presence overwhelming, her will sufficient to shape entire realities around her.

But... she wasn’t just that either.

Because unlike any other being that ever existed...

Sepphirothy didn’t need to choose.

She didn’t need to abandon one part to strengthen the other.

She didn’t need to fall to rise. Not to rise only to fall.

She... moved.

Freely.

Between the three states.

Between the three truths.

Between the three existences.

And that’s what made her something far more dangerous than any Archangel.

Far more unstable than any demon.

And far more unpredictable than any fallen angel.

Because while others followed paths...

She was all of them.

At the same time.

And that meant that no rule applied completely to her.

Heaven rejected her.

But couldn’t ignore her.

Hell accepted her.

But couldn’t control her.

And the world itself...

Didn’t know where to place her.

She belonged nowhere.

But she wasn’t excluded from anywhere either.

And perhaps...

That was the biggest problem.

Because a being that doesn’t belong...

Is also not limited.

And a being that isn’t limited...

Eventually...

Will break everything around it.

Not out of malice.

Not intentionally.

But simply...

Because it can.

And Sephirothy knew this.

Always knew.

From the beginning.

From the moment she realized that her existence made no sense within any known logic, that she wasn’t part of a system... but a flaw within it.

And instead of trying to fix it...

She accepted it.

Embraced it.

And transformed that flaw...

Into power.

Because in the end...

She wasn’t an angel.

She wasn’t a demon.

And not even a fallen angel.

She was—

The transition between them all.

The point where the rules stop working.

And where something new...

Begins.

Sephirothy’s return to the battlefield wasn’t marked by impact, explosion, or distortion... but by contrast.

She simply... appeared.

In the center of that absolute hell, where the ground still melted beneath Agares’ feet and the sky burned with Ifrit’s colossal presence, a figure descended like a displaced fragment from another reality. Her light didn’t compete with the fire—it negated it. Where there was heat, there was now balance. Where there was chaos... there was order.

Six wings.

Six completely divine wings.

White.

Immaculate.

The aura around her wasn’t aggressive, but overwhelmingly so, a purity so dense that the environment itself reacted with instinctive rejection, as if that place... simply wasn’t worthy of sustaining her.

Dante was the first to notice.

And for the first time since it all began...

He hesitated.

His eyes widened slightly, his unsteady smile faltering for a brief second as he observed that form... that presence... that energy that not only opposed his existence, but seemed... to nullify it.

"...What the hell is this now...?" he murmured, his voice carrying something rare: genuine discomfort.

Agares looked too.

And, for an instant...

She smiled.

Not provocatively.

But in recognition.

"So you really did go there..." she murmured, her voice low, but laden with silent approval.

Sephirothy didn’t answer.

Her eyes weren’t on Dante.

They were in Seris.

Direct.

Precise.

"Make it rain."

The order fell simply.

Without explanation.

Without room for questioning.

Seris blinked.

Once.

Her body still exhausted, her mana practically at its limit, her hands still trembling after keeping Vergil alive against all odds...

But still...

She understood.

"...Right."

Her voice came out low.

But firm.

She raised her hand.

And the sky responded.

Not the infernal sky dominated by Ifrit... but something above that. Upper layers of reality began to move, condensing moisture, forcing a phenomenon that simply shouldn’t exist in that environment.

And then—

Rain.

First light.

Almost timid.

But quickly intensifying.

Drops began to fall onto the battlefield, evaporating upon touching the incandescent ground... until something changed.

Sephirothy turned her face away.

Now, to the demons.

Amon.

Paimon.

Phenex.

Lilith.

And even Agares.

"Get away."

Her voice wasn’t loud.

But it carried absolute authority.

There was no threat.

There was no explanation.

But there was... certainty.

Amon narrowed his eyes for a second.

Analyzing.

Weighing.

And then... he understood.

"...Now I understand the plan."

Without another word, he disappeared.

Paimon came right behind, dragging Alice’s unconscious body with him. Phenex took flight in flames and quickly moved away, while Lilith simply... retreated, her eyes still fixed on Vergil, but respecting the space.

Until Agares...

She took a step back.

Slowly.

Controlled.

Her eyes still fixed on Dante, but now with a new layer of interest.

"Don’t bother me," she murmured.

Sephirothy didn’t answer.

She just... breathed.

And then—

She raised her hand.

The rain changed.

It wasn’t visual.

It wasn’t auditory.

It was... conceptual.

Each drop that fell ceased to be just water.

It became something more.

Something... pure.

Something... sacred.

Divine energy began to seep into the rain, not as a common enchantment, but as a fundamental rewriting of what was being created. Each drop carried intention, carried power, carried judgment.

And then—

The rain turned... holy water.

The effect was immediate.

The ground began to react.

The demonic energy in the environment hissed, retreated, resisted... but couldn’t completely stop the transformation of that space. The battlefield itself began to divide between two irreconcilable extremes.

Hell.

And Heaven.

Dante felt it first.

His body... reacted.

Not as before.

Not with immediate adaptation.

But with rejection.

His skin began to burn.

Not from Agares’ fire.

But from something completely different.

Something his existence... couldn’t accept.

"—Ah."

A low sound escaped him.

Almost curious.

As a drop touched his face.

And burned.

Truly.

His regeneration tried to act.

But... it faltered for an instant.

A single instant.

But it was enough.

Sephirothy stepped forward.

Her wings moved slowly, scattering particles of light through the air as her eyes finally locked onto him.

"Now..."

Her voice was low.

Calm.

But laden with a weight impossible to ignore.

"...let’s even this out."

The rain intensified.

It became denser.

Heavier.

Each drop now fell like an inevitable judgment, piercing the flames of Ifrit, cutting through the heat of Agares, imposing a third force on that battlefield.

Not destruction.

Not chaos.

But... purification.

Dante smiled again.

But this time...

It wasn’t the same smile.

It was more tense.

More... defiant.

"Ah..."

He opened his arms slightly, letting the rain fall on his body as his skin hissed, burned, regenerated... and burned again.

"So you want to play this game now...?"

His eyes rose.

Meeting hers.

Directly.

"Fine..."

His aura exploded again.

But now...

She was being pressured.

Contained.

Forced to react not only to the fire...

But to the divine.

"...let’s see how long you can hold out."

The rain intensified.

Not gradually.

Not naturally.

But as if something had decided... to intensify the trial.

The drops began to fall faster, denser, heavier, each carrying an absurd amount of sacred energy that not only touched Dante... but invaded him, piercing his skin, penetrating his structure, directly striking that which kept him functioning.

And then—

He screamed.

It wasn’t a restrained scream.

It wasn’t a controlled reaction.

It was brutal.

Instinctive.

Violent.

"—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

His body contorted, his muscles contracting erratically as his skin literally began to disintegrate under the continuous impact of the holy water, burning, regenerating... and being burned again before even completing the process.

Unlike Agares’ fire...

This wasn’t pure destruction.

It was rejection.

It was as if every particle of that energy said, absolutely:

"You shouldn’t exist."

Dante fell to his knees for a moment, his hands digging into the molten ground as his aura exploded in response, trying to react, trying to adapt, trying... to survive it.

But this time...

It wasn’t so simple.

"AAAAAH—! WHAT THE HELL— IS— THIS—!!"

His body trembled violently, veins bulging as his regeneration began to fail in multiple places at once, unable to keep up with the absurd rate of damage being applied constantly, relentlessly, without room for pause.

Sephirothy watched.

Cold.

Calm.

Her eyes fixed on him, emotionless, just... analysis.

"You are a Nephilim," she said, her voice cutting through the chaos effortlessly, clear, firm, absolute. "But that doesn’t mean you understand what you’re facing."

She took another step forward.

And the rain responded.

It got worse.

Much worse.

"You’ve never dealt with real divine energy."

The words fell like a sentence.

And the effect was immediate.

"—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!"

Dante screamed again, this time louder, more broken, his voice distorting as his form began to become even more grotesque, unstable, as if his very existence was being forced to acknowledge something he had never truly faced.

His skin cracked.

His flesh split open.

His energy fragmented.

And for the first time...

He was being pushed back.

For real.

"Enough— ENOUGH—!!"

His eyes widened, now not just with pain... but with need.

Pure instinct.

Survival.

And then—

He reacted.

His hand trembled.

But still...

He reached out.

The space beside him distorted.

And then—

Yamato appeared.

The blade surged in his hand like a rupture in reality itself, vibrating at an absurd frequency as he gripped it tightly, even as his body was constantly being destroyed by the holy rain.

"—I’M GOING TO CUT THIS WHOLE THING—!!"

He raised the sword.

And cut.

The space in front of him instantly shattered, a fissure opening like a scar in reality, trying to create an exit, an escape, a way to flee from the absolute dominion being imposed upon him.

But—

He never finished the movement.

Because she was already there.

Sepphirothy appeared in front of him the exact moment the blade crossed the space, her hand moving with absurd, perfect, inevitable precision—

And she grasped Yamato.

Directly.

Without hesitation.

Without resistance.

The impact between her hand and the sword generated a massive distortion, a silent shockwave that made space itself tremble... but it didn’t stop her.

Dante froze.

For an instant.

His eyes widened.

"...what...?"

Sepphirothy simply looked at him.

And smiled.

A small smile.

But... sharp.

"Thank you."

And then—

She pulled.

The sword slipped from his hand with absurd ease, as if he simply... no longer had the right to hold it.

Before he could react—

She had already spun her body.

And launched it.

Yamato cut through the air like lightning.

Crossing the entire battlefield in a single instant.

Straight—

To Agares.

Who was already waiting.

Without looking.

Without hesitating.

Her hand moved.

And grasped it.

The perfect blade fit into her palm as if it had always belonged there.

Her eyes slowly descended.

To Vergil.

His body still convulsed.

Trapped.

Rewriting itself.

Fighting against something he didn’t even fully understand.

Agares took a step forward.

The heat around her intensified.

But... controlled.

Directed.

She raised Yamato.

The blade vibrated.

Recognizing. Responding.

And then—

Without ceremony.

Without hesitation.

Without pity—

She plunged in.

The sword pierced Vergil’s chest directly, penetrating his flesh, his soul, his entire existence, the blade entering with absolute precision into the center of everything that he was.

The impact was silent.

For a single instant.

And then—

The world reacted.

Energy exploded.

Within him.

As if something had finally been reconnected.

Or... released.

Vergil’s body arched violently.

His eyes snapped open.

And the scream that escaped him...

It wasn’t human.