The sky above Hell's Pavilion 9 was eternally covered in black, sulfur-laden clouds, frozen in ti. The prison was a monunt to contained demonic power: obsidian towers, walls of fused bone, and bars made of living runes that vibrated with each step of the inmates.
And in the middle of it all…
Walked Vergil.
"Hm… the design is a bit archaic, but the technology is good." He muttered.
Dressed in the infamous orange jumpsuit, the number "666-V" on the back, rubber sandals that clinked with each step, and that restraint collar embedded in his neck like a scar. He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, as if he were on a Sunday stroll in the park—and not surrounded by murderers, world-eaters, and beasts who had been sealed away for cris as old as creation.
His purple eyes scanned the room indifferently. He could feel the gazes fixed on him like claws—so hungry, so curious, so simply intimidated. But he walked with the calm of soone who knew exactly what he was… and exactly what he was capable of.
"Wow, the one on the right has more scars than brains."
"And that one over there? It looks like he fell into a barrel of lava and lost the argunt with it."
"Ah, how elegant, a demon with three heads… all with breath."
Vergil smiled to himself, that icy and particular irony. He was a king among monsters, and he knew it.
So inmates murmured among themselves:
"That's him… the Fifth King."
"They say he married the heiresses… of the Baal, Sitri and Agares clans..."
"He doesn't look all that… he looks like a model who got lost in Hell."
"Quiet. He killed thousands who wanted his wife in the coliseum..."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"With him, it does."
The noise of the courtyard was a constant din—chains, low conversations, the clinking of claws against stone—until sothing stopped Vergil in his tracks.
A living wall of flesh and muscle rose up in front of him.
Three ters tall, shoulders like war drums, arms crossed over his chest like columns of steel. A fat demon, yes, but solid—the kind who used his weight as a weapon, not a burden. His skin was dark gray, covered in ritual scars and ancient symbols carved in fire. Two red eyes stared down at him, and his mouth was crooked, malicious.
"You're that Vergil." The voice ca out like thunder trapped in a drum, reverberating off the courtyard walls. "The Demon King who goes around with beautiful won."
Vergil stopped. He looked up, a small smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, great. A mini-boss from 'Streets of Rage' ca to strike up a conversation." He stepped forward, without any fear. "So? Are you going to try to give a motivational speech? Or do you just want to show off to your little friends?"
The brute let out a thick laugh, as if he were surprised—or as if he appreciated the boldness.
"No. I just want to see if what they say is true." He lowered his face a little, his breath slling of sulfur, blood, and cigarettes. "That you killed the son of Archon Phenex. That you're king. That you're… uncontrollable."
Vergil tilted his head slightly, as if in thought.
"The truth is a volatile creature, my dear fat tank. But you know what's constant? The need for imbeciles like you to test those they shouldn't."
The courtyard fell silent. The sound of chains, of claws, ceased. Everyone was watching.
The big guy slowly uncrossed his arms.
"You have a sharp mouth. But in here... status out there doesn't an shit."
"Perfect." Vergil took another step, stopping inches from the brute's chest. "Because if it did, you'd already be on your knees."
The giant clenched his fists, his muscles vibrating like steel cables about to snap. But he didn't move forward. He didn't have the courage. There was sothing about Vergil—not his strength, but the silence that enveloped him—that said, without words, "Go ahead, try."
Vergil let out a short sigh of contempt and tried to get out of the way. It wasn't worth it. Not that kind of fool.
But Hell loves tests. And fools love an audience.
Before he'd taken three steps, another demon appeared in his path.
This ti, bigger, more aggressive, and clearly more stupid.
His muscles seed carved from boiling stone, his skin was blood red, covered in black tribal markings. His horns curved upwards like blades, and where there should have been a nose, there were only two black slits, like a smoking skull.
His eyes burned with the fla of a simple desire: confrontation.
"Where do you think you're going, princess?" he spat, with a crooked smile that dripped with arrogance.
The courtyard, which had previously been murmuring, now fell completely silent.
One by one, the inmates began to approach, slowly surrounding them, like a horde of hungry wolves sniffing for fresh at.
Two hundred eyes glead in the dim light. Wide grins, sharp claws, gaping fangs.
One hundred and seventy inmates—demons, beasts, freaks who had committed cris so vile that not even Hell could ignore them—ford a circle around the Fifth King.
But Vergil remained motionless.
His gaze slowly swept over his new adversary, from head to toe, with an almost offensive disinterest.
"You have a mouth… considerably large for soone with a brain the size of a grape seed," Vergil replied in a low, drawling voice. And sharp as a blade soaked in poison.
The full-bodied demon took a step forward, puffing out his chest with wounded pride.
"It's funny… because it doesn't seem like you're in charge of anything in here."
Vergil stared at him with a look devoid of empathy, and let out a long, almost bored sigh.
'These idiots must think that this restraint collar is actually holding sothing back.'
He ran his hand over the arcane necklace around his neck, as if scratching an itch. Then, he adjusted the collar of his orange uniform with ridiculously calm care.
"Co on. Get out of the way." He said, with the sa tone as soone asking for permission in a bakery line. "I need to go back to my cell. I'll stay in mine, you guys in yours. No stress, no deaths, no flying limbs… We'll get through this okay. Calm down? Okay?"
From deep within his shadow, a hissing voice echoed, glassy and ancient:
"Master… why are you being benevolent? Finish them off."
It was Itharine, the presence sleeping under Vergil's skin, whispering bloodlust.
'Relax. I want to… test sothing.' — Vergil answered ntally, with a cold smile forming on his face.
He stretched out his arms slightly, as if presenting a simple choice to fate.
"Last chance. Excuse , okay? I don't like to repeat myself."
The muscular demon laughed. It was a dry sound, full of contempt.
"What's wrong, princess? Are you bothered?"
His laughter spread to the others around him.
It started with half a dozen… then dozens.
One hundred and seventy inmates of hell laughed, cornering the King like hyenas before a tied lion.
But then Vergil laughed too.
It was soft at first. A whisper.
"Heh…" And then ca the explosion. "HAHAHAHA—!"
The laughter expanded like a sonic wave, reverberating with such force that the ground shook, the bars vibrated, and the very walls of the prison creaked under invisible pressure. The runes of containnt suddenly lit up, trying to contain the leak of pure infernal power that was seeping from the Fifth King's soul.
Silence fell. An oppressive emptiness fell over the courtyard.
Vergil tilted his head to the side, his gaze now vivid, sharp as steel ripped from the heart of a dead star.
"Fine. Let's do it this way, then."
He raised his hand, pointing with his index finger at the muscular demon.
"If you don't get out of the way… your head…" Vergil extended his finger slowly, with the calm of soone who already knew the outco. Then, he shifted the gesture toward the previous brute. "…it's going to end up in his ass."
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