The dragon, prostrated before Vergil, trembled, its skeletal structure emitting dry cracks as its energy flickered, weak and unstable. It had lost all its former majesty, its aura of terror dissipating like ashes in the wind. Now, only submission remained—the absolute recognition of its defeat.
"P-please… Lord Monarch…" The creature's voice, once filled with fury and pride, was now nothing more than a pleading whisper. "Could you heal me…?"
Vergil stared at it with no emotion, his cold eyes reflecting only boredom.
'And here I thought this would be a challenge…' he mused, disappointed. 'Ashborne… were you always this pathetic?'
Of course, he had never had high expectations for Ashborne—the former King of Death was just another stepping stone in his path. But to leave behind a "guardian" this ridiculously weak? What a joke.
