The wind had died.
Even the trees seemed to lean away from the clearing.
Vergil's boots crunched against brittle leaves, his shield heavy in his hand. He drew his sword slowly, the sound of iron leaving the sheath louder than it should have been.
Eleanor stood behind him, composed but tense. Her breath had slowed to silence, her eyes sharp. But Vergil knew her well enough to feel the fear she wasn't showing.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
"Analysis," Vergil whispered.
The blue light of the skill pulsed across his vision like a shiver. The silence thickened as the feedback returned.
---
Name-Morvax
Level: 21
Rank: 1
Race: Demon
Title: The Flesh Echo
Authority: Transformation – Allows the demon to freely change its appearance, replicating the physical form and surface details of any being it has observed or imagines
Strength:45
Constitution:45
Dexterity:42
Intelligence:40
Wisdom:32
Demonic energy:50
Passive Skills:
• Mimic Flesh (D) – Can replicate any living creature's appearance down to scars, blemishes, and even vocal patterns.
• Instinctive Adaptation (D) – Adapts to fighting styles rapidly by observing them. The more it sees, the more perfect its mimicry becomes.
• Monstrous Vitality (D+) – Passively regenerates wounds over time. Immune to minor pain.
Active Skills:
• Morph Form (D) – Alters limbs into twisted weapons—claws, spikes, bladed arms.
• Echo Movement (D) – Copies the target's exact movements at 75% of their speed for a short time.
• Flesh Puppet (C) – Can manifest a grotesque puppet of a copied form, stitched from corrupted flesh. Sentient and aggressive.
'Yeah, im so fucked, his physical stats are all around 45 to 50, thats madness!' Vergil thought
The underbrush shifted.
Then it came out.
Vergil stopped breathing.
It was him.
Not just his face. Everything—armor, hair, sword, stance—down to the smallest detail.
Except for the eyes.
His own reflected back at him, but wrong—slightly too wide, too bright, gleaming with something hungry.
And the smile.
A slow, widening grin that split too far across the cheekbones, revealing dark gums and jagged, uneven teeth beneath the illusion of his face.
"This body is quite nice," the thing said, with his voice.
Eleanor's dagger shifted in her grip. She said nothing, but Vergil could feel the heat behind her calm expression.
Morvax tilted its head—his head—and stepped forward.
Its footsteps were wrong. They sounded just like his, but lacked the weight. Like someone pretending to walk like him… but not quite human.
"Do you know what it's like, wearing someone else's skin?" it murmured. "At first, it's loose. Doesn't feel right. But then—"
It cracked its neck. The sound was wet.
"—then you start to fit. The body remembers. The style. The voice. The fear."
Vergil said nothing.
Morvax's hand shifted, briefly warping into a mass of tendrils before returning to a perfect copy of Vergil's own sword hand.
"I've worn better men than you," it continued. "But your fear smells... honest."
Vergil stepped forward, his blade raised—but inside, cold dread clawed at his gut.
He wasn't fighting a demon.
He was fighting himself.
Or something that had learned to become him.
Morvax lunged.
Vergil parried just in time, but the creature's form twisted mid-motion, its legs warping unnaturally to dodge his counter. It had already adjusted to his footwork.Verhil used power strike, but the gap between their stats was too big and Morvax easily deflected it.
Steel rang against flesh—his own technique mirrored back at him.
He fell back, shield high, breath ragged.
Morvax laughed.
Not loudly.
Just a soft, breathy sound from his own throat.
And then it whispered:
"I think I'll kill her with your voice."
Vergil's eyes widened.
He turned, grabbed Eleanor without thinking and put the 3 stats points he got into dexterity boosting it to 28 and activated mana Manipulation.
---
"Hold on," Vergil growled.
Then he ran.
He didn't think.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't speak.
Just ran.
Branches tore at his face. Brambles ripped at his boots. His shield slammed against his side. Eleanor's weight in his arms felt far too light — limp, unresisting. But her hand clutched the back of his tunic, weak but steady.
A silent message: You're not alone.
But all Vergil could hear was one word, deafening and relentless:
Run.
Run.
Run.
Behind him, something laughed — no longer in his voice.
It had changed again.
Vergil didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
Morvax had returned to its true form.
---
A tall, unnatural silhouette emerged from the dark forest, dragging itself forward with slow, deliberate steps — as if it had all the time in the world.
Morvax's true form was grotesque, yet eerily regal.
A towering, humanoid shape—lean and almost graceful at a glance—wrapped in ribbons of gray flesh that writhed endlessly. Its skin, like stretched wax, was semi-transparent in places, revealing twitching muscles and the pulsing black veins beneath.
Its face was a void-like mask — blank, except for a gaping mouth filled with crooked, childlike teeth. A doll's grin, abandoned and left to rot in the dark.
Six arms unfolded from its sides, each ending differently: a skeletal hand, a bladed claw, a warped human imitation, a dripping stump, a hooked bone-sickle — and one that matched Vergil's perfectly.
It moved without sound, but with each step, the forest grew colder.
Eleanor's voice was a whisper in his ear.
"…We're not fast enough."
Vergil clenched his jaw. "Shut up," he hissed. "We'll make it."
But even he could hear the tremor in his voice.
Then Morvax spoke — not mimicking this time, but in its own guttural, layered tone.
"Make it?
Make it where?"
The trees groaned, their roots twisting beneath its weight.
Vergil ran.
He ran through tangling roots and shattering branches, lungs burning, blood coating his tongue. Eleanor clung to him — silent, but alive.
Behind them, Morvax followed.
The Transformation Demon had abandoned all pretense. Its body now massive and hunched, skin like wet ash stretched over shifting bone. Eyes blinked where no eyes should be — two, then four, then six — watching from all angles.
Vergil's boots pounded the earth. His hunting leathers, reinforced at the shoulders and thighs, were soaked in blood from a deep gash slashed across his back.
Still, Eleanor didn't scream. He felt her heartbeat against his chest — fast, tight. Composed, but afraid.
Then—
SHHK!
A bladed limb cut the air.
Agony.
The strike ripped across his back — tearing through leather and flesh. Blood surged. His leg nearly gave out.
But he didn't let go.
Didn't stop.
[You have been critically injured. Passive Skill: Adrenaline Surge has activated.]
Power flooded his body — pain dulled, senses sharpened. His muscles locked into focus, breath drawn steady.
[Skill Activated: Shadow Dash]
Shadows curled around his legs — and in a blink, he vanished.
Twenty feet. Then forty. Trees blurred. The world stretched and smeared.
Behind him, Morvax shrieked — a sound of rage and hunger.
But Vergil didn't slow.
He ran through torn lungs.
Through screaming muscles.
But he held her.
A broken temple rose through the night like the bones of a forgotten god. Vergil crashed through the archway and collapsed behind the shattered altar. His knees struck dirt. His back burned with fresh blood. But he held her. Always.
Eleanor slowly looked up, breath shallow, her eyes falling to the torn leather clinging to his back. "…You should've dropped me."
Vergil's jaw tightened. Sweat beaded across his brow as he met her gaze—eyes raw and burning.
"I don't drop what's mine."
Eleanor was silent for a beat. Her eyes didn't soften, but something shifted behind them.
"…Possessive," she muttered. "Stupid." Then, quieter, "But… thank you."
Her hand hovered near his side—not touching, not yet. Just close. Close enough.
"We should be alright for now…" he muttered, breath ragged, every inhale a blade. He leaned back against the cold stone, exhaustion pressing heavy on his blood-soaked hunting gear.
Eleanor silently knelt beside him. Her hands glowed faintly with Minor Restoration—the magic pulsing weakly against the deep slash on his back. It closed part of the wound, slowed the bleeding, dulled the pain—but barely.
Vergil grunted as the warmth of the spell faded. "It's fine," he said, forcing a sharp smirk. "I won't die that easily."
Eleanor didn't return the smile. Her eyes studied him with quiet intensity. Behind her calm exterior, something simmered—worry, held in check by will alone.
Vergil leaned his head back, letting the cracked wall hold some of his weight. "That demon... he's a real problem."
He paused, voice low. "He can transform into anything. Not just copy appearances—he mimics movement, behavior. It's not shapeshifting. It's something worse."
Eleanor's tone was quiet but steady. "How dangerous are we talking?"
Vergil let out a slow breath. "He could walk into a village and no one would suspect a thing. Same voice, same smile. You wouldn't know it until it was already too late."
His fists clenched. "And I'm sure he wasn't even going all out. That fight back there? He was toying with us. Testing us."
Eleanor glanced toward the dark woods beyond the temple ruins, her expression tightening.
"That's exactly what bothers me," she said.
Vergil raised an eyebrow, alert.
"He was winning. You were wounded. He had the scent," she continued. "He should've kept chasing us—but he stopped. He let us go."
Vergil's eyes darkened as realization set in.
"That's not the behavior of a hunter," she said. "Not unless…"
"…he had a reason he couldn't leave," Vergil finished, the thought clicking into place.
They exchanged a glance. Grim. Certain.
"Exactly," Eleanor said. "It means one of two things. Either he thought we were too weak to waste his energy on…"
"Or," she continued, voice lowering, "he's guarding something. Or bound to something."
Vergil exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. "If it's the second one… whatever that thing is might be even worse than him."
A cold silence followed—thick with what-ifs and unseen horrors.
Outside, the wind picked up—low and hollow, brushing through broken stone and dead grass like whispers from the grave.
Eleanor broke the silence. "We have two options. Head back now… or go see what he's protecting. Then decide what comes next."
Vergil nodded slowly. "One's the safe call."
"The other's risky as hell," he added, glancing down at his side. "And I'm injured. No medicine. No bandages and worse no healing potions ."
He let out a breath, then pushed himself off the wall. "We head back. Regroup. Resupply. Then we return. On our terms."
Eleanor stood beside him, gaze steady.
"Agreed."
They stepped into the cold wind together, the ruined temple behind them—and the monster's secret still waiting in the dark.
--------
Absolutely — here's the revised version with subtle hints, no mention of Eleanor, and a strong sense of mystery and dread:
---
They stepped into the cold wind together, the ruined temple behind them—and the monster's secret still waiting in the dark.
---
Meanwhile…
Beneath the dying trees, where light no longer reached, Morvax walked.
Each step left no footprint. The world itself recoiled from him.
He emerged into a clearing soaked in death—a shrine carved from bone and stone, hunched beneath twisted branches. Around it, corpses lay piled like offerings: goblins with snapped spines, scavenger beasts with their throats torn, ogres cleaved open and hollow. Blood painted the ground in black-red streaks, drying slowly beneath the pale flicker of unseen flames.
At the heart of the shrine, an altar pulsed.
Veined in obsidian, etched with symbols older than language, it throbbed like a heart buried in the earth. Black roots crawled up its sides like fingers trying to hold it shut.
Morvax stepped forward, holding the small red jade between two clawed fingers. It glowed faintly—hungrier now.
He lowered it toward the altar, and the blood in the dirt responded—rising in threads, like smoke in reverse, spiraling into the jade. It pulsed once. Then again. Then faster.
A thin smile cut across his face.
"So close," he breathed, voice low and inhuman. "It stirs now... the gate breathes beneath the stone."
The air grew colder.
He knelt before the altar, talons scraping across ancient carvings.
"I've given it beasts. The wild. The broken."
The jade flickered red, then deeper—almost black.
"But it needs more."
His head tilted, almost reverently.
"So much more."
He rose without another word, vanishing into the dark. The altar pulsed again.
And below it—something exhaled.
Something waiting.
Something listening.
---
The trees thinned as the two figures made their slow return, the crimson-streaked sky casting long shadows behind them. Vergil's steps were uneven, each movement dragging just slightly. A faint stain of dried blood clung to the back of his tunic, right where the pain flared with every breath.
Eleanor walked silently beside him, casting him a glance every few minutes, but saying nothing.
That silence didn't last long.
[Looks like someone got their ass whopped.]
'Shut up.'
[What? I'm just saying. That thing ragdolled you like a village drunk in a tavern brawl.]
'It caught me off guard. Once.'
[Once is all it takes when the enemy's three times your size and twice as ugly.]
Vergil winced, not from the voice, but from the jolt in his back when his boot caught on a root. He barely managed to steady himself before Eleanor's hand shot out.
"You okay?" she asked, quietly.
"I'm fine."
His tone was firm, but his left eye twitched with pain.
Eleanor didn't push further. She just adjusted her pace to match his.
[You know... most people would've died from that hit.]
'Yeah, and yet here I am. Bleeding. Walking. Alive.'
[Barely. I think your spine tried to leave your body for a second there.]
'You're hilarious.'
[I know.]
A gust of cold air whispered through the trees. The adrenaline had worn off. Now came the ache—the slow, biting realization of what happened. The King fleeing. That thing in the woods. Whatever it was, it didn't fight them.
It didn't need to.
It had made a point by not attacking.
Vergil's brows furrowed.
'Why didn't it finish us off?'
[Maybe it's saving you for later. Like leftovers.]
'You're not helping.'
[I'm not trying to.]
They kept walking. The light from the setting sun bled between the branches like fire, and the path twisted through gnarled roots and loose stones. Every now and then, Vergil's breath hitched when a sharp step jarred his injury. He didn't let Eleanor see.
"You sure you're fine?" she asked again, her voice lower now. "You're limping."
"I've walked worse."
"Back injury?"
He didn't answer.
Eleanor sighed and muttered something under her breath. Probably something magical. A soft green glow passed over her fingers, but she didn't try to cast it on him.
Yet.
[You should let her heal you. Pride's great and all, but so is not being paralyzed.]
'I'm not paralyzed.'
[Yet.]
Vergil exhaled slowly. The pain was real, but the thought of that massive presence behind them was heavier. He could still feel it. Watching.
Hunting.
Waiting.
The village was maybe thirty minutes away now. Close… but not close enough.
"Once we get back," Eleanor said quietly, "we're reporting that thing. Whatever it was."
"We're not saying anything about it yet," Vergil replied.
She looked at him. "You serious?"
"I want to know what it is first. And why it let us go."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "You're not going back there."
He didn't answer.
[Oh, he's definitely going back there.]
Vergil's mind kept circling back to the creature in the woods. That monstrous shadow that radiated pressure like a black hole.
'If he's protecting something… I'll make sure to fuck him over.'
His fists clenched tight, knuckles whitening as the pain in his back flared again, making him stagger.
Eleanor caught the movement and narrowed her eyes.
"You sure you're alright?" she asked again, voice low but edged with concern.
"I've walked through worse," he muttered.
"Back's messed up?"
He didn't answer.
She muttered something under her breath, green light dancing over her fingertips. But she didn't cast anything. She knew better than to force it.
[She's trying to help, you know. Unlike you, she's not allergic to common sense.]
'I don't need help. I just need time.'
[What you need is to stop pretending your spine isn't halfway to retirement.]
Vergil didn't reply. His focus was somewhere else now. In that clearing. On those eyes.
The village was close—but not close enough.
Eleanor finally spoke again. "We need to tell someone. Report whatever that thing was."
Vergil shook his head. "No. Not yet."
"What? Are you serious?"
"I want to know what it is. Why it let us go. And what it's protecting."
She stared at him. "You're not going back there."
"I am"
"Vergil—"
"He's protecting something," Vergil muttered, his voice low and cold. "And when I find out what it is… I'll make sure to fuck him over."
The forest behind them remained deathly quiet, the air thick with the echo of what they'd escaped. But the tension hadn't lifted. If anything, it lingered—an invisible pressure at their backs.
As they walked, slower than before thanks to his injury, Vergil's thoughts twisted in grim silence.
'That thing… it had an Authority. Just like me.'
He grit his teeth against the throb in his back.
'It was a good one too—perfect for infiltration. It could mimic my movements, but not my skills. That's the key.it can't copy my abilities, so its possible to counter it. I just need time.'
He glanced at Eleanor, who was keeping pace beside him, quiet but alert.
'If I can push my stats into the 40s... and if Eleanor gets more control over her magic... we might stand a chance. One week. That's all I need. A solid week is all I need.
His fingers curled slightly.
'I'll also need a passive skill for recovery. Something that lets me fight through injuries like this. I can't afford to be slowed down again or else I may end up biting more than I can chew.'
He winced as another jolt ran through his spine.
[And maybe a new spine while you're at it, champ.]
Vergil ignored the voice this time.
The sun was dipping past the horizon now. The village was near.
But for Vergil, the real fight hadn't even begun.
---
In the thicket just beyond the village, something watched.
It stood unnaturally still, a silhouette half-hidden among the trees. At first glance, it might've passed for a traveler—dark-haired, cloaked, just another soul pausing by the woods.
But it wasn't human.
Not really.
The puppet wore a face—a crude, rotting mimicry of Vergil's. The features were almost right, but not quite. The skin was too pale, too taut, as if stretched over a frame it didn't belong to. One eye hung slightly lower than the other, while the jaw was crooked, twisted into a half-smile that looked like it had been stitched on in a hurry.
Its chest rose and fell in a mimicry of breath, though no air moved. The arms dangled awkwardly at its sides, fingers twitching every few seconds, spasming like they were searching for something to hold. It wore a tattered cloak like Vergil's, though soaked with something darker at the edges—old blood, perhaps, or something far worse.
And still, it watched.
The inn sat quietly at the edge of the village. Smoke rose from the chimney, and warm morning light pushed through the shutters. Inside, it knew, the real one was waking. The real Vergil. The source.
It didn't know what he was yet, not exactly. But it had felt something in him during that brief encounter. Not raw power. Not dominance.
Hunger.
The kind that simmers, quiet and patient—waiting. Ambition. Not loud or reckless, but focused.
He had limits. Rules he followed. Lines he didn't cross.
But that could change.
The puppet tilted its head, limbs creaking faintly as it shifted, face still locked in that unnatural smile.
The girl was with him now. Not a threat—not yet. But there was something in her eyes too. That cold determination of someone who had lost everything and hadn't let go of the anger.
The puppet's lip twitched.
They were growing stronger.
It needed to know how strong.
It leaned forward just slightly… then froze.
Vergil had stepped outside. His gaze turned toward the trees, sharp and searching. His eyes narrowed. He felt it. Somehow, he knew.
A low hiss, breathless and guttural, slipped from the puppet's throat.
It didn't move.
Then, all at once, it collapsed—flesh sloughing from bone, limbs folding inward like a dying insect. The face, that grotesque mockery of Vergil, melted into the dirt, leaving behind nothing but a stain and the faint scent of rot.
The woods fell quiet again.
But the thing hadn't gone far.
It had seen his face.
And next time, it might wear it a little better.