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... psychic energy as Spectre descended. Not as a warrior. Not as a god.
But as a sentence.
A liquid shadow in freefall, swirling in incomprehensible spirals, as if the very concept of form was being shredded and rebuilt with every millisecond. Spectre didn't have a body—he had an intention. A stain on the fabric of reality. A mistake that should never have existed.
Vergil didn't wait.
He didn't need to.
The world around him was unraveling, but within that cha ...
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