Even up here, the bullets did not cease. As round after round pierced his skin, he gripped the handle of the Yamato and sheathed it where it belonged. It was time to end this farce.

Concentrate. Even as the skin is flayed and the bone is crushed, concentrate. Wounds are nothing to a Son of Sparda.

“Die.”

Vergil unsheathed his blade. The room ruptured and cracked. Fragments of reality slid out of place in the kaleidoscopic fracture. The bullets ceased firing. All was quiet, save for the melodious sound of metal sliding back into its sheath. Vergil slowly lowered the blade until the tsuka tapped against the opening.

The walls came crumbling down. Hundreds of machine guns, now halved, fell in an avalanche of steel. Vergil picked up Dr. Kratos and healed his wounds as he observed the change in scenery. The walls were hollow. Acheron blood spurted from the severed pipework and spilled to the ground. All the way down, and just ahead, a single metal door stood. The way out.

- Ragnarust Round 3