Rebirth-Transcending All Beings

The sun had begun to set, the last rays of light pierced the veil of dusk, paving the way for nightfall. The training ground beneath was now filled with a twilight glow, the dirt ground had long since become uneven — but alive. Two figures still moved across it. Fighting for what seemed like forever.

Not out of hatred, or vengeance but something they both felt in their veins.

Joy.

The pleasure rooted itself deep within. They didn’t care about victory or even proving themselves — as if they learned about each other from combat instead of words.

They danced. Flesh against flesh. Bone against bone. A rhythm made not of music, but of contact and breath.

They swung with the desperation of survival, fists whipping through the air. Fast, sudden, uncalculated. There was no form. They had run out of energy long ago to even think.

They followed only one thing. The primal knowledge carved into their bodies from instinct.

The body moved and the body remembers.

One ducked, the other twisted. A fist struck a jaw, another caught the ribs. A body reeled then responded.

Their feet stamped the ground, kicking up dust. They pivoted, stumbled, collided, and then struck again. Blood spilled freely, painting their bodies in crimson.

The sun sank lower, the last strands of light thinned as shadows overtook the grounds, yet the two moved through the dark like nocturnal beasts.

One grinned — lips split, teeth stained red. The other mirrored it in a shared play of madness and understanding.

Each punch was a word, every dodge, a reply, and every bruise was a new connection between them.

One figure struck the other in the gut, the strike landing with a deep thud, lifting the opponent half a step from the ground. Air burst out from their lungs. The figure staggered, hands rising once more to swing — a blind hook to the side of the skull.

They fell together, hitting the ground. One rolled slightly before they scrambled back up once more, chests rising with ragged breaths.

Then back in again.

A punch to the cheek. Blood.

A kick to the thigh. A grunt.

An elbow to the mouth. A laugh.

What remained of their techniques — their guards, and footwork — ceased to exist, dissipating into the darkness.

They stood tall. The thrill of battle had kept them standing.

The wind howled in on the open land. Brushing the two figures with a mighty gust, their hair shifting with the wind.

One figure moved in slowly, the other took in deep breaths. The world around them had vanished, the only thing that they saw now was each other.

Another blow, this one from below. An uppercut that snapped the head back. The figure stumbled, legs buckled.

A monent of pause.

One figure dropped to a knee. Exhaustion had taken over. But even then, a smile still clung to his face.

A smear of blood curled at the corner of his lip.

Then came the hand.

Not to help.

Not to end it.

But to punch again.

The kneeling figure caught it. Fumbled, then rose with a war cry, tackling each other, rolling across the dirt ground. Fingers dug into the dirt, blood mixed with sweat as muscles screamed in agony. But they kept rising. Again and again.

The sky darkened further. The hue of the sun had almost disappeared. One final golden sliver remained, enough for one last bout.

Their punches had slowed considerably — they were heavier, sluggish. Each one was less of an attack and more of a memory of what one looked like.

Faces swollen, noses broken, clouded eyes. But a smile always formed in their faces.

One final punch landed squarely against a cheek. The figure staggered, another hit to the temple. Legs wobbled. A third, slow and clumsy caught the chin.

That was it.

One figure dropped head on, finding peace within the ground.

The other stood for a moment longer, shoulders heaving and hands trembling. Blood dripped from their knuckles as they too swayed, falling backwards.

And then there was stillness.

The dust finally began to settle around them, the suns final strand brushed their forms with a faint amber glow, finally giving way for starry night.

There was no victory here. No loser. Two bodies, equal in both exhaustion and joy.

Breathing hard. Eyes closed. Faces bruised.

One of them chuckled—a sound barely more than breath.

"...Again," Ray rasped.

"I can’t go any longer, you bastard." Vergil breathed. "You played dirty."

"You’re just being a sore loser."

A faint smirk curled on Vergil’s lips. "Says you, we’re both down."

The two remained sprawled across the dry earth of Training Ground Seven, bodies soaked in sweat, garments ripped and stained with the blood of both. Above them the pale moon began to rise, bathing them in a ghostly pale light.

They had fought since afternoon. Clashing for what seemed like forever, and though they took breaks, it wasn’t enough to satisfy them.

Vergil’s chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm. Each breath came with a sting, as though his lungs had turned against him. His body screamed for rest. The slow regeneration of his wounds eased the pain before they started rapidly closing.

[Regeneration Factor has been activated.]

That feels much better.

"You good over there?" Vergil called out with a ragged breath.

Vergil’s wounds had begun to heal from his divine energy. He had learned that he could control when the skill was activated, and it couldn’t be sensed by anyone.

Though it doesn’t affect my stamina.

A few metres away, a faint reply. "I’m still here."

Ray’s voice was quiet, barely above the whisper of breeze. Not lifeless—just spent.

The silence returned. A calm after the thunderstorm. The only sound now was the rustling of leaves in the distance as the wind weaving through the night.

Vergil chuckled softly. Even that small motion sent a pang through his limbs. He titled his head slightly, strands of his hair falling over his eyes, darkened by sweat and dirt.

"You held back on me, you idiot. " he murmured, eyes scanning the stars above. "Didn’t you?"

A small scoff answered him. "That’s because you used your fists."

Vergil laughed again, the sound rough but genuine.

Ray didn’t have the energy to laugh, his body ached in places he didn’t know. His shoulders screamed from the countless swings. His fingers had long since become numb.

The pristine pole now lay somewhere between them, resting. "So why did you call me?" Ray asked.

Vergil smiled. "So now you ask, huh."

He paused, pulling himself to sit straight on the ground. Vergil recalled the beginning of the battle, when Ray fought with his spear. It was unique, a dance of fluid brutality that moved like a cresting wave only to crash down with explosive force.

"I thought this would be the way for us to understand each other." Vergil exhaled. "And, I wanted to experience your fighting style."

"Were you impressed?"

"If I had to say it, your Spearmanship was amazing."

Ray blinked, his fingers twitching slightly at the word.

Beautiful.

There was only one person who had never berated him for learning the spear, and even then, the voices kept coming back. For another to call it beautiful, a smile formed on his face.

Ray didn’t speak right away, his ashen hair shimmered underneath the pale moonlight, his eyes locking onto the moon.

"Thanks, it’s nice to hear such words from a guy like you." He whispered with a smile.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing." He chuckled. "Nothing."

Vergil turned his head, watching his expression. He knew what he needed to do to achieve his absurd goal — and to do that, he needed to become as strong as possible.

He knew that martial arts was something that could be improved, but he didn’t want to limit his options early on. Especially if he wanted to use his mother’s weapon one day in the future.

"Then," he asked calmly. "Would you teach me how to use the spear?"

The question hung in the air. It was a stupid one to ask in fact. Why ask a student to teach you instead of a teacher?

To Vergil, it was a simple.

He wanted to learn the basics. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Soon his schedule will be filled and he will have almost no free time. So he would learn from Ray with whatever free time he had.

Ray didn’t answer right away, taking in a deep breath before tilting his head towards Vergil. "What’s your goal in this? You could’ve just put spearmanship down as what you wanted to learn."

"Instead of just asking me." He added.

’Not bad Ray, not bad,’ Vergil thought, recalling Ray’s personality. Just because he was one of the individuals who could reach the peak doesn’t mean he is talented in everything.

He needed him to think for himself — even if it meant that one day that very spear would aim for his throat.

In his eyes, it was worth the risk!

"Before I even came here," his voice almost caught in his throat. "I wanted to be strong. But then a person came along and changed my view."

He paused.

"Know, I wish to be happy." He confessed. His two desires clashed. One born from obsession and madness, the other born from love. Yet, they were both true to his nature.

"If I want to be happy, I’ll have to forsake being the strongest, but if I want to be the strongest, I must forsake my happiness."

"But I want both."

Ray studied him, neither mocking him nor questioning him.

"The person who changed you must be very special to you."

"Special huh," he murmured. "I wouldn’t say that, it’s more like a dream that I can’t forget."

"How about this," Ray said suddenly. "Let’s make a deal."

"I’m listening."

"I’ll do my best to teach you the spear. Honestly, I don’t know if I am worthy, but I’ll do it."

"But you have to promise to be friends with me no matter what happens, and to back me up if I ever ask for help."

"You trust a promise?"

"If it’s you, then I can trust you with my life," Ray smirked.

"You make me want to see how far I can push this. You better not regret it, my knight."

"At least pay me for overtime." Ray chuckled.

Vergil didn’t hesitate, he lifted his healing body off the ground with one fist, muscles trembling with effort as he rose — slowly walking towards Ray.

He stretched his arm out. "You have yourself a deal," Vergil spoke with a grin. "And even better. A promise."

Ray turned his head fully, his arm moving slowly toward tap gently against Vergil’s hand in a tired fist bump.

The light of the moon now began shining from its highest point, the stars illuminating the dark with a cheerful glow as they accompanied the moon.

Ray’s arms dropped to the floor, spreading themselves like wings. "How are we getting back to the dorms? He rasped.

"Guess I just have to carry you." Vergil rolled his shoulder, moving to pick up the fallen boy and lean him against his shoulder.

Ray watched in silence. His eyes flickered in disbelief. He carefully looked at the cuts of cloth where there should have been wounds.

None. Nothing, as if the damage was never there in the first place. He could see he was breathing heavily but injuries like his would take days to heal without going to the infirmary or a priest — maybe even an artefact.

"Let’s get you to the infirmary first," Vergil intruded. "You can’t go back like this."

"Says you. I won."

"If someone saw us, they would assume I would win."

"Wanna call it a tie?"

"Whatever you say. Whatever you say."

[User’s relationship with Ray has increased to rank 1]

[Spearmanship lessons have been gained]

[User can ask Ray to teach him the way of the spear]