The silence that followed Vergil’s explanation wasn’t immediate, nor simple. It settled in gradually, like something seeping between the layers of that temple already saturated with tension, filling every empty space with a weight that didn’t come from the environment... but from the decision that needed to be made.

Freyja didn’t respond immediately, and for the first time since they had arrived, she looked away.

Not out of weakness, nor evasion, but because this wasn’t something that could be decided by facing another person. This required something deeper. More honest. More... solitary.

Her eyes slowly closed.

And the world around her seemed to recede.

Not completely, because the impacts of the fight still reverberated through the temple’s structures, making the columns vibrate, the air oscillate, and the invisible chains that bound her react to every external distortion. But, for her... that began to lose importance. Because, for the first time in thousands of years, imprisonment wasn’t the immediate problem.

It was the choice.

Time.

She had lost track of it long ago.

Days, years, centuries... everything had dissolved into an endless sequence of motionless existence, conscious but incapable of action.

She had tried to count. She had tried to stay lucid through references.

She had tried to maintain some kind of solid identity over time. But eventually... it failed. Because there was no variation. There was no change. There was nothing that allowed time to be perceived as something progressive.

It was just... continuous existence.

And within that existence— She had been many things.

Goddess. Queen. Valkyrie. Symbol... But now? What was she now? The question didn’t come laden with drama... It came... empty.

Because the answer no longer existed.

"Goddess..." The word surfaced in her mind like a distant echo, something that once carried meaning, weight, identity.

Something that defined not only her position, but her function within the structure of the world. Sex. Lust. Beauty. Magic. War. Death. Broad, powerful, interconnected concepts that shaped not only how others perceived her... but the very role she played.

She had been all of that.

She had been desired... feared... adored... respected... But... was that still true?

Her thoughts deepened, not seeking external answers, but confronting what remained within her. Because the seal had not merely contained her body. It had limited her influence. Her reach. Her ability to act upon what she represented. And as time passed...

These concepts ceased to resonate with her.

The world continued.

Lust never ceased to exist. Beauty continued to be desired, worshipped, pursued. War persisted, repeating itself in endless cycles, and death... death never needed permission to continue its course. Everything that once defined her name, her domain, her very existence, moved on—complete, functional, indifferent.

Without her.

Freyja no longer influenced. She didn’t guide. She didn’t mold. She wasn’t needed. And, faced with this inevitable realization, the question arose not as an emotional collapse, but as a logical, inevitable, almost belated conclusion: what, after all, still remained of her within all of that?

The answer came simply. Directly. Irrefutable.

Nothing.

She was no longer the goddess of that. She was merely someone who once was—a title that continued to exist only through insistence, not truth. And, contrary to what it should have, this realization brought no pain. There was no revolt, no lament. It brought only... clarity. A cold, clean lucidity that dissolved any remaining attachment.

"...why...", the thought arose slowly, without urgency, "...do I still want to be a goddess?"

There was no despair in this question. No sadness. Only logic. If that which defined her existence was no longer exercised, then maintaining that identity was nothing more than clinging to something that had already ceased to exist. And Freyja wasn’t one to cling to illusions.

Her eyes opened again, and the temple once more imposed itself around her with all its suffocating presence—the constant vibrations, the distant echoes of the confrontation, the structure that had held her captive for so long. But now, there was a subtle and definitive difference: her gaze no longer carried doubt. Nor resistance. Nor that diffuse hesitation that had previously held her captive as much as the seal itself.

Now there was direction.

She focused on Vergil, no longer as someone evaluating possibilities, but as someone who had already made a decision and only needed to confirm the final terms. Her voice, when it came, was firm, direct, cutting through the atmosphere effortlessly, without carrying more weight than necessary.

"...I just want to know one thing. If I accept this... will I have free will?"

There were no hidden layers to the question. No games. No attempt to soften what truly mattered. After millennia trapped, reduced, limited to an existence she hadn’t chosen, all that remained of value was simple: freedom.

Vergil didn’t answer immediately, but not out of hesitation. He observed her in silence, understanding not only the words, but the absolute weight behind them. This wasn’t a common negotiation. It was the complete reconstruction of an existence. And that demanded precision.

"Yes," she finally answered, calmly and firmly, without any ambiguity. Her eyes didn’t waver, and her voice didn’t falter as she continued: "I will not impose my desires on you. I will not control you, nor limit you, nor interfere in your choices."

There was a brief pause, not of doubt, but of intention.

"...but you will be mine."

The phrase didn’t come as a threat, nor as an aggressive imposition. It came as an absolute fact, without need for embellishment or justification. There was no attempt to soften the blow, because it wasn’t negotiable—it was part of the very nature of what he was offering.

The silence that followed wasn’t one of shock. Freyja didn’t recoil, didn’t show resistance. She understood. Not as submission, but as belonging within a new structure—one that, unlike the previous one, existed by choice.

Her eyes remained on his for a few more seconds, evaluating, weighing, confirming. And then, without any trace of hesitation, she nodded.

"All right," she said.

Simple, direct, final—and yet, within that answer there was more freedom than anything she had experienced in thousands of years.

Vergil showed no surprise or any visible satisfaction; he simply accepted, like someone who had already expected that outcome. A slight movement of his head was enough to end that stage, and his posture changed almost imperceptibly. The conversation was over. There was no more negotiation, no room for doubt. Only execution remained.

"Then I’ll kill you," he said, with the same nonchalance as someone describing an inevitable procedure, his voice devoid of emotion, weight, or hesitation. His eyes remained fixed on hers as he continued, ensuring that every word was understood with absolute clarity. "I’ll intercept your soul before it’s pulled into the system... and restructure you as a demon. A new existence."

Freyja listened without interrupting, without questioning, because there was nothing left to ask. The decision had been made, and, almost paradoxically, there was no fear within her. Death was not something unknown—she had witnessed it, manipulated it, understood it in countless forms throughout her existence—but this was different. For the first time, it was not an imposed destiny, nor an inevitable consequence.

It was a choice.

And in that, a strange, almost silent peace settled in her body and mind. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and even though she was trapped, her presence seemed lighter, as if something that had kept her tense for ages had finally been released. "I am ready."

Vergil simply nodded.

There were no further words, nor any attempt to prolong the moment. Everything that needed to be said... had already been said. The decision was made, the terms were clear, and any delay from then on would be... unnecessary. Her hand moved naturally to the hilt of Yamato, and the sound of the blade being partially released from its sheath echoed through the temple with almost silent precision, as if even the space itself recognized the purpose of that gesture.

Freyja did not recoil.

She did not hesitate.

Her eyes remained on him, steady, calm, free from any trace of doubt. For the first time in countless ages, there was no tension in her presence. There was no resistance. Only... acceptance.

And then—The world interfered.

Heimdall appeared.

There was no warning, no perceptible transition. One instant he was gone, and the next, his blade was already cutting through space toward Vergil, carrying enough speed and precision to pierce through any distraction, any carelessness. It was a direct attack, calculated to interrupt that very moment.

But it didn’t arrive.

Vergil didn’t dodge.

He didn’t retreat.

He didn’t even change his stance.

His hand rose slightly, and with a gesture so simple it bordered on the absurd, he intercepted Heimdall’s blade... with a single finger.

The sound of the impact was dry.

Wrong.

As if something that should have happened simply... wasn’t allowed to materialize.

The sword stopped.

Completely.

Inches from his body.

And Heimdall—

froze.

His eyes widened, not from immediate fear, but from something far rarer for someone like him: incomprehension. He saw. He anticipated. He executed. Everything happened exactly as it should have.

And yet—

It was useless.

Vergil tilted his head slightly, looking at the blade resting against his finger with an almost palpable disinterest before raising his gaze directly to Heimdall.

"...you’re quite arrogant," he said, his voice low, calm, as if commenting on something trivial.

That... broke something.

Because there was no effort.

No tension.

Not even a real recognition of that attack as a threat.

And then—

Sapphire appeared.

Without warning.

Without prior presence.

She simply appeared beside Heimdall, so close that he didn’t even have time to react, her hand already firmly encircling his head before any thought could form.

"Coward," she said, her voice laden with an almost amused contempt, as if it were more inconvenient than dangerous. "Running away like that?"

Heimdall tried to react.

Tried to anticipate. She tried to act before she completed the movement—

But there was no "before."

For her, it had already happened.

"Allfather’s little puppy..." Sapphire continued, tilting her head slightly, her fingers tightening a little more, not enough to crush him, but enough to make clear the absolute control she had over him. "...you don’t have that right."

And then—

She threw him.

Without apparent effort.

Heimdall’s body was hurled through the temple as if weightless, traversing the space in a straight line until it violently collided with one of the distant pillars. The impact reverberated through the structure, cracks spreading across the surface of the column as he was embedded in it for a brief instant before falling.

Sapphire sighed.

Lightly.

Almost bored.

"And I’m not even using my powers," she commented, running a hand through her hair as if genuinely disappointed. His gaze briefly returned to him, still fallen among the wreckage. "The great herald of Odin... and you’re just a useless idiot who doesn’t know how to fight."

There was no reply.

Vergil sighed. But why this... had already lasted longer than it needed to... His gaze returned to Freyja.

And this time— There were no more interruptions.

He raised his hand slightly.

A simple gesture.

A sign.

Freyja understood.

Her lips moved in a final echo of something that no longer carried weight, but rather... a promise.

"See you later, master."

Vergil pulled Yamato.

The cut was single.

Precise.

Absolute.

There was no resistance.

There was no pain.

The blade pierced not only the body, but the very concept that held him there, separating Freyja from that state of existence with a perfection that left no room for flaws.

And then—

She was no longer there.