[Nero getting a strike past Vergil's guard is not an unheard of thing. Nero is better than he tends to give himself credit for when it comes to their sparring. His instincts over the past few months seem to be improving as he's gotten to know more of Vergil's technique. He still isn't able to read Vergil as well as Dante, but that's the decades of their combined experience and the connection between twin brothers at play more than some deficit in Nero being reflected. It's also not even all that unusual for his strikes to knock Vergil towards the ground. Vergil is just so quick to catch himself that he's on his feet and striking back before Nero can have the opportunity to gloat in the moment about getting a hit in on his old man.]
[So, it's not the hit or the trajectory, but rather that lack of response that stands out as unusual. Vergil's world spins with the strike and while he does not end up face-first in the dirt—he has enough in him to at least still land comfortably—he does not surge forward and retaliate. Vergil blinks at Nero instead, waiting for the vertigo to pass. They've been at it for a while now, but he breathes a little harder and harsher. It's not quite as though he's out of breath or thoroughly exhausted, but training with Nero usually leaves him relatively physically unaffected by its end most days.]
So much for pulling your punches... [he mutters to himself. The ground still appears to be swaying, but Vergil simply uses Yamato to keep himself steadier when he rises back to his feet. Standing does not alleviate the lightheaded sensation, but he does not begin to sway or wobble when he opts to sheathe his blade for the moment. Vergil puts a hand to his forehead, bowing his head a little as he squeezes his eyes shut to remove the visual input out of the equation. He masks the move by running his hand through his hair, pretending to return any loosened strands back where they belong.] Not bad, but I won't let you do that again.
when this dumbass starts to get sick
[So, it's not the hit or the trajectory, but rather that lack of response that stands out as unusual. Vergil's world spins with the strike and while he does not end up face-first in the dirt—he has enough in him to at least still land comfortably—he does not surge forward and retaliate. Vergil blinks at Nero instead, waiting for the vertigo to pass. They've been at it for a while now, but he breathes a little harder and harsher. It's not quite as though he's out of breath or thoroughly exhausted, but training with Nero usually leaves him relatively physically unaffected by its end most days.]
So much for pulling your punches... [he mutters to himself. The ground still appears to be swaying, but Vergil simply uses Yamato to keep himself steadier when he rises back to his feet. Standing does not alleviate the lightheaded sensation, but he does not begin to sway or wobble when he opts to sheathe his blade for the moment. Vergil puts a hand to his forehead, bowing his head a little as he squeezes his eyes shut to remove the visual input out of the equation. He masks the move by running his hand through his hair, pretending to return any loosened strands back where they belong.] Not bad, but I won't let you do that again.