My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 592

592: Blasphemy 592: Blasphemy He said with a smile, then looked at Gabriel.

“After all, now they probably think angels are just humanoid pigeons.” The provocation cut through the air; Gabriel’s face paled, and anger rose slowly, almost uncontrollably, shooting through his angelic features like fire.

His fingers clenched, his jaw trembling.

“How dare you,” she stammered, her authority wavering between indignation and the need to maintain composure.

Vergil didn’t give her time.

He raised his hand in a sharp, cutting gesture that stifled any rhetoric.

“Shut up.” The order came out low, without a trace of humor.

“Enough theatrics.

Tell me what Heavenly Father really wants here.

This talk about ‘establishing a good relationship’ doesn’t fly with me.

I want facts, not euphemisms.” Gabriel took a deep breath, trying to regain control of his voice, but Vergil didn’t give him time to respond.

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze still fixed on her-no anger, only a cold, calculated calm.

“I understand…” he began, his tone more measured, but without losing its firmness.

“That Lucifer has caused so much trouble.

That his rebellion has left wounds that still burn in the heart of the heavens.” He paused briefly, his gaze dropping to the glass before him.

The crimson reflection of the wine seemed to dance on the rim of his fingers.

“But I am not Lucifer.” His voice was firm, almost solemn.

“I have no interest in waging a heavenly war, nor in repeating the same stupid cycle of pride and revenge that nearly destroyed both sides.” He raised his eyes again, and there was something different in them-a disarming, rare honesty.

“I just want to live the life I’ve earned,” he said calmly.

“A healthy, long… and happy life.

With my wives, with the people I chose to protect.” Those words sounded simple, but carried a silent weight.

Even Gabriel, still irritated, felt the strange sincerity in that tone-the kind of truth one wouldn’t expect to hear from a demon.

Vergil laced his fingers together, leaning his elbows on the table.

“I don’t need to worry about the intrigues of the underworld,” he continued.

“Hell can devour itself, as it always has.

It’s not my problem anymore.” Then a faint smile curved his lips.

It wasn’t arrogant or cruel, just…

resolute.

“Unlike Lucifer, I’ve learned that power is worthless if the price is peace itself.” He inclined his head slightly.

“And so, Gabriel…

you can tell your Father that I, Vergil, would never start another celestial war.” The silence that followed felt almost sacred.

Even Sepphirothy, leaning against the wall, looked away-there was something uncomfortable about seeing a being like Vergil speak of peace with such conviction.

Gabriel, for his part, remained motionless.

For a moment, his anger gave way to a mixture of surprise and… doubt.

Gabriel finally spoke, his voice choked with a mixture of rage and helplessness.

“I… I didn’t come here for this,” he said, breathing heavily.

“I didn’t come to hear sermons about peace or to be insulted like some commoner.” Her eyes, once filled with heavenly light, were now shadowed with discomfort.

She clasped her hands in her lap, her wings trembling slightly behind her-not from fear, but from confusion.

“I don’t understand either,” she continued, lowering her tone.

“I don’t understand why I was given this order.

‘Meet Lucifer’s grandson.’ That’s what they told me.

No explanation, no clear purpose.

And yet here I am… being insulted, humiliated, treated as if my presence were an affront.” Vergil watched her silently for a few seconds.

His gaze was no longer hostile-there was something deeper there, as if he were trying to understand the creature before him.

Then he tilted his head slightly to the side, the smile returning, restrained.

“Tell me, Gabriel.” His voice was soft, but there was a sharp edge to every syllable.

“Would you act normally if I told you that Miguel, Uriel, or any other name with an “el” at the end was a pet?” The air seemed to freeze between them.

Gabriel looked up, surprised by the question, and answered without hesitation: “No…” she murmured.

“I wouldn’t.” Vergil smiled-a short smile, not cruel, but loaded with meaning.

“Exactly,” he said, leaning back again.

“So now you understand why your words carried the same weight here.” His tone was calm, almost professorial.

But there was something firm, almost paternal, in the way he looked at her.

“It’s not about what you said,” he continued.

“It’s about what this represents.

You came here carrying the weight of heaven, thinking you could measure the world with the ruler they gave you.

But you forgot that here, Gabriel, no one bows to anyone’s halo.” Gabriel kept her gaze fixed on Vergil, unsure if she felt shame or respect.

For the first time, she realized that this man-this “demon”-spoke with more humanity than many she had served in paradise.

Vergil clapped his hands once, the sound echoing dully through the hall.

“Okay, enough beating around the bush,” he said, leaning back in his chair, a dangerous smile spreading across his face.

“If the Celestial Old Man wants a grandson… I’m open to conversation.” Gabriel blinked, confused.

“What?” Vergil continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“But let him come in person, okay?

And please, without that bearded old man from a decaying temple look.” He gestured with one hand, as if shaping the air.

“I have enough to deal with the underworld, I don’t want a white-robed grandpa showing up in my living room too.” Sepphirothy raised a hand to his forehead, huffing.

“Here we go…” “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Vergil retorted, still smiling.

“Wukong once told me: ‘The gods have no gender, Vergil.

They are entities, not people.'” He shrugged.

“So, if that’s the case, let the Almighty use his creativity, right?

If he’s going to come talk to me, let him at least appear in a…

shall we say…

more pleasant form.” Gabriel stared at him with a mixture of shock and indignation.

“You’re mocking the Creator himself!” “Creator?” Vergil raised an eyebrow, his smile now almost charming.

“Oh, my dear, the Creator has ignored me for centuries.

If he wanted respect, he would have sent a letter before sending you.” Zex, who had been trying to contain her laughter until then, looked away so as not to be caught laughing.

Iridia covered her mouth, her eyes watering from holding back.

“I’m just being practical,” Vergil continued, as if explaining something obvious.

“If a genderless entity wants to negotiate, great.

But don’t show up here in the form of thunder, smoke, or a tired old man who looks like he just stepped out of a sermon.

Let him come with style, with presence, with something that says, ‘Hey, I’m the Almighty and I still know how to make an impact.'” Gabriel was stunned.

“That’s…

blasphemy.” “No,” he corrected, “that’s aesthetic sense.” Sepphirothy couldn’t help but chuckle, though she hid it behind her hand.

“You’re impossible, Vergil.” “I prefer the term ‘sincere.'” He stood up, pacing calmly around the room.

“Look, Gabe, think with me.

You guys up there are always talking about ‘divine manifestation,’ ‘forms comprehensible to the human eye,’ right?” She hesitated, confused by the direction of the conversation.

“Right…” “Then there.” Vergil spread his arms.

“If you’re going to talk, show up in a way that won’t make me doze off before the second sentence.” Wukong was right-he laughed.

“Gods are empty molds.

If you’re going to introduce yourself, show up with charisma, with class!” He stopped at the window, looking at the light rain falling outside.

The reflection showed him with a half smile-the one the ancients knew was a harbinger of chaos.

“After all,” he said, turning back, “if even I, a demon, can choose the form I want to present to the world…

why can’t the supreme God have a little taste?” Iridia and Zex exchanged glances.

Zex murmured softly, amused, “I think he just challenged the Creator to a beauty contest.” Gabriel, on the other hand, was red with anger.

“You…

you’re mocking the sacred!” Vergil just laughed, and the laugh was light, almost musical.

“No, my dear.

I’m mocking seriousness.

The sacred is one thing; the pomp you heap upon it is another.” He sat back down, crossing his legs and resting his chin on his hand.

“If the Creator wants to talk, let him come.

I don’t send messages, I don’t run away, I don’t deny dialogue.

But”-he paused and inclined his head slightly-“please come looking good.” Sepphirothy arched an eyebrow.

“Looking good?” “Of course.” Vergil smiled.

“If we’re going to discuss the fate of the worlds, let it be with style.

No thunder, no discordant voices echoing from beyond.

Just a pleasant presence, with light, harmony…

and a touch of good humor.” Gabriel seemed on the verge of collapse.

“You have no respect!” Vergil took a sip of his wine and looked at her calmly.

“I have respect.

For what is worthy.” His tone was soft now, but there was weight in every syllable.

“The problem is that heaven and hell have spent so much time trying to prove who is more ‘just’ that they’ve forgotten the reason existence began: freedom.” Gabriel, for the first time, didn’t answer.

There was anger, yes, but also confusion.

Vergil set his glass down on the table, never taking his eyes off her.

“Then tell the Old Man upstairs,” he said, the smile returning to his face.

“I have no problem talking.

But honestly?” If you’re going to show up, make sure you do it in a decent way.

Wukong already taught me that; he came as a hot blonde wearing a very flashy outfit.

Vergil paused.

“Let him do the same.

I hate dealing with men, talking to women is better.”