My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 595

595: Suits 595: Suits The main hall was silent, except for the subtle, almost hypnotic sound of the runes floating around the celestial tailor.

The lights emanating from them reflected on the walls, creating ephemeral patterns that seemed to dance along with the cold gleam of the being’s golden eyes.

Vergil remained motionless, although his expression made it clear how much the situation annoyed him.

He had never been a man of superficial vanities-but Sepphirothy had insisted so much that ignoring the matter would be worse than giving in.

The tailor approached, moving as if gliding across the floor.

Each step was accompanied by a slight ripple in the air, as if gravity simply dared not touch him.

“Stand straight… that’s right, perfect,” the tailor murmured, as the living measuring tape began to measure the length of Vergil’s shoulders, then his chest, waist, and arm.

The runes aligned like constellations, rotating around his body with absurd precision.

Ada watched from a distance, smiling slightly.

“It seems even the universe bows to take your measurements, Vergil.” He gave her a sidelong glance.

“And yet, none of this seems worthy of my time.” The tailor chuckled softly-a musical, weightless, almost provocative laugh.

“Worthy or not, my dear, it will be the suit that will mark the name ‘Vergil’ among the planes.

And trust me…” he snapped his fingers, and fabrics began to appear out of nowhere “…this is something that requires art.” The fabric that appeared before them did not seem ordinary.

It was dark blue, deep as the sky between two thunderstorms, and reflected the light in a subtle, almost living way.

If you looked at it for too long, it seemed as if the blue moved-as if an ocean of shadows flowed beneath its surface.

“Stellar Velarium,” the tailor explained, with a certain pride.

“Made with silk woven on the banks of the River Styx.

No mortal has ever touched this fabric.

It changes shade according to the energy of the wearer.” Ada raised an eyebrow.

“So… this suit will glow when he gets angry?” “Something like that,” the tailor replied with an enigmatic smile.

“But don’t worry.

He doesn’t need to shout to be noticed.” Vergil looked at the fabric attentively.

The color-a deep blue with silver reflections-reminded him of the gleam of Yamato under the moonlight.

Discreet, lethal, elegant.

“Continue,” he finally said, in a low voice.

The tailor nodded and began to work.

With a movement of his hand, the runes began to spin around the fabric, cutting it on their own with divine precision.

Each line traced in the air emitted a thin sound, similar to that of a blade cutting through the wind.

The pieces of the suit floated, assembling themselves in the space before Vergil like a puzzle of pure harmony.

“I want something that carries his essence,” the tailor murmured, more to himself than to him.

“Cold.

Restrained.

Dangerous.” Ada chuckled softly.

“So basically: him.” Vergil remained motionless, but the corner of his mouth lifted imperceptibly.

“Don’t exaggerate, Ada.

I know how to be sociable when I need to be.” “I doubt it,” she retorted, amused.

The tailor ignored the exchange and, with a gesture, made silver lines appear that began to embroider the coat.

The lines resembled ancient runes, almost imperceptible at first glance, but which, under a certain light, revealed shapes similar to the wings of a dragon.

“These inscriptions serve to stabilize the energy flow,” the tailor explained, as he worked.

“But they also have… an aesthetic value.” Vergil watched in silence, his eyes following the delicate movement of the lines intertwining through the fabric.

The blue seemed darker now-almost black in the center, with subtle veins of shimmering silver that moved with his breath.

“It’s not just a suit,” said the tailor, his voice now lower, reverent.

“It’s armor made for one who walks between light and darkness.” Ada smiled.

“It sounds poetic… too much so.” “Because it is,” the tailor replied, without losing his tone.

“Poetry is what remains when even the gods lose their words.” Vergil let out a soft sigh.

“I just hope it’s not uncomfortable.” The tailor looked up, almost theatrically offended.

“Please.

This garment molds itself to the soul of the one who wears it.

If you feel discomfort… it is your own guilt that troubles you.” Ada laughed aloud this time, and even Vergil let out a brief and rare smile.

Hours passed in concentrated silence.

The tailor moved his hands like a conductor, and the suit took shape in the air, sewn with threads of pure energy.

The jacket was long-cut, slightly fitted, with subtle silver details on the edges-an echo of the old style that Vergil had always preferred.

The inner lining was black as obsidian, but, under the light, it revealed almost imperceptible designs: demonic and celestial symbols intertwined, in perfect balance.

The vest, in turn, was a slightly lighter shade of blue, enhanced by a texture that resembled dragon scales.

Silver buttons, engraved with tiny runes, seemed to pulse faintly to the touch.

The gloves-made of hardened celestial leather-were black, with blue threads in the seams.

And the impeccably tailored trousers completed the ensemble with an almost menacing elegance.

Finally, the tailor extended his hand and one last detail appeared: a long, grayish-blue cloak, so light that it floated like mist.

Its interior was silver, and etched into it with a subtle sheen were lines that mimicked unfurled wings.

“For a king who walks between chaos and order,” said the tailor, in an almost solemn tone.

“The veil of one who belongs to neither side.” Vergil remained silent.

His fingers touched the fabric-cold, dense, and incredibly light.

A kind of silent power seemed to pulse there, synchronized with his own rhythm.

“Put it on,” the tailor requested.

He did.

And for a moment, the world seemed to fall silent.

The blue of the suit molded to him as if it had been a part of his body forever.

The silver lines gleamed for an instant, like thunder contained in silk.

His white hair contrasted perfectly with the dark fabric, and his cold gaze completed the figure of a man who seemed to have stepped out of an ancient era-a warrior who never needed to raise his voice to command the room.

Ada looked at him, genuinely impressed.

“Okay… I have to admit.

You look… absurdly imposing.” Vergil adjusted his collar, glancing at himself in the mirror.

“Hmph.

I admit it’s not in bad taste.” The tailor smiled, satisfied.

“No god would dare not look when you enter that hall.” Vergil looked at him with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“What if they stare too much?” The tailor simply smiled.

“Then it will be their fault for not looking away in time.” Ada crossed her arms, still observing him.

“You look like a walking throne.

I think even Sepphirothy will approve.” Vergil shrugged.

“Her opinion is irrelevant.” “Of course it is,” Ada replied, smiling, “that’s why you agreed to wear the suit she had made.” He ignored the provocation.

He ran his fingers along the hem of the coat, testing the weight.

“Light enough to move freely,” he murmured, “but sturdy.

Excellent work.” The tailor bowed slightly, in an almost reverential gesture.

“Tailor-made for a king between hell and heaven.” Vergil turned, and the cape floated behind him like a living shadow.

For a brief moment, it seemed as if the entire hall breathed with him-and even the air seemed to hesitate to move.

“So,” he said, his voice cold and firm, “I think I’m ready for this damned event.” Ada smiled.

“Ready to cause a scandal, you mean.” Vergil adjusted his gloves, and the soft sound of the leather adjusting echoed in the air.

“Perhaps,” he said, with an almost imperceptible smile.

“But at least I’ll do it in style.” The silence that followed was interrupted by the soft echo of Sepphirothy’s footsteps in the corridor-a sound that, somehow, always seemed to be preceded by an almost imperceptible shiver in the air.

The door opened unhurriedly, and she entered, with the same air of someone who already knew what she would find.

Her eyes swept across the hall and, when they landed on Vergil, the slight smile she wore widened subtly, controlled, but genuinely pleased.

“So the tailor didn’t exaggerate…” she murmured.

“You really look like someone who could set an entire council on fire just by walking in.” Vergil turned, his cape fluttering slightly with the movement.

“I hope the event doesn’t require anything more than this.

I don’t intend to exert myself more than necessary.” “Oh, it will,” Sepphirothy walked towards him, her posture impeccable, her silver hair flowing over her shoulders.

“These gatherings are designed to measure egos, not strength.

But, of course, when the ego is strong enough to break the ceiling, like yours…” – she looked him up and down, assessing every detail of his attire – “…the strength comes with it.” Vergil gave a half-smile, returning his gaze to the mirror.

“He did what he had to do.

And he did it well.” Sepphirothy approached until she was a few steps away from him.

“The suit suits you.

Deep blue, cold and impossible to ignore… like an abyss disguised as a man.” Ada smiled, shaking her head.

“Always poetic, aren’t you?” “Poetic enough to survive among monsters,” Sepphirothy retorted, without taking her eyes off Vergil.

“And to recognize another when I see one.” Vergil turned completely to face her, his gaze impassive – but there was a contained spark there, almost imperceptible.

“Is the show over, or are there more rehearsals of metaphors before we go?” Sepphirothy let out a low, brief laugh.

“No spectacle.

Just a statement of fact: you’re going to be the center of it all, whether you like it or not.

The archangels will observe.

The gods will pretend not to look.

And the demons… they will feel fear.” Vergil ran a hand over the collar of his jacket and replied calmly: “Then they will react exactly as I expected.” Ada laughed.

“You’re going to have fun, I can feel it.”