My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 605

Chapter 605: You messed with the wrong girl.
Brynhildr averted her gaze, her lips curving into a restrained smile—almost imperceptible, but laden with irony.

“Are you courting me, Demon King?” she asked, in a disbelieving, almost amused tone. It was hard to tell if she was mocking him or testing his audacity. Perhaps a little of both. In fact, if she stopped to think about it… perhaps it was the first time a man had actually dared to say something like that to her.

Vergil raised an eyebrow, keeping his gaze fixed on hers.

“I don’t know,” he replied with a slight smile. “Do you want to be courted?”

Brynhildr’s gaze held his for a moment—cold, inquisitive—until she let out a small sigh, swirling the glass of liqueur in her hand. The amber liquid swirled slowly, reflecting the bluish glow of the hall below.

“I feel you are more arrogant than I expected,” she said, and the comment came out so calmly that it sounded almost like a compliment.

“Arrogance?” Vergil replied, also looking down, following the movement of the competitors gathered in the great hall. “I would call it confidence.”

Brynhildr didn’t answer, only raised the glass and took a slow sip. Her attention drifted down to the lower floor, where the pairs from each pantheon were beginning to gather around Hades’ great throne.

Vergil followed her gaze, but the truth was, he cared little. None of it impressed him. The tournament, the spectacle, the alliances forged between gods and heroes—it all seemed to him just another piece on a predictable chessboard.

In that instant, the silence between them was comfortable. Brynhildr watched like a sentinel; Vergil, like someone who already knew the outcome before the first move.

He was not restless, not afraid. Because deep down, he knew—no matter who rose against him, the outcome would be the same. Some would call it arrogance. Vergil called it certainty.

He had his reasons.

The Yamato—his blade—rested dormant in his subspace, but pulsed with a power that could barely be contained. Its final form, the legendary Excalibur, was still hidden… and he knew that when he summoned it, the world around him would cease to exist for a brief moment.

Beyond that, there was the dark power he carried since absorbing Roxanne’s father—the title of Death Knight, etched into his soul like an eternal scar. The magic of death flowed in his veins like a second blood, silent and uncontrollable.

And if that wasn’t enough, his body continued to evolve. Every battle, every confrontation, every fusion made him something more—something that didn’t fit the rules of heaven or hell.

Half angel. Half demon. A living paradox.

Even if they used sacred energy against him, his hybrid nature made him resistant, almost immune. Divine power burned him, yes—but it also nourished him.

That’s why Vergil was calm.

There was no nervousness in his eyes, no tension in his shoulders. Just that calm and provocative air, as if he were in a game whose outcome he already knew by heart.

Because in the end… he knew who he was.

And, above all—he knew he was strong.

Brynhildr noticed this.

She glanced at him, observing his profile illuminated by the bluish torches of Erebus. There was something disconcerting about that man—something that mixed arrogance and peace, as if his very pride were a form of faith.

“You really believe that nothing here can defeat you, don’t you?” she asked, without irony this time.

Vergil didn’t avert his gaze from the hall.

“I don’t believe,” he replied. “I know.”

Brynhildr fell silent. For a moment, the warrior Valkyrie—accustomed to facing gods and judging souls—felt a shiver.

Because, for the first time in ages, she had encountered someone who spoke like a god… but wasn’t one.

And perhaps that was what made her unable to ignore him.

Vergil was about to respond to Brynhildr when a distant sound cut through the murmur of the hall—a muffled commotion coming from the floor below. He frowned.

“What’s going on down there?” he murmured.

Brynhildr looked down, but didn’t seem interested. “Probably just another drunk god causing a scene.” She took a sip from her goblet, indifferent.

But Vergil felt something different. A strange pang in his soul.

A primal instinct.

And then he heard it.

A scream.

Faint, but unmistakable.

“Help me!”

Ada’s voice.

For a single second, everything inside him stopped.

And in the next instant… the whole world seemed to react.

The air around Vergil began to vibrate, heavy, distorted. Spiritual pressure exploded from within his body like a storm contained for too long. The floor beneath his feet cracked. The marble darkened. The entire Erebus seemed to hold its breath.

Brynhildr, surprised, took a step back, her eyes widening as the surrounding environment turned black—not from the absence of light, but from the overwhelming presence of something beyond darkness.

It was his fury.

Pure. Silent. Lethal.

Vergil’s power leaked out like living smoke, rising in swirling eddies that distorted the air, sound, and even gravity. Gods and Valkyries on the second floor turned, alarmed—the kind of reaction one only has when someone outside the divine scale begins to lose control.

Brynhildr tried to say something, but Vergil had already disappeared.

He jumped from the balcony.

The impact of his landing echoed like muffled thunder. The ground cracked beneath his feet, fragments of stone and shadow scattering as the weight of his presence caused the torches to extinguish one by one.

In the middle of the hall, the gods recoiled. A circle formed.

And in the center…

Ada.

Her wrist was held by a tall man with golden hair and arrogant eyes—one of the gods of Olympus, surrounded by others who laughed, amused by her resistance.

But the laughter ceased when Vergil appeared.

Silence settled like a blade.

The spiritual pressure increased so much that the floor groaned, and the weaker gods instinctively recoiled. Even the shadows trembled.

Vergil walked slowly towards the group, without saying anything. Each step echoed heavily, resonating like a heartbeat in the air.

The god still held Ada, but his expression began to change—the divine instinct warning him that he had made a huge mistake.

“Your name, and your last words,” Vergil said, looking at him as if he were about to kill him instantly.

“Hah… last words?” he repeated, laughing. “You must be that demon they’ve been whispering about, aren’t you? Vergil, the insolent one. The guest who thinks he can walk among gods as if he were one of them.”

Vergil didn’t answer. He simply watched him, motionless. The pressure around him increased, slowly, suffocatingly—like the growing sound of thunder before a storm.

The man took another sip of wine and clicked his tongue, satisfied.

“I am Dionysus, the god of wine, madness, and ecstasy.” He raised his arms theatrically, as if presenting a spectacle. “And this little mortal here…” he pulled Ada back to him, making her stumble “…is now my companion for the night. You should be grateful, demon. It’s an honor to be ignored by me.”

A murmur ran through the hall. Some gods laughed nervously, others simply watched, anxious for what was to come. Brynhildr, still high on the balcony, crossed her arms, her gaze narrowing. She knew what was about to happen—and that there would be no turning back.

Ada tried to break free, her expression a mixture of anger and fear.

“Let go of me, you bastard!” she shouted, trying to pull away.

Dionysus chuckled, his breath smelling of strong wine.

“Calm down, my dear.” Dionysus held her chin, forcing Ada to look him in the eyes. His breath smelled of wine and arrogance.

“You don’t need to resist. I am a god…” he smiled broadly, intoxicated with himself “…and gods take what they want.”

The light in Vergil’s eyes simply extinguished.

It was as if all the light around him had been drained away.

There was no apparent fury left, no visible hatred—only an absolute, heavy, oppressive emptiness.

The kind of silence that makes even hell hold its breath.

He let out a slow sigh. The warm air escaping from his lips became visible—a white mist that contrasted with the cold surrounding him.

Ada, sensing the change, stopped struggling. Her heart raced, but her hands remained still.

She knew what that silence meant.

That calm…it wasn’t calm at all.

“Oh, damn…” she thought, her gaze fixed on Vergil. “He’s going to…he really is going to.”

Vergil raised his face, speaking in an almost casual tone, as if nothing were happening: “Wukong.”

From above, seated on her golden cloud that floated lazily through the air, the Monkey King raised an eyebrow.

“Yes?” she replied with her usual relaxed smile, the fan resting on her shoulder. “Speak.”

Vergil didn’t take his eyes off Dionysus.

His voice was low, soft…and yet it made the air vibrate.

“You warned me about him, right?” he said calmly. “So tell me…can you take responsibility for what I’m about to do?”

There was a brief silence.

The kind of pause that even the gods respect.

Wukong’s smile lessened for an instant—not from fear, but from anticipation.

She crossed her legs, observing him from above with eyes that twinkled like ancient stars.

“Hmm…” she murmured, thoughtfully. “There are no rules against it, actually.”

She twirled the fan between her fingers, as if it were just another game.

“Mortals and demigods are almost always underestimated,” she continued, her tone playful. “So there’s no formal punishment for what you’re about to do.”

Vergil tilted his head slightly, and a cold, joyless smile curved his lips.

Wukong then added, with a chuckle that echoed throughout the hall:

“Do as you please, my dear.”

She opened the fan in front of her face, her mischievous gaze peering from behind the shimmering gold.

“If there’s a problem, I’ll take responsibility. After all…” her voice rang with divine arrogance “…I am the strongest god here.”

The declaration reverberated in Erebus like muffled thunder, causing some gods to exchange tense glances. Even Shiva said nothing, despite disagreeing with the monkey.

And it was at that instant that Vergil’s aura changed.

The void around him distorted—and out of nowhere, the air became dense, suffocating, charged with a demonic presence so pure that it seemed to tear the fabric of reality.

The flames of the torches flickered and went out.

The ground cracked beneath his feet.

And where before there was only shadow, now there was horror.

An ancient, violent, and uncontrollable power emerged from him like a living wave—a force that didn’t even seem to belong to a rational being.

It was as if hell and heaven, for an instant, had bowed to watch.

Vergil took a step forward.

The sound of his boot impacting the ground echoed like hollow thunder.

Dionysus, still holding Ada’s chin, finally felt it.

His soul recognized the mistake even before his mind could react.

The wine in his goblet began to boil.

The laughter of the surrounding gods ceased. And all that remained was the sound of something growing, breathing, awakening within the demon.

Vergil smiled—a small, emotionless smile.

“Then that’s settled,” he said, finally. “No rules.”

The entire ground trembled.

His shadow expanded, rising behind him like a monstrous veil, taking on an almost human form, with crimson eyes glowing within the darkness.

Ada took a step back, gasping.

Wukong merely watched, his fan closed, a playful and slightly cruel glint in his eyes.

“Ah… this is going to be interesting,” the Monkey King murmured, almost as if watching a spectacle. “I can’t kill gods, because of the rules… but a mortal? What a good feeling.”