My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 606

Chapter 606: Dead Golden Blood
The air tore apart.

There was no other word to describe what happened when Vergil’s aura fully manifested.

Fire, wind, blood, and shadows—all the elements that formed his essence began to swirl around him, like satellites of a star about to collapse.

The flames that erupted from his feet were not red, but black and blue, flickering with an intensity that burned even the light. The wind roared, not like a natural current, but like a scream coming from a nameless place. The smell of iron and burnt flesh spread through the air—Vergil’s spiritual blood boiling, overflowing from within him like an ancient river.

And the shadows… the shadows moved.

They had form, will, and eyes.

With each step he took, the ground trembled. The obsidian columns of Erebus bent under the spiritual pressure, groaning as if begging not to collapse. The ceiling pulsed, and the air became so dense that it was difficult to breathe.

Ada instinctively recoiled.

Her gaze was fixed on Vergil—but that was no longer the man she had been speaking to moments ago.

What was walking towards Dionysus was something else entirely.

Something that the human mind could not comprehend.

She took two steps back, almost stumbling in despair, her heart pounding.

“Vergil… no…” she tried to whisper, but the sound died in her throat.

His aura wasn’t just power.

It was chaos.

It was horror.

It was the materialization of what the deities called fear.

Vergil’s power spread like a living wave, and the effects were immediate.

The weaker gods—those without preparation or mental strength—fell to their knees, hands at their throats, struggling to breathe. Others fainted, their eyes rolling back, their souls crushed by a presence that surpassed comprehension. Those who resisted felt the ground disappear beneath their feet, as if the air had turned solid.

It was suffocating.

It was wrong.

And yet… impossible to look away.

The torches went out. The hall plunged into darkness, but Vergil remained visible—not by light, but because the world itself seemed to highlight him, like an error in creation.

From the top of the staircase, Shiva watched.

His golden eyes, previously serene, narrowed.

He didn’t just see power.

He saw form.

And the form… was grotesque.

Behind Vergil, the aura condensed, twisted, and took shape. A colossal, asymmetrical body, made of smoke and pure energy—a rudimentary, disfigured dragon, whose wings seemed broken, whose eyes multiplied without order.

It was raw power, unrefined, a jumble of dead deities, fragments of soul and darkness.

Shiva kept his gaze fixed, silent.

Inside, he understood what he saw.

‘I must admit that it’s one of the most grotesquely demonic auras I’ve ever seen in all my eternity… what the hell is inside this boy?’ Shiva thought as he looked closely at the man.

The dragon behind him opened its mouth, and a soundless roar reverberated through the hall. The structures trembled. The ground cracked. The shadows bowed.

And Dionysus, the god of wine, finally felt the weight of his own mistake.

The wine in his cup evaporated. The vine leaves in his crown withered.

The intoxication that gripped him began to dissipate, replaced by a coldness that came from the soul.

Vergil stopped before him.

“Since you dared to try to take what is not yours, I can do the same. Right?” Vergil said, approaching as Dionysus stepped back. Dionysus staggered a step backward, the smile draining from his face like spilled wine.

His body trembled—not from cold, but from something he hadn’t felt in ages: fear.

But even fear wasn’t enough to silence the arrogance of a god.

“Calm down, calm down…” he raised his hands, trying to laugh, but his voice came out trembling. “There’s no need for all this, is there? I was just… playing with the mortal. She should feel honored to have caught my attention.”

Vergil took another step.

The sound was enough to crack the marble beneath his feet in lines that stretched like veins to the columns.

The air seemed to crackle.

With each breath, his power distorted the environment—as if Erebus itself were recoiling to avoid touching him.

“Playing around…” the word left Vergil’s lips like a distant echo, devoid of emotion.

Dionysus forced a crooked smile, trying to compose himself.

His eyes were still glazed with fear, but he masked it with sarcasm—the shield of cowards.

“You’re making a scene because of some mortal woman? What a waste.”

He let out a hoarse laugh and took a step closer, regaining the pose of an offended god.

“You demons are all the same. You think you can challenge the true gods just because you’ve learned to control a few tricks and darkness.”

Vergil didn’t answer.

He just stared at him.

A colorless gaze.

Lifeless.

As if Dionysus wasn’t a person, but just something that was already dead and didn’t know it yet.

Even so, the god of wine insisted, louder, his voice trembling between forced courage and despair.

“Do you really think you can threaten me here, in Hades’ domain? I am Dionysus, son of Zeus! I am—”

He stopped.

Vergil was in front of him.

Suddenly.

Without a sound. Without movement. Just there.

The distance between the two vanished, and Dionysus felt something that made him automatically take a step back—the survival instinct that even gods cannot control.

The heat intensified.

The ground darkened beneath Vergil’s feet, the shadows bending, undulating, burning.

And his voice finally came.

Low.

Slow.

Unappealable.

“You touched what is mine.”

Dionysus tried to laugh, but his throat seized up.

Sweat dripped down his temple.

“She… she’s not yours. She’s just a… mortal slut.” The silence that followed was absolute.

Not even the gods dared to breathe.

The aura around Vergil suddenly extinguished—and, for a second, everyone thought he had retreated. But then the air contracted, and the next sound was a dry crack.

Vergil had moved.

Too fast for any eye to follow.

Dionysus’s right arm was no more.

Divine blood—golden and luminous—gushed into the air, but even before it fell, it caught fire.

Vergil’s black flames consumed the severed limb, and the sweet, nauseating smell of burning divine flesh filled the hall.

Yes, black flames. For some reason, the burning flames cultivated by the Agares clan had become completely black like the miasma of hell, darker than abyssal darkness. It was as if the color black itself was burning, not a flame with a dark coloration.

Absolute Black.

The god screamed, the sound a mixture of pain and disbelief.

The golden veins in his body pulsed, trying to regenerate the lost limb—but Vergil’s flames wouldn’t allow it.

The fire didn’t just destroy the flesh.

It burned the soul.

Yes… it seems that the flames of Agares merged with the small energy of Vergil’s death knight status, thus creating what we can call “Flames of Hell.”

“You dared to open your mouth to speak of her…” Vergil murmured, his tone low and serene, but the contained fury in every word made the ground vibrate.

Dionysus crawled backward, his gaze filled with pure terror.

The flames on Vergil grew, dancing around him like a living crown of destruction. The dragon formed by his aura roared silently again, opening multiple eyes that watched the mutilated god like worthless prey.

“Enough.” Someone shouted in the distance.

“Hercules.” The tone was calm, almost respectful. “Did you come to protect him?”

The hero stopped a few meters away, his fist clenched, his gaze fixed on Vergil.

“I didn’t come to protect anyone. I came to prevent you from committing a stupidity.” Vergil tilted his head slightly.

The fire around him flickered, as if reacting to the provocation.

“Stupidity?” his voice echoed hoarsely, reverberating off the walls. “Would you let the woman you love… be touched, humiliated, threatened… by a worm like that?”

Hercules maintained his gaze, steady, but his jaw clenched.

He didn’t answer immediately. He knew Vergil wasn’t himself—but he also knew that every word needed to be measured, or that hall would become an abyss.

“There are better ways to deal with this, Demon King,” he said finally, his tone low but firm. “We are not monsters. Neither are you.”

Vergil took a step forward.

The sound was a crack, as if the air had broken.

“Better ways?” he repeated, a cold, humorless smile curving his lips.

“You speak like a hero. But heroes don’t know what it’s like to lose everything.”

His aura rose once more and roared silently, the black flames expanding like an inverted aurora.

“The best way to deal with worms…” Vergil raised his right hand, his fingers slowly closing in the air “…is by exterminating them.”

Dionysus tried to move, but his body didn’t respond.

His gaze met Vergil’s—and for an instant, the god of wine saw his own death reflected there.

A dry blow.

There was no sound.

The space between the two seemed to implode, and Dionysus’s body was thrown backward, his head disappearing in an explosion of golden light and black flames.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Not even Vergil’s flames made a sound—they only danced, fueled by the newly unleashed rage.

Hercules clenched his fists. “You just killed an Olympian god within Hades’ domain. Do you know what that means?”

“Do I care? Did I ask permission before, or were you deaf and didn’t hear?” Vergil smiled and then added, “The Sage Equal to Heaven allowed me to kill Dionysus. Are you going to pick a fight with Sun Wukong?”

Vergil smiled and continued, “Want to fight, pretty boy? I don’t give a damn about you gods. I’m a man with principles, you messed with the woman I love and you’re going to die. It’s simple.” He said, looking at Hercules.