My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 621

Chapter 621: Whoever eliminates him…
Somewhere…

In a sort of meeting room, the air was heavy, almost reverent, as if the very atmosphere knew the strength of those present.

And yet, right in the center of the room, seated on the edge of a step as if on any ordinary sidewalk, was a woman with snow-white hair that seemed to glow on its own.

Althea Vhalyn — The Witch of the White Flames.

Her legs crossed, her chin resting on her hand, her expression bored as if the whole situation were just a delay in life. Her aura flickered like fire, but a clean, almost sacred fire.

“I admire your willingness to hold this little meeting,” she said, in a calm voice that seemed to conceal dynamite. “But I really don’t have time for this. We spent hours at that event with the gods. If you were hiding, that’s your fault.”

Beside her, seated elegantly as if the simple chair were a throne, was a woman with golden hair and misty eyes—as if there were clouds within them.

Martina Miradell—The Witch of the Golden Mists.

She crossed her hands in her lap, perfect posture, a smile as soft as smoke.

“Yes. You had time,” she replied, observing some of those present with a delicacy as sharp as a blade.

The sound of a low growl broke the tension.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, muscles marked like grey stone, was a man who looked like a mountain in human form. His silver eyes gleamed like blades in the light.

Marcos Lykron—The Silver-Skinned Wolf.

“Shut up, witch,” he retorted, bluntly, without flowery language. “You came because you wanted to.”

The woman beside him—with long grey-brown hair and a proud, almost regal posture—raised her chin, resting a hand on her hip. Maya Wykes — The Princess of the Werewolves.

“Yes,” she agreed, her tone authoritative. “You came because you wanted to. Don’t start with the drama, Althea.”

The two witches smiled. The two beasts gritted their teeth. It looked like the beginning of a war.

Then the light above them changed.

It turned blue.

Then golden.

And a voice fell like a thunderclap.

“I’m glad to see so many people gathered.” The ceiling opened as if the room itself responded to his presence. A man descended slowly, floating with a naturalness that would be arrogant in anyone else — but in him… it was simply inevitable.

Black hair with golden strands. Electric eyes. And an aura so heavy it made the muscles of anyone nearby tremble.

Zafeus Hunnigam — Son of Zeus and a human. Blessed by Athena.

When his feet touched the ground, the air crackled.

Beside him, emerging from the shadow cast on the floor, was another young man—handsome, with a calm posture, green eyes that seemed to carry all the stories of the underworld. A faint floral energy accompanied him, like a whisper from the fields of Asphodel.

Zagreus—Son of Hades and Persephone. Blessed by Ares.

He gave a lazy nod. “I just want to go home,” he murmured, clearly tired. “That’s all. Finish what you have to say and let me sleep.”

Zapheus snorted, but didn’t disagree. The room fell silent for a few moments.

The double doors at the back vibrated as if something had struck them from the inside. Then, they slowly opened.

The air grew cold. Very cold. Two vampires. Or rather, two New Vampires. Yes, some of the survivors of Alucard who is trying to rise again.

The first to enter were two female silhouettes, walking with synchronized steps, like shadows that learned to dance centuries before any civilization existed.

Eleanor Dravenhart. The Crimson Night Sovereign

Long, straight, pitch-black hair flowed down her back. Her skin, pale as snow under the moon. Her eyes—a deep red that seemed to gaze directly into the soul, choosing what to do with it.

Each step was too silent… as if she didn’t touch the ground.

She smiled at those present. Beautiful. Terrifying. “I see the circus has begun without us.”

Her voice was velvety… yet sharp as fangs.

Calystra Von Maren. Devourer of Blood Flames

Beside her, a woman with white hair, tied in a high ponytail, exuded pure arrogance. Her golden eyes shone as if they carried the power of the sun trapped within them—something very rare among vampires.

Calystra was more direct, her posture military, dominant.

“I hope the tournament is better than this lamentable organization,” she commented, crossing her arms.

Marcos, the Silver-Skinned Wolf, growled instantly.

Calystra only smiled, showing perfect fangs.

“Nice try, dog.”

The atmosphere became so tense that Zafeus had to send a small electric shock into the air to prevent them from starting a fight.

The lights in the room turned white, bright, pure.

Runes on the ceiling lit up.

And a distant chorus—soft, almost a memory—filled the room.

Two figures of light passed through the ceiling as if it didn’t exist, landing effortlessly on the floor.

Azraelion—The Bearer of Uriel’s Spear

A tall man, with a serious expression and luminous white eyes. His wings were immense, each feather shining like spiritual fire, but without destructive heat—it was a fire that judged.

He inclined his head formally, but without a smile.

“Why such a meeting?”

Seraphine Galadhris—The Voice of Gabriel

The second figure was the opposite—light, graceful, with long golden hair that floated as if there were still celestial wind around her.

Her blue eyes were bright and gentle… but there was something immense, ancient, and too perfect to be human in them.

“How funny, a meeting…” she said, her voice too melodious. “Without calling all the participants…” She murmured, seeing that indeed, not even half the competitors were there.

The sweet smile didn’t help at all. It was more menacing than any lupine growl.

As if in response, the lights burst.

Literally.

The room plunged into darkness for a moment, until two figures emerged from the living shadows that appeared behind the vampires.

Two Fallen Angels Arrive

The two walked side by side, with a posture that exuded forbidden power, natural sensuality, and absolute danger.

Lysithea Voidheart — The Exile of the Black Flames

Long, wavy hair, black with ruby ​​highlights. Bright violet eyes, marked with demonic-angelic runes that betrayed her former glory.

Her severed wings left luminescent marks on her back — beautiful and tragic.

She smiled at Zafeus ironically.

“Hey, little lightning bolt. Still think you’re the center of the universe?”

Zafeus muttered something like “Don’t even start.”

Nyxara Myrrh — The Graceful One of Ruin

Unlike her friend, Nyxara was calm, silent. Her hair was silvery, straight, and fell to her waist. Her eyes — an almost transparent blue — were of a strange, dangerous beauty. Every word seemed planned, every movement too elegant to be natural.

She simply looked at everyone, assessing them, as if she could see their souls with a single blink.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “At least I won’t get bored.”

The collective breathing in the room seemed to have stopped.

Wolves ready to pounce. Vampires with fangs bared. Witches glowing. Tense angels. Fallen laughing at the misfortune of others.

Until…

“…So who called us?”

The question came from somewhere.

No one knew exactly who spoke.

Perhaps everyone had thought the same thing.

Azraelion raised his chin, his bright eyes analyzing the surroundings.

“Indeed,” he said. “This doesn’t represent even a tenth of the competitors. There’s no rational reason for an incomplete meeting.”

Martina nodded softly. “And when something doesn’t make sense…” She smiled. “…it’s because someone is manipulating the narrative.”

The air stirred.

Not like wind. Like something pushing reality aside.

Althea’s flames trembled.

Martina’s golden mists tensed.

Maya and Marcos bared their teeth.

Eleonor and Calystra stiffened.

Lysithea slow-blinked, almost interested.

Nyxara tilted her head, as if recognizing an ancient scent.

Zafeus drew a lightning bolt into his palm.

Zagreus… sighed, already giving up on peace.

And then—the door that everyone had ignored throughout the meeting finally opened.

A figure entered.

Slow steps.

Dark clothes, but embroidered with symbols so ancient that even angels stirred.

A face covered by a transparent veil.

An aura… impossible to identify.

Neither demonic.

Nor angelic.

Nor divine.

Nor mortal.

An absolute silence fell.

And then, the voice—calm, cold, irresistibly firm. “I have gathered you.”

The figure walked to the table.

No one dared approach.

“Don’t worry about those absent. They will be informed. The purpose of this meeting is… different.”

She raised her hand.

The entire table opened like a living mechanism.

Runes lit up.

Light rose.

And a magical hologram—enormous, perfectly detailed—formed.

The image spun.

And even before it fully materialized, some already recognized it.

The light took shape.

The figure gained contours.

Sword.

Eyes.

Presence.

Vergil.

The air seemed to implode around the image.

Some held their breath.

Others felt a sudden chill.

The proudest took a step back—without even realizing it.

Zafeus clenched his fist.

Lysithea smiled as if she had expected exactly that.

Nyxara murmured, “Ah… so it’s about him.”

The mysterious figure then declared:

“I am offering a temporary truce.”

Those present exchanged confused glances.

“An alliance. Short. Unstable. But necessary.”

The image in the hologram enlarged.

Vergil in battle.

Vergil defeating enemies.

Vergil destroying things.

Vergil killing Dionysus.

“There is a greater evil growing behind this young man. An evil that none of you, alone, can face.”

The entire room froze.

And then…

The reward was revealed.

With a simple gesture, the figure transformed the hologram. Vergil’s image dissolved… And in its place emerged a golden seed, pulsating, alive.

The Seed of the World Tree.

A myth. A legend. An artifact that even the gods would fight over.

“Whoever eliminates him…” The voice sounded like a final sentence.

“…will receive a Seed of the World Tree.”