My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 648

Chapter 648: Chaos in the Underworld
While Vergil allowed himself, even if only for brief moments, to reconnect with his wife and the fragile normalcy of his home, elsewhere in the underworld someone was far from any sense of comfort.

Very far.

The atmosphere was too silent.

Files floated in the air like paper specters, slowly rotating around an obsidian table carved with ancient seals. Arcane symbols pulsed in low shades of red and black, projecting irregular shadows on the endless walls of the room.

At the center of it all, Amon.

“Seriously… what do you think you’re doing?” he murmured.

He ran a hand over his face, exhausted, as his eyes scanned the suspended reports. Each document bore the marks of trouble, broken seals, chaos on earth, demons disobeying orders, poorly finalized contracts, botched collections, wrong invocations, in short… Pure chaos.

Despite everything, there was one detail that prevented him from completely losing his temper.

Vergil.

Amon let out a short, humorless laugh.

“I should be complaining,” he said to no one in particular. “But I can’t deny… the boy solved a problem that’d been giving me a headache for ages.”

With a gesture, three symbols lit up in the air—ancient names, enveloped in chaotic energy.

“The three mad demon queens,” he continued, in a calculated tone. “Silent. Stable. Almost… domesticated.”

He grimaced. “That alone should have destroyed almost all my problems.”

Amon clenched his fist, dispersing the symbols, and threw a handful of reports onto the table. The impact echoed through the empty room.

“I gained peace on one side,” he muttered, raising his gaze to the emptiness above him. “And the balance decides to play games with me.”

The next file opened by itself.

The name gleamed in deep red.

Lilith.

Amon grew serious.

“…Disappeared,” he said softly.

He crossed his arms, his mind working fast, connecting events, power flows, and traces that almost no one would be able to notice.

“Ingrid isn’t capable of this,” he concluded. “She doesn’t reach this level. Not even in her dreams.”

Another gesture.

A map of the Abyss projected itself, infinite floors descending like an endless spiral.

“Sapphire spent a month in the Abyss,” he analyzed. “But she didn’t descend far enough. At most, floor eighty-nine.” His eyes narrowed. “She didn’t go as far as Lilith is.”

Silence spread again.

Amon took a deep breath. “Then only two possibilities remain.”

Two names slowly emerged in the air, heavy as sentences.

“Sephirothy…” He paused, as if the name itself tasted bitter. “…and Neberius.”

Amon leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlaced in front of his face.

“And if either of them is involved,” he murmured, “that ceases to be an inconvenience.”

His gaze hardened. “That worries me… Sephirothy has been in a deep sleep for a long time, ever since she decided to become a mother and sealed her own memories… after coincidentally the three daughters made Vergil activate his demonic blood… ah… what a mess,” he said, putting his hands to his face in frustration.

“I didn’t want things to get to this point.” He said, rising from the armchair, which was already quite uncomfortable. “I’m not against the progenitor returning, but… if someone wants to use her… that’s going to be a problem.” Amon said, sighing nervously.

Amon slowly bent down and picked up the paper that had slipped from the table. As soon as he touched it, the security seals silently dissolved, revealing the hidden contents. In the center of the sheet, a photograph crystallized by magic: a man with silver hair, his gaze too sharp for someone who still called himself mortal.

It was a dossier.

One of the many Paimon had given him not long ago—but this one, in particular, insisted on bothering him.

“Dante Sparda,” he read softly. Below the name, symbols and numbers rearranged themselves, forming new lines of text. “And his organization… 9.9.9.”

Amon frowned and scratched the side of his head with two fingers, thoughtfully.

“Why does a traitor to his own race wanting to stand out bother me so much?” he murmured. “I’ve seen hundreds like him.”

But still, something didn’t add up.

He let the dossier fall back onto the table and stared into the void ahead. The room seemed to darken, as if responding to the gravity of his thoughts.

“The Celestial Tournament is going to be a grand stage,” he said, his voice now firmer. “A stage too grand for coincidences.”

Amon took a deep breath.

“So… begin the containment plan.”

The darkness behind him writhed.

Not like an ordinary shadow, but like something alive—thick, deep, conscious. Three fissures opened in Amon’s own body, like portals of pure demonic authority, and from them emerged three distinct presences.

The air grew heavy.

The first to manifest was Bael.

Tall, imposing, clad in black armor marked with ancient runes of command. His curved horns resembled a war crown, and his red eyes gleamed with absolute discipline. A cloak of dense energy trailed behind him, like the echo of thousands of marching steps in sync.

A general by nature.

Bael immediately knelt, planting one knee on the obsidian floor.

“Yes, Lord Amon,” he said, his voice deep and reverent.

Without waiting any longer, he rose, turned, and vanished into a war chasm—taking with him the promise of organized legions, ready to act.

The second presence was Morax.

Unlike Bael, Morax appeared with a crooked smile on his lips. He wore robes too elegant for a demon, adorned with gold and infernal stones. His body emanated raw power, but without the weight of discipline—it was refined arrogance, overconfidence, a strength that never needed to ask permission.

His golden eyes scanned the room, then Amon, as if assessing limits.

“I’ll go to the human world,” he said casually, almost bored. “That’s where things always get out of control first.”

He didn’t bow.

He simply turned, dissolving into particles of dark light, like someone who knew exactly how much he could dare without being punished.

Finally, the last presence formed.

The temperature dropped.

Focalors emerged slowly, as if molded by the water itself. Her long hair seemed to float even in the dry air, and her skin reflected a soft, almost lunar glow. There was something mesmerizing about her eyes—deep, calm, dangerously attentive.

She leaned slightly, in a graceful gesture.

“I fear the best course of action is to observe Vergil, my lord,” she said, her feminine voice as soft as a calm tide before a storm. “Even though I believe the three queens will attempt to interfere…”

A slight smile crept onto her lips.

“…I can still infiltrate. Water always finds a way.”

She raised her hand, and liquid symbols formed in the air—representations of the four principal kings, connected by unstable lines of power.

“I will remain vigilant regarding their movements,” she continued. “And anything… that attempts to escape the natural flow.”

Amon watched the three paths unfold before him.

War.

Chaos.

Vigilance.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment.

“Constant reports,” he ordered. “Any irregularity, however small, will be sent to me and Paimon.”

Focalors nodded.

And then, like a drop of water falling into the ocean, she vanished. “I’m getting old… is it time to give my position to someone?” Amon questioned, sitting back down in his armchair and tilting it to look at the ceiling of his office. “Pfff…” He laughed, “As if anyone besides Sepphirothy could replace me. But that wretched woman is plotting something big…”

The place had no name.

In the deepest part of Hell, beneath layers that not even ordinary demons dared to cross, existed a space isolated from the very concept of chaos. There, the fire did not roar. The shadows did not whisper. Time seemed… slowed.

A vast cavern, carved from black rock polished like ancient obsidian. Archaic runes glowed softly on the walls, not as seals of imprisonment, but as barriers of concealment—layers upon layers of absolute secrecy. No deity watched. No infernal king listened.

In the center of the space, a small, surprisingly simple area.

A stone bench. And above her, Sepphirothy.

She sat with a calm, almost serene posture, holding a cloth soaked in a dark, slightly luminous liquid. Her movements were slow, careful, as if any abrupt gesture could break something too fragile to be repaired.

Before her, lying on a surface molded directly from the rock, was Lilith.

The Progenitor of all demons.

Or, at least, what remained of her at that moment.

Lilith slept deeply, her body still marked by subtle fissures of energy—invisible scars left by something that should not have reached her. Her horns were intact, but opaque. Her wings, retracted, almost imperceptible. Her breathing was steady… but too slow for someone like her.

Sepphirothy carefully cleaned the other’s body, removing traces of dried blood, abyssal dust, and fragments of corrupted energy that insisted on clinging to her skin. She wasn’t in a hurry.

Every gesture was precise.

“I hope you wake up soon, Mom,” she murmured, almost in a whisper, while wiping Lilith’s shoulder. Her voice was low, controlled, but it carried something ancient. Not anger. Not contempt. Weariness.

The cloth shone a little brighter as it touched one of the marks, slowly dissipating it.

Lilith didn’t react.

Sepphirothy sighed.

She tilted her head slightly, observing the sleeping face of the Progenitor of Demons and Queen of Succubi.

Even unconscious, Lilith still emanated power, like a storm trapped under thick ice.

“I won’t be able to stay here much longer…” Sepphirothy’s voice came out low, almost tired, as if even the sound was an effort. It wasn’t a sentence directed at Lilith—it was a calculation spoken aloud, an inevitable realization.

She lowered her gaze to her own hand.

The skin, once perfect, showed almost invisible fissures, like porcelain subjected to excessive pressure. Between these subtle cracks, the Void pulsed—not as active energy, but as absence. A corrosive, silent, patient nothingness.

The price.

The prolonged exposure was taking its toll. “…Damn it,” she murmured, slowly closing her fingers. “We’ll have to change locations again.”

There was irritation there, but no fear. Just the weariness of someone who had run away too many times to keep pretending it had no cost.

She turned her attention to Lilith.

With almost ritualistic delicacy, Sephirothy ran the cloth one last time through her mother’s hair, dissipating the final residue of strange energy that still clung to the black strands. The residual glow faded, leaving only the dormant presence—contained, wounded, but alive.

Her fingers hesitated.

Not out of doubt.

Out of memory.

“You were so beautiful… and so powerful… when I was born,” she said, her tone too neutral for someone looking at her own mother in that state. “All of Hell would bend when you passed by.”

She slid her fingers across Lilith’s face, tracing the contours of her now motionless features.

“But someone tried to break you…” she continued. “…and managed to destroy almost all the beauty and joy of the woman you were.”

The sentence carried no hatred.

It carried realization.

Silence answered.

The runes carved into the walls pulsed softly, not reacting to the magic, but to the intention behind the words. No alarm. No rejection. Only recognition.

Sephirothy took a deep breath.

Then she leaned in.

She approached Lilith’s body with absolute care, as if any sudden movement could push away what little remained. Her hands cupped her mother’s face, thumbs gently resting on her cold cheeks.

For a moment, she closed her eyes.

And then, slowly, she pressed her lips to Lilith’s.

The kiss was not passionate.

It was functional.

Precise.

A conduit.

Demonic energy flowed from Sepphirothy to Lilith directly, efficiently, without waste—a deep, ancient flow, recognizable only among bonds of blood and power. The surrounding runes reacted immediately, stabilizing the process, absorbing any excess.

Lilith breathed a little deeper.

Almost imperceptible.

But real.

Sepphirothy maintained contact for a few seconds longer than necessary, even feeling the Void burning beneath her skin. When she pulled away, her eyes were open—attentive, firm, determined.

“Rest,” she whispered, her forehead almost touching her mother’s. “I’m still here.”

As soon as Sepphirothy stood, she heard a sound, and turning around she saw Neberius.

“Did you succeed?” she asked.

“I found Lust,” Neberius said, “But you won’t like this at all.”