My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 664: The Great God of Thunder, Thor.

Vergil crossed the portal alone—as Brynhild had made clear, only the competitor could pass at that moment.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, the world changed.

He emerged into a colossal corridor, vast as the interior of an ancient coliseum. The curved walls stretched as far as the eye could see, illuminated by ethereal torches and ancient inscriptions that pulsed slowly, as if the place itself breathed. The air was heavy, laden with expectation, blood, and glory.

Brynhild crossed soon after.

She went ahead, firm steps, impeccable posture, naturally assuming the role of guide. Yet, there was something about her… distant. Her gaze fixed ahead, her expression too serious for someone accustomed to war.

Vergil noticed.

"Are things bad?" he asked casually, walking behind her. "You seem… disconnected."

Brynhild didn't turn her face away.

"I'm dissatisfied with Odin's leadership," she replied calmly. Without reverence. Without formality. She wasn't speaking to a god—she was speaking to a man.

Vergil raised an eyebrow slightly. "Trouble in Asgard?" he commented, his tone almost curious. "Honestly… my offer still stands." He smiled slightly. "Come work for me. I can offer you anything you want."

Brynhild sighed, finally allowing herself a small smile.

"Sometimes I forget you're the eccentric Demon King," she said, shaking her head. "You're offering the current Queen of the Valkyries a subordinate position." She chuckled softly. "It's absurd."

Vergil shrugged, completely at ease. "Freyja didn't think so."

Brynhild's step faltered.

She turned to him in a swift movement, her eyes wide.

"F-Freyja?!"

Vergil smiled. "I met her recently," he said, with the calm of someone dropping a bomb and savoring the impact. "But I'm sure she'd approve of the idea." He then reached for his chest, pulling something from inside his shirt.

A necklace.

The delicate gold, the enchanted gems, the unmistakable aura.

Brísingamen.

Brynhild paled. "…That's impossible."

Vergil just laughed, holding the necklace in the light of the ethereal torches.

"She lent it to me," he commented, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Vergil was the first to break it.

"I will free Freyja from the curse soon," he said, with the same naturalness with which someone comments on the weather. The tone was firm—not an empty promise, but a certainty. "When that happens… if you decide to change sides—"

He tilted his head slightly. "I'll be waiting."

As he spoke, he tucked the Brísingamen back under his shirt, as if it—one of Asgard's most sacred treasures—were merely a temporary detail in his plans.

Brynhild stared at him, shock still etched on her face. She opened her mouth to reply, but Vergil stepped forward.

Then another.

And another.

Until the space between them ceased to exist.

In a swift, controlled movement, he placed his hand beside her head, pinning her against the cold wall of the coliseum. It wasn't violent—it was precise. Calculated. His presence pressed against the air, the ground, the heart.

"My plans are simple," he continued, his voice now low, too close. "I'll use this tournament to become stronger." His eyes drifted down for a second, then returned to hers. "And when I'm strong enough… I'll take everything I want."

Brynhild felt her breath catch in her throat.

"That includes realms." Closer. "Gods." Closer still. "And people."

Their faces were inches apart. Too close. The world seemed suspended in that instant—the corridor, the torches, Asgard, the tournament.

"…Including you," he murmured. "Queen of the Valkyries."

For a second, it seemed he would close the final distance.

Then Vergil stepped back.

He took a step back, then another, releasing the pressure as if it had never existed. The suffocating aura dissipated, replaced by a calm, almost provocative smile.

"But relax," he said, turning his back and starting to walk. "Not today."

Brynhild remained motionless for a few moments, her heart racing, her mind in chaos. When she finally took a deep breath, she realized something that disturbed her even more than his words.

She couldn't tell…

If that had been a threat.

Or an invitation.

Vergil continued walking down the corridor as if nothing had happened, his calm steps echoing between the ancient walls. The newly created tension seemed to weigh on his shoulders in no way.

Brynhild took a second longer to compose herself… and then quickened her pace, almost running to regain the lead.

"Don't fall behind," he said, resuming his professional tone, though his heart was still racing.

She moved ahead—and the instant she took her first step to overtake him—

Vergil pulled her hand.

With enough force to rip it out of the way.

The impact came a second later.

A colossal hammer, enveloped in crackling lightning, descended from above like the wrath of heaven itself, smashing the ground exactly where Brynhild's head would have been. The shock made the entire corridor tremble; cracks spread across the floor, and the roar reverberated like thunder trapped in stone.

Brynhild's eyes widened.

Vergil was still holding her hand.

He didn't even look at her.

"It's ugly to attack from behind," he said calmly, raising his gaze to the figure ahead. His voice was serene—the kind of serenity that only exists when someone doesn't feel threatened. A thunderous laugh answered.

"Hahaha!"

A huge man emerged from the shadows, his body enveloped in blue electricity, his light hair falling over broad, columnar shoulders. He pulled the hammer from the ground with absurd ease. "And it's ugly to announce that you're going to steal property from the Allfather."

Vergil finally released Brynhild's hand—carefully—and stepped forward.

He laughed.

He really laughed.

"Property?" he repeated, amused. "She's not property."

The man rested the hammer on his shoulder, lightning crackling around the weapon. His smile was arrogant, almost childlike.

"A mortal who speaks like a god," he taunted. "What a joke."

Vergil tilted his head slightly, the smile diminishing… becoming something sharper.

"A god destined to die in Ragnarök," he replied, his voice low, heavy with quiet disdain,

"isn't exactly someone in a position to judge, is he… Thor?"

The air grew heavy.

The lightning around the thunder god intensified, cracking the ancient inscriptions on the walls. Brynhild felt a shiver run down her spine—not of fear, but of recognition.

This was no casual encounter.

It was a warning.

Vergil took another step forward, his presence pressing through the space like an invisible blade.

"So?" he asked, almost politely. "Are you going to speak… or do you want to start dying sooner?"

Thor's smile widened.

No warning, no count, no honor—just impulse.

He raised his hammer and hurled it down in a brutal arc, enveloped in lightning so dense the air screamed even before impact. The blow was meant to kill. Not to test. Not to intimidate. To crush.

Brynhild felt instinct scream, her body react before her mind—but there was no time.

Vergil raised a single hand.

The open palm met the hammer mid-air.

The impact wasn't a sound.

It was an explosion.

Thor's lightning bolts collided directly with the demonic miasma that erupted from Vergil's body like a living black tide. Divine energy and infernal power clashed at such a concentrated point that the surrounding space simply… gave way.

The corridor floor shattered in concentric circles. The ancient walls, which had withstood ages of divine wars, cracked like glass. The ethereal torches went out in sequence, crushed by the absurd pressure that spread like a shockwave.

The air split.

Brynhild was thrown backward, digging her feet into the ground to avoid being hurled against the wall. The impact made his ears ring, his eyes burn. Even protected by his divine nature, he felt the weight of it pierce his bones and soul.

Vergil didn't move.

His arm was steady.

His hand slowly closed around the hammer, preventing it from advancing even an inch further.

Lightning tried to escape, whipping the surrounding space, while the demonic miasma enveloped the weapon like a living shadow, devouring the electric light, tearing it into black fragments.

Thor's eyes widened.

Then… he began to laugh.

A loud, wild, almost insane laugh that echoed through the destroyed corridor like successive thunderclaps.

"Hahahaha! THAT!" he roared. "THAT is true strength!"

Vergil slowly raised his gaze.

And laughed too.

But his laughter was different.

Not explosive.

Not chaotic.

It was deep. Contained. Satisfied.

"Finally," he said, pushing the hammer back with the same hand, causing Thor to take an involuntary step back. "Someone who doesn't break just by being near."

The miasma receded slightly, still swirling around Vergil's body like a living, hungry mist. Thor's lightning continued to crackle, but now… it danced alongside the shadow, like two predators sizing each other up.

Thor spun the hammer once in the air before resting it on his shoulder again.

His eyes gleamed—not with anger.

With excitement.

"So it's you," he said, with a wide grin. "The demon who dares to walk as if the world were his."

Vergil tilted his head slightly. "And you are exactly as they said." A half-smile appeared. "Loud. Strong. And predictable."

Thor chuckled again. "I like you."

The corridor was in ruins. Fragments of stone floated slowly in the air, still clinging to the distortions of energy that hadn't completely dissipated. The silence that followed was heavy—not empty, but laden with promise.

Vergil uncrossed his arms, relaxed, as if he hadn't just withstood a blow capable of destroying cities.

"We'll have time to get to know each other better," he said calmly. "The tournament will ensure that."

Thor nodded, serious for the first time. "It will." He turned, beginning to walk away. "And when that time comes…" He glanced over his shoulder. "Don't hold back."

Vergil smiled. "I never hold back."

Thor took a few more steps—then stopped.

He turned slowly.

His gaze fixed on Brynhild.

The amused expression vanished.

What remained was something hard. Ancient. Authoritarian.

"Don't even think about betrayal," he said, his voice deep as distant thunder. He didn't shout. He didn't threaten openly. He didn't need to. "The Allfather watches."

Brynhild felt the weight of those words press against her chest. She held his gaze, too proud to lower her head—but she didn't answer.

Thor snorted, satisfied enough.

Then he turned completely.

A flash of lightning enveloped his body—and in the next instant, he disappeared, leaving behind only the smell of ozone and burnt stone.

Silence returned.

Vergil let out a slow, almost comfortable sigh.

"Interesting," he murmured.

Brynhild approached, still feeling her heart pounding too hard. "You provoked Thor… as if you were talking to an old acquaintance."

Vergil glanced at her sideways, his smile slowly returning.

"You really are concerned about things," he commented calmly. "That guy who came to provoke. He's been analyzing me since the moment he attacked you." Vergil spoke and looked around before spotting a camouflaged black raven.

"Tsk." Vergil said before pointing a finger at the raven, "No need to keep watching me, old man." He spoke and exploded its body with a blade of air.

Brynhild looked in that direction and saw the black feathers exploding. "You—"

"Quiet." Vergil said, already nervous. "That old son of a bitch was spying on me." Vergil said, extremely agitated.