My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 678: Phase 1. Battle Royale VII

The transmission returned to Vergil as if it had never left him.

There was no announcement.

There was no suspense.

The camera simply found him walking.

The territory ahead was no longer ordinary forest. The ground was uneven, marked by recent craters, uprooted trees, and columns of residual energy still pulsing in the air. There, the battle between Angelo and Wu Tian had left scars too deep to ignore. The very mana of the environment was unstable, vibrating like a wounded field.

In the center of that devastation…

Angelo was still standing.

Exactly where the fight had ended.

His armor was impeccable, without visible cracks. His metallic wings partially open, motionless, like sculptures suspended in the air. The sword rested in his hand with the naturalness of something that was part of his body—not a weapon, but an extension of the function for which it was created.

Vergil entered that territory as one invades an empty room.

His steps were calm. Measured. Yamato remained sheathed. Its aura didn't explode, didn't press, didn't impose itself—but still, the space around it seemed to subtly bend with each step he took.

Angelo turned his head.

His internal sensors recognized his presence immediately. Something inside him recalculated probabilities. Reorganized parameters. Adjusted threats.

Vergil stopped a few meters away.

He looked Angelo up and down.

And then… he smiled.

He raised his right hand and gave a lazy little wave, like someone saying goodbye to a distant acquaintance.

"We're not going to waste time here." His voice was casual. Almost bored. "It'll be better to kill you in the end."

He turned away, as if that were settled.

As if Angelo were just… something scheduled.

For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to accept that decision.

Then it didn't anymore.

The air was ripped open by a violent impact.

A colossal axe appeared out of nowhere, spinning at high speed, enveloped in thick, dense divine energy, charged with murderous intent. Its size was absurd—the handle as thick as a tree trunk, the blade wide and curved, engraved with Olympic symbols that burned in vivid gold.

The axe flew straight for Vergil's face.

Without warning.

Without honor.

Without conversation.

Vergil stopped.

He didn't turn completely.

He only raised a hand.

The blade struck his palm with a deafening roar.

The impact generated a shockwave that shattered the surrounding ground, opening a circular crater. Nearby trees were uprooted. The air vibrated as if struck by an invisible hammer.

But the axe… stopped.

Trapped.

Immobile.

Vergil held the blade with one hand.

His fingers were closed around the blade, and yet… there was no blood. No cut. No apparent effort.

He sighed slowly.

"…" He turned his head, now in the direction from which the attack had come.

There he was.

A tall man, monstrously built, covered in heavy Olympian robes—white and gold armor, adorned with symbols of the underworld and war. An open helmet revealed a face marked by ancient scars and eyes incandescent with fury.

The divine aura around him was oppressive, heavy, full of arrogance.

A champion of Olympus.

Vergil observed the robes for a moment longer than necessary.

"…Hm." He tilted his head. "Wasn't there a special competitor for each god?" he asked, genuinely curious. "I thought there was one per region."

The champion gritted his teeth.

Vergil continued, thoughtful, still holding the axe.

"So you mean…" he murmured. "We're the only ones who got screwed with fewer competitors?"

He let out a short laugh.

"The gods can put one for every god?" he shook his head. "Wow… Amon lost quite a bit of privilege, huh." he mocked and sensed Amon's aura from the other side of the Arena, directly in the VIP area. "Come on, man, you don't need to do that." He laughed.

The champion stepped forward, his aura exploding in open fury.

"SHUT UP!" he roared. "FIGHT, YOU BASTARD!"

Vergil finally looked directly at him.

And laughed.

A low laugh. Carefree.

Then he moved.

It wasn't a direct attack.

He simply… threw the man.

Vergil spun his body and, with a swift movement of his arm, hurled the Olympic champion away, as if he were throwing a bag of trash. The impact of his body against the ground was so violent that a line of destruction opened up for dozens of meters, trees being pulverized as the champion ricocheted until he disappeared in a cloud of dust and rock.

Vergil dropped the axe.

Or rather… he let it fall.

"For someone with such a thirst for killing," he said calmly, "you're quite irresponsible."

The axe returned.

Alone.

Spinning again, faster, heavier, pulled by its owner's will like a vengeful projectile.

Vergil reached out again.

He took it.

This time, with two fingers.

The champion reappeared, advancing right behind the weapon, his feet crushing the ground with each step.

"Lord Hades said to use everything I have against you!" he shouted. "So come, mortal!"

Vergil blinked.

Once.

Twice.

"Mortal?" he repeated, incredulous.

He pointed to himself with his thumb.

"Mortal?" He let out a wide laugh now. "Damn it," he said, shaking his head. "Have you looked in the mirror, you animal?"

The champion roared and charged.

Vergil looked up, his blue eyes gleaming with something cold. "I am more immortal than you," he continued, his voice firm now, "I guarantee you that."

And then…

He threw the axe back.

Not like a common attack.

Vergil swung his arm and launched the weapon with absurd precision, enveloped in a thin layer of cutting energy. The axe pierced the air like a sentence, tearing its own path.

The champion tried to block.

He really tried.

The blade pierced the defense, pierced the divine shield, pierced the helmet.

And struck the face.

The impact was grotesque.

The axe crushed half of the champion's face, tearing away flesh, bone, and teeth in a single brutal blow. The body was thrown backward, spinning in the air before colliding with the ground in a gush of blood and dispersed divine energy.

Vergil cracked his neck.

"Use everything you have…" he murmured. "I should have started by using my brain."

He took a step forward.

Angelo was still there.

Standing.

Watching.

Vergil glanced sideways at him.

"Don't get too excited," he said, without hostility. "It's not your turn yet."

In the distance, the Olympic champion's body contorted, trying to get up… and failed.

The divine aura faded rapidly.

Vergil sighed, already tired.

"Damn it," he muttered. "This tournament is getting boring."

Vergil turned his gaze slowly.

Not out of premonition.

Not out of urgency.

But because something in the air had changed.

The spiritual pressure increased, layer upon layer, like overlapping tides. It wasn't a single presence—there were several. Distinct divine auras, conflicting with each other, but united by the same vector: him.

Vergil sighed.

"Ah…" he murmured, closing his eyes for a moment. "Of course."

When he opened them again, he swept the field with a single glance.

There they were.

On the shattered horizon, luminous fissures opened in space like cracks in glass. From each emerged a different divine signature—celestial fire, sacred ice, Olympian lightning, blades made of pure conceptual law. Champions. Avatars. Chosen. Living weapons wielded by greater wills.

And then…

Vergil realized.

Angelo was no longer there.

The space where the homunculus had stood was now empty. No residual aura. No detectable displacement. No distortion.

He had simply… vanished.

Vergil closed his eyes again and massaged his temple with two fingers. "…Tsk."

"Great," he said aloud. "A demon against the chosen of gods." He offered a crooked half-smile. "This is fucking dramatic."

The first weapon came from the sky.

A colossal spear of golden light, so bright it burned the retina, descended like a direct judgment, charged with enough divine authority to wipe out entire cities.

Vergil didn't move.

The spear struck him in the shoulder.

The explosion was absurd.

The impact generated a flash that engulfed the landscape, vaporizing the ground within a radius of hundreds of meters. A column of light rose to the heavens like a beacon of extermination.

When the light dissipated…

Vergil was still there.

His coat was torn at the shoulder. His skin was marked by a deep burn that slowly smoldered. The smell of burnt flesh hung in the air.

He looked at the wound.

"…Hm." Before he could comment, the second attack arrived.

A divine ice sword emerged from the ground beneath his feet, piercing his abdomen from bottom to top, exploding into freezing shards that scattered throughout his body.

Vergil arched slightly.

He spat blood. "Okay," he muttered. "That was rude."

The third came soon after.

A hammer enveloped in lightning struck his head sideways, crushing the air with a deafening thunderclap. The impact threw Vergil several meters to the side, his body rolling across the destroyed ground until it stopped against what remained of a hill.

He didn't get up immediately.

Another attack.

And another.

Divine chains coiled around his arms, digging into his flesh like living serpents. Arrows of sacred energy pierced his legs. A blade made of pure faith pierced his chest, pinning him to the ground like a sacrifice.

Vergil was breathing heavily now.

His body was… destroyed.

Blood flowed freely. Broken bones creaked under the pressure of divine forces. Sacred energy burned his insides, trying to erase his existence cell by cell.

Yet…

He didn't dodge.

He didn't block.

He didn't draw Yamato.

The weapons kept coming.

A literal rain of divine weaponry fell upon him—spears, swords, axes, razor discs, seals of containment, symbols of annihilation. Each impact was an execution attempt. Each blow carried the weight of a different god's will.

Vergil stood there.

Taking them all.

His body was buried under attacks until it disappeared beneath a mountain of light, energy, and destruction.

For several seconds… nothing but chaos.

Then…

Crack.

A dry sound.

The weapons began to tremble.

Crack.

Black fissures spread across the divine surfaces, like cracks in sacred porcelain.

And then…

A pulse.

Not explosive.

Not violent.

Just… present.

The weapons were hurled away as if they had lost their right to exist there. Some shattered in mid-air. Others disintegrated into inert particles.

In the center of the crater that formed…

Vergil stood up.

Slowly.

His body was covered in grotesque wounds. His coat was in tatters. Blood dripped from his chin. One of his arms hung at an awkward angle, clearly broken.

He cracked his neck.

The arm rearranged itself with a damp snap.

The flesh began to recompose itself.

"…" He took a deep breath.

"Are you finished?"

Silence answered.

Vergil ran a hand over his face, wiping away the blood, and then looked towards the divine auras still present on the horizon.

His blue eyes were cold.

Calm.

Bored. "…Because now," he said, taking a step forward, "it's my turn."