My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 679: Phase 1. Battle Royale VIII

Vergil took another step forward.

Then he stopped… a sepulchral silence fell before he took a deep breath, as if preparing not to fight… but to endure the inevitable.

"Alright," he murmured. "Let's finish this."

He opened his arms, almost dramatically, as if putting on a show for the spectators watching from Hephaestus's countless drones.

The air around Vergil ripped open.

There was no explosion, no exaggerated flash… it was much worse. It was silent for a moment too short to be comfortable. The space behind his back distorted, folding like old fabric being pulled too tightly.

Then they emerged.

Two demonic wings projected from his back, enormous, dense, made of a deep, not chaotic, but controlled, dark energy. The membranes were marked by bluish veins that pulsed in the same rhythm as his heart. Each subtle movement of theirs made the air vibrate, not by brute force, but by authority.

Vergil held his arms outstretched for another second… And spoke, "All of you," he said, his voice echoing strangely clearly across the devastated field, "came here believing that dying for your gods would be glorious."

He raised his chin slightly, gazing at the horizon filled with divine presences.

"I disagree." The auras reacted.

The first to advance was Theron, the Bearer of the Lesser Sun, champion of Apollo. His body was enveloped in constant golden light, as if a small sun orbited beneath his skin. He wielded a long, translucent spear made of condensed light, and his eyes burned with absolute fervor.

Theron advanced like a meteor.

Vergil did not draw Yamato.

He spun his body at the last instant and struck the shaft of the spear with the sheath of his sword. There was no ordinary impact… the light bent, deflecting as if corrected by a higher law. Theron lost his balance for a fleeting instant… enough.

Vergil appeared behind him.

A sharp blow from the sheath to his back.

The champion of the sun was thrown to the ground with such force that the light around him went out completely, burying him in a deep crater. He didn't die—but he lay there, gasping, unable to rise, staring at the sky with incredulous eyes.

Before silence settled, another came.

Skadieth, chosen of a forgotten northern goddess. Her body was enveloped in plates of living ice, and dozens of blades floated around her like satellites. Each of her steps froze the ground instantly.

She didn't attack head-on.

The entire field froze.

Vergil felt the ice rise up his legs, trying to seal his joints, steal warmth, steal movement.

He sighed.

And took a step.

The ice broke.

It didn't explode. It didn't melt. It just… cracked, as if it had been miscalculated against something that didn't obey ordinary thermodynamics.

Skadieth's eyes widened the instant Vergil appeared before her.

He didn't strike her.

He simply placed his open hand on her forehead… and pushed.

The impact wasn't physical.

It was spiritual.

The huntress was thrown backward, rolling across the frozen ground as her blades fell inertly around her. The cold ceased abruptly, and she stood there, trembling—not from cold, but from existential shock.

"Two," Vergil murmured.

Then the field exploded into motion.

Khepri-An, a follower of Ra, enveloped the sky in scarabs of golden energy that descended like a living storm.

Elyndar, a paladin of some Buddha, wielded a sword that rewrote space into absolute straight lines.

Brontes, champion of Zeus, fell from the sky enveloped in lightning, his hammer descending like a divine sentence.

Vergil advanced.

He moved through them.

The Yamato's scabbard cut not flesh, but intention. Each blow deflected impossible attacks, broke formations, dismantled divine strategies with surgical precision. He used his body as an anchor, his wings to control space, and the sheathed sword as an extension of his own will.

Brontes' hammer fell.

Vergil raised the scabbard and held it.

Lightning exploded around them, tearing the sky, but when the light ceased, Brontes was kneeling, his arm trembling, unable to lift the weapon again.

Elyndar attempted to impose the Law.

Vergil looked at the conceptual sword… and struck it with the scabbard.

The law failed.

Elyndar fell to his knees, spitting blood, his sword disintegrating into useless symbols.

Khepri-An tried to swallow Vergil in pure sunlight.

Vergil spread his wings.

Shadow covered the artificial sun.

The avatar fell, its energy scattering like sand in the wind.

There were no cries of victory.

There were no deaths.

Only bodies on the ground.

Breathing.

Wounded.

Humiliated.

Vergil landed in the center of the devastated field, his wings slowly retracting. He rested Yamato on his shoulder, still sheathed, and looked around at the fallen champions, some trying to rise, others just staring into the void.

"You can continue," he said calmly. "Or you can give up."

Silence.

None of them rose.

Vergil nodded, satisfied.

"Dying would have been easy," he concluded. "Living with this… is more interesting." And, in the distance, on the transmission, gods began to avoid looking.

…

The focus of the transmission trembled.

Not because of a technical failure, but because nobody wanted to hold onto that image for long.

The devastated field, the fallen champions, Vergil standing in the center as if it were the most natural thing in the world… that wasn't just a collective defeat. It was a divine embarrassment.

The vision moved away from the arena.

It rose.

It cut through layers of reality, veils of authority and overlapping domains, until it reached the elevated boxes where the gods observed—or pretended to observe.

The silence there was different.

It wasn't the respectful silence of someone contemplating something grand.

It was the uncomfortable silence of someone who realized that something had completely spiraled out of control.

"Less than two hundred and fifty years…"

The voice came from one of the upper thrones, deep, tense. An ancient god gripped the arms of the seat with visible force.

"Less than two hundred and fifty years," he repeated, incredulous. "That's not possible."

"It shouldn't be," replied another, his fingers drumming nervously. "He shouldn't even understand concepts he's… ignoring."

"He didn't kill any of them," someone commented, almost in a whisper. "He chose not to kill."

That was worse.

Some looked away.

Others clenched their jaws.

The humiliation didn't come from defeat—it came from restraint.

In a distinct VIP room, separated by ancient demonic seals and layers of secrecy that not even some Olympian gods could penetrate…

Amon sighed deeply.

He was reclining sideways, resting his face in one hand, his golden eyes fixed on the transmission. Around him, the environment was luxurious, but laden with symbols too ancient for any human pantheon to recognize.

"…He's drawing too much attention," he murmured, irritated. "I told him not to do that."

A soft laugh echoed.

Paimon was stretched out on a nearby sofa, legs crossed, an amused smile on her lips as she watched the scene with evident satisfaction.

"Oh, come on," she said, laughing. "My future husband has always been like that." She tilted her head, her eyes shining. "Dramatic. Exaggerated. Incapable of going unnoticed."

Amon closed his eyes for a second, as if it caused him physical pain.

"That's nothing to brag about."

In another corner of the room, Phoenix just sighed.

She said nothing.

She didn't comment.

She just watched with her arms crossed, the tired expression of someone who had already expected exactly that result. For her, it wasn't a surprise. It was… confirmation.

Astaroth, on the other hand, was smiling.

Sitting with lazy elegance, he twirled a goblet between his fingers while his eyes followed something that wasn't visible in the regular transmission.

"Anyway…" he said, his voice full of amusement. "There are twelve hiding."

Paimon raised an eyebrow. "Twelve?"

Astaroth chuckled softly.

"Twelve champions. Twelve active blessings. Twelve signatures attempting to suppress their own presence." He inclined his head, satisfied. "Even Zeus's champion was used as bait."

He smiled more openly.

"Pathetic."

Amon opened his eyes again, now alert. "Are they trying to surround him?"

"No," Astaroth replied. "They are trying to survive."

Before any further comment could be made, the door to the private room opened.

Not dramatically.

Not forcefully.

It simply… opened.

Two presences entered.

Sephirothy was the first.

Tall, impeccable posture, fair hair falling like silver threads, her eyes too tranquil for someone who carried so much condensed power. Her mere entrance made the air in the room adjust, as if recognizing an authority older than the thrones themselves.

Beside her came Neberius.

Smiling.

Carefree.

With the kind of expression only someone utterly confident can maintain in an environment filled with world-destroying entities.

The four looked.

And then… ignored it.

No greeting.

No formality.

Neberius walked to a nearby seat and threw himself into it with excessive comfort, crossing his legs.

"So," he commented casually, glancing at the transmission. "He's using them to play games, isn't he?"

Amon grimaced.

Neberius continued, laughing: "I mean… he's showing off power he doesn't need to use, just to see how they react."

She tilted her head, intently observing Vergil's demonic wings on the screen.

"…Those wings," she murmured. "They're over the top."

She laughed and turned to Sepphirothy.

"Your son is quite dramatic."

Sepphirothy didn't respond immediately.

She simply observed.

Her eyes analyzed every detail of the scene, every microvariation in the aura, every subtle reaction of the hidden champions. Then, slowly, a smile appeared on her lips.

A proud smile.

"He always has been," she finally replied.

Neberius narrowed his eyes, curious. "Hmm?"

Sepphirothy tilted her head slightly.

"He's not just intimidating," she said calmly. "He's searching."

Astaroth raised an eyebrow. "Searching for what?"

Sepphirothy pointed to the screen.

"Look at the wings," she said. "See how they expand… not in raw power, but in range."

Neberius's eyes widened for a second.

"…Ah."

She smiled again.

"He's using the aura," Neberius added, excitedly. "Expanding like a radar."

Sephirothy nodded.

"Until I find," she said softly, "the person who is serving Athena."

In the transmission, Vergil's wings moved once more.

And, somewhere far from the arena…

Something trembled.