My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 680: Shura vs Angelo

In the broadcast, Vergil's wings fluttered once more.

And somewhere far from the arena…

Something trembled.

All eyes turned to the screen.

What appeared there was no ordinary continuation of the tournament.

It was a disaster in progress.

The arena floor simply exploded upwards as Shura entered the scene.

There was no introduction. No divine announcement. No name echoing through the heavens. There was only impact—an impact so violent that the lower layers of the arena were shattered like cheap glass, hurling fragments of enchanted rock and solidified mana in all directions.

In the center of the newly created crater, he stood.

Shura.

Son of Shiva.

His body was a living work of war. Musculature too defined to appear human, marked by lines of red and gold energy that pulsed like embers beneath his skin. His long hair floated as if submerged in invisible fire, and his eyes… his eyes reflected nothing but destructive ecstasy.

He took a deep breath.

And smiled.

Before him, Angelo stood motionless.

His metallic wings were now fully extended, forming an almost angelic silhouette—if angels were made to kill gods. The sword was in a neutral position, pointed downwards, while internal systems recalculated at absurd speed.

Shura took a step.

The ground cracked.

"SO IT'S YOU," he shouted, his voice echoing like overlapping thunder. "THE MACHINE THAT KILLED THE MONKEY WITH THE STICK!"

Angelo didn't answer.

Shura laughed.

"GREAT!"

He advanced.

He didn't run.

He exploded forward.

The air crackled around his body as he crossed the distance in the blink of an eye, his right fist spinning in a wide arc, charged with cosmic energy and rhythmic destruction—a strike that was not just strength, but dance.

Angelo raised his sword.

The impact was deafening.

Shura's punch struck the blade with such force that the surrounding space collapsed for an instant, creating a visible distortion, as if reality had been forcibly bent. Shockwaves swept through the arena, destroying secondary barriers, causing Hephaestus' drones to lose stability.

Shura recoiled in the air, spinning his body like a dancer, using the impact itself to reposition himself.

Angelo slid a few meters back.

First unexpected variable recorded.

Shura landed with an impossible lightness for something so heavy.

"HAHAHA!" He opened his arms. "YOU CAN TAKE IT!"

Then he began to move.

And the entire coliseum held its breath.

Shura's movements were not ordinary martial arts. They were fragments of the Tandava Dance—Shiva's dance of cosmic destruction, adapted, corrupted, made brutally personal. Each step was a contained earthquake. Each spin generated unstable gravitational fields. Each punch carried enough divine intent to erase existences.

He attacked with arms, legs, elbows, knees—sometimes all at once.

Angelo blocked.

Dodged.

Calculated.

But, for the first time, he was forced to retreat continuously.

A spinning kick struck his left wing, deforming sacred metal plates. An elbow hit the chest of the armor, sinking ancient symbols. An upward punch launched Angelo into the heavens like a projectile.

Shura leaped after him.

Into the air.

Without wings.

Only sheer absurd strength and perfect control of their own bodies.

They collided again in the arena's sky, exchanging blows so fast that the sensors couldn't register each individual movement. Successive explosions illuminated the coliseum like a continuous storm.

Angelo tried to counterattack.

The sword cut in a precise arc, aiming for Shura's neck.

Shura caught the blade with both hands.

The sacred metal screamed.

"GOOD TRY!" Shura roared, spinning his body and using his own sword as leverage to hurl Angelo back to the ground.

Angelo fell like a meteor.

The impact opened a colossal crater.

Before the dust settled, Shura was already descending, his fist enveloped in black and red energy, condensed to the point of distorting light.

He punched the ground.

The arena split in two.

Cracks opened, revealing lower layers of containment, seals breaking in sequence. Energy leaked out like magma.

Angelo emerged from the crater in a violent jet of propulsion, his wings now fully extended, systems overloaded.

For the first time…

He attacked with total intent.

His wings fragmented into dozens of floating metallic blades, which shot in all directions like a storm of divine guillotines. At the same time, his sword was raised, channeling pure energy, too white to have color.

Shura didn't flinch.

He danced.

He spun his body, tilted his torso, flexed his legs at impossible angles. The blades passed centimeters from his skin, cutting the air, tearing chunks from the ground behind him.

One struck him in the shoulder.

Flesh ripped.

Blood flew.

Shura laughed even louder.

"THAT'S IT!" He pounded his fist against his own chest, spreading blood. "THAT'S HOW YOU FIGHT!"

He advanced again, ignoring the wounds, each step synchronized with an invisible cosmic pulse. His blows now came in rhythmic sequences, patterns that weren't random—they were mantras of destruction.

Angelo began to suffer.

Each block caused micro-failures.

Each impact forced recalibration.

Each second prolonged something new in the calculations: a real risk of defeat.

Shura realized. And he smiled even wider.

"YOU'RE LEARNING!" He spun, unleashing an absurd sequence of blows that pushed Angelo back, through columns, barriers, entire layers of the arena. "BUT I WAS BORN FOR THIS!"

He leaped high.

Very high.

Almost touching the edge of the coliseum dome.

There, he clasped his hands together.

The energy around him fell silent.

Even the gods stopped speaking.

"—TANDAVA."

He descended.

The final blow wasn't a punch.

It was an existential impact.

When Shura struck Angelo, the sound simply… disappeared. The world seemed to lose audio for a full second. The arena was engulfed in a wave of destruction so pure that there wasn't even an explosion—just concentrated annihilation.

When the sound returned, it was with a delayed rumble, making the entire coliseum tremble. Angelo was hurled away, piercing through multiple layers of containment until finally stopping, embedded in a colossal wall, his armor cracked in several places.

He didn't fall.

He was still active.

Shura landed in the center of the chaos, breathing heavily, his body covered in wounds, blood trickling, muscles tense.

He looked up at Angelo.

And a wild smile spread across his face.

"HEH…" he wiped the blood from his mouth. "NOW THIS IS INTERESTING."

Angelo moved.

It wasn't an advance.

It wasn't an announced attack.

It was a response.

The cracked plates of his armor rearranged themselves with a deep metallic snap, like bones being forcibly reassembled. Ancient symbols burned in gold and white along his body, not as blessings… but as final protocols being activated.

Angelo's eyes changed.

Before, they were empty.

Now, there were focal points.

He ripped his own body from the wall with a brutal pull, taking tons of rock and broken seals with him. The ground trembled as he landed—not with Shura's chaotic fury, but with something worse.

Precision.

Shura felt it.

And laughed.

"OH—?" he tilted his neck, his muscles still vibrating from the Tandava. "FINALLY GOING TO FIGHT PROPERLY?"

Angelo disappeared.

Not in speed.

In absence.

The space where he was simply ceased to contain him.

Shura instinctively spun his body, crossing his arms at the exact moment Angelo reappeared—an inch in front of his face—and the blow landed.

It wasn't a punch.

It was an absolute vector.

The force surged through Shura's arms, crushing his bones, piercing his torso, and launching him backward like a divine projectile, tearing through the air in a perfect straight line. He traversed three layers of the arena before stabilizing in mid-air, spitting blood and laughing like a maniac.

"HAHAHA— THAT'S IT!" he wiped his face with his broken forearm, which began to slowly regenerate. "THAT'S GOOD!"

Angelo didn't wait.

The wings disassembled and rebuilt themselves into a completely new formation: concentric circles of blades, spinning at different speeds, each carrying a distinct type of conceptual energy—matter-cutting, energy-cutting, existence-cutting.

He moved forward, walking.

Each step created geometric lines on the ground, as if reality were being forced to align with him.

Shura descended in freefall, spinning his body, gathering energy in his legs.

They collided in the center of the field.

The arena ceased to exist at that point.

The impact created a temporary void—a hole where neither light nor sound existed. When reality recomposed itself, a delayed explosion swept through the coliseum, causing even the gods to tilt in their seats.

Shura was launched upwards.

Angelo followed.

In the sky, they exchanged blows in a sequence completely illegible to any mortal spectator. Each impact generated overlapping energy patterns like shattered mandalas. Shura's Tandava Dance became wilder, faster, less restrained—he no longer danced only destruction, but personal annihilation.

Angelo began to adapt.

The blows that once pushed him back were now absorbed, redirected, analyzed. He began to attack not where Shura was, but where he needed to be to continue dancing.

A mistake.

Shura was struck in the flank.

Then in the chest.

Then in the face.

Blood splattered across the sky.

He fell.

He rolled across the destroyed ground, carving deep furrows, until he stopped on his knees, breathing heavily. For the first time, his smile faltered—not from fear… but from extreme excitement.

"You…" he spat blood, laughing. "You're trying to LEARN ME?"

Angelo responded.

His voice echoed throughout the entire arena, cold, amplified, inhuman:

—CONFIRMED. DESTRUCTIVE PATTERN: TANDAVA. ADAPTATION IN PROGRESS.

Shura burst into laughter.

"THEN COME!"

He stood up, his body now covered in luminous cracks. Energy escaped him like cosmic vapor. This was unsustainable. This was divine self-immolation.

He clasped his hands again.

But this time… something changed.

The rhythm of the dance forming around him was no longer Shiva's.

It was his.

Angelo advanced.

Shura descended.

Two disasters collided.

Meanwhile—

The broadcast split the screen.

Vergil was walking.

Bodies scattered around him. Fallen divine champions, unconscious, broken, alive only because he had allowed it. Yamato's sheath still rested in his hand, clean, as if it had never been used.

One last one tried to attack him from behind.

Vergil didn't look.

His aura expanded.

The attacker fell to the ground as if crushed by an invisible ocean.

Vergil sighed.

The field fell silent around him.

He slowly raised his gaze… and felt it.

Felt that presence.

That signature.

That strategic mind hiding behind faith and tactics.

A slight smile appeared on his face.

"Becoming more and more obvious…" he murmured.

He closed his eyes for a second.

And then he spoke, softly, but clearly enough to pierce through planes, transmissions, and divine wills: "Where are you, Athena?"

On the screen, Shura and Angelo collided again, and the entire coliseum began to crumble.