My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 699: Unexpected, fucking unexpected. What the hell was that?!
The Colosseum exists again.
Not as stone.
As expectation.
The stands recompose themselves in impossible layers, the artificial sky above the arena slowly rotates in shades of copper and crimson, and the ground—once marked by craters, blood, and scars—closes like an ancient wound that has learned to lie. Colossal runes light up around the perimeter, projecting symbols that belong not to a single culture, but to all that have ever understood the concept of killing to survive.
And then—
— "LADIES, GENTLEMEN, GODS, DEMONS, UNDEFINED CREATURES AND THOSE WHO SHOULD NOT HAVE PASSED TRIAGE—!"
The voice echoes with offensive glee.
Loki appears in the center of the arena in an explosion of green and gold light, hovering a few meters above the ground, arms outstretched as if about to receive applause from a theater that hasn’t yet decided whether it loves him or wants to see him dead.
He spins in the air, gives an exaggerated bow, and smiles.
That smile.
"—THE FIRST PHASE IS OVER!" he shouts, making golden blood illusions rain down, evaporating before touching the ground. "And congratulations to the survivors! To the dead... well, you already know how it works."
Some laughter erupts from the stands.
Others are boos.
Loki ignores them all with the mastery of someone who makes a living from it.
"Now!" he continues, snapping his fingers. Behind him, the arena floor breaks open.
It doesn’t sink.
It opens.
A colossal structure begins to slowly emerge from the subsoil: walls of living stone, corridors that fold back on themselves, staircases that lead nowhere, and doors that appear only to disappear seconds later.
The Labyrinth of Daedalus.
But not the original.
Not the clean, ingenious, almost elegant myth.
This one is different.
Deeper.
More cruel.
Pulsating runes run along the labyrinth’s walls like veins beneath translucent skin. Retractable blades appear and disappear in erratic patterns. The floor moves. The ceiling breathes. Some parts seem... to observe.
"Here you go!" Loki announces, spinning in the air like a circus ringmaster. "The Labyrinth of Daedalus, completely updated for—" he opens his arms with theatrical enthusiasm "—PURE CARNAGE!"
An illusory projection forms above the arena, showing corridors closing in on themselves, bodies being crushed, spears emerging from the walls, shadows pulling people into nothingness.
"We have deadly traps!" Loki says excitedly. "We have cruelly deadly traps! We have traps that only activate if you are too emotionally stable—"
He laughs.
"—because where have you ever seen that in a tournament like this, right?"
Some deities chuckle.
Others frown.
"And of course," Loki continues, walking through the air as if on an invisible stage, "the labyrinth changes! It learns! It adapts! The more you fight, the better it understands how to kill you!"
He points downwards.
"It’s almost like a living organism! A real gem!"
The air behind him distorts.
Not with light.
With pressure.
Something appears.
It doesn’t appear spectacularly.
It’s simply there.
Behind Loki.
A presence heavy enough to silence the entire coliseum in less than a second.
Scathach.
She is tall. Not just in stature, but in presence.
Her body is muscular, brutally and elegantly defined at the same time, like a weapon forged by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Her pale skin contrasts violently with the black markings that run across her body—ancient, irregular tribal symbols that look like tattoos... until you realize they aren’t ink.
They are battle inscriptions.
Ritualized scars.
Her red hair falls in long, wild waves, like untamed fire, cascading down her back and shoulders without any attempt at control. A few strands fall over her face, framing a crooked, dangerous smile that carries no humor whatsoever.
She wears strips of light fabric, wrapped practically and provocatively around her torso, revealing her strong, defined abdomen. It’s not armor. It’s a challenge. The rest of the attire follows the same logic: functional, minimal, made for someone who doesn’t expect to be hit.
Her arm rises.
WHACK.
The sound is dry.
Violent.
The slap hits Loki’s face with enough force to tear the air.
He goes flying.
Literally.
His body spins in the air like a discarded doll, crosses half the arena and crashes against the magical barrier with an impact that makes the runes tremble. The illusion of the sky fails for an instant.
Absolute silence.
Scathach lowers her arm slowly.
Looks ahead.
"Stop being an idiot," she says, her voice deep, firm, laden with quiet contempt. "And explain the traps properly, you fucking imbecile."
Some deities widen their eyes.
Others smile.
Loki falls to the ground on the other side of the arena, sprawling, smoke rising from where he collided.
Two seconds.
Three.
Then— pop.
He reappears beside her, unharmed, adjusting his imaginary collar.
"Good slap," he comments sincerely. "Eight out of ten. You lost a point for not trying to kill me."
Scathach casts a sideways glance that could end eras.
Loki clears his throat, regains his smile, and turns to the audience, now shouting with twice the excitement.
"SO THAT’S IT, MY DEARS!" he yells. "THE LABYRINTH WAS MADE BY THIS WONDERFUL, UNSTABLE, AND EXTREMELY VIOLENT GODDESS—!"
Scathach snaps her fingers.
Loki steps back half a meter.
"—AND IT WASN’T MADE TO BE FAIR!" he continues quickly. "IT WAS MADE TO TEST! TO BREAK! TO MAKE YOU REGRET BEING BORN WITH LEGS!" The labyrinth below shifts.
Corridors rearrange.
Doors disappear.
Something screams from within.
Loki opens his arms, laughing.
"NO FURTHER DELAY—!"
He points to the arena.
"—THE SECOND PHASE OF THE TOURNAMENT... IS ABOUT TO BEGIN!!!"
The runes explode in light.
And the Labyrinth of Daedalus opens its mouth.
The air stops.
It doesn’t slow down.
It doesn’t hesitate.
It stops. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶
At the exact instant Vergil appears.
There is no flashy portal, no explosion of energy, no showy effects. Space simply yields, as if reality had accepted that resisting would be a waste of time. Vergil is there, standing, a few steps from Loki, between him and the newly opened Labyrinth.
Silence falls like a blade.
Gods in the stands interrupt their laughter. Creatures that were moving freeze mid-gesture. Even the labyrinth itself seems to slow its internal movement, as if it were... curious.
Loki blinks.
Once.
Twice.
"...Hey," he says, raising his hands slowly, a nervous smile appearing like a trained reflex. "It’s not time yet, champ."
He points with his thumb over his shoulder, towards the wings.
"Go to your VIP area, wait for the teleport, everything organized, everything beautiful—"
WHACK.
The sound is different from Scathach’s slap.
Hers was brutal.
Vergil’s is... final.
His hand moves slightly. An almost lazy gesture. But the impact is so absolute that the air implodes around Loki’s face for a fraction of a second before exploding outwards.
Loki disappears.
He doesn’t fall.
It’s not thrown.
It’s launched.
The body pierces the air like a divine projectile, tearing through the space above the arena, passing through the first tier of stands, then the second, then the third. Barrier after barrier shatters like thin glass. Columns collapse. Runes fail in cascades.
It keeps flying.
And flying.
And flying.
Until it disappears beyond the horizon of the coliseum, leaving only a distorted trail in space, as if reality had been pushed out of place.
Absolute silence.
Vergil lowers his hand.
He shakes his fingers once, as if he’s just bumped something slightly uncomfortable.
"Boring," he comments, emotionlessly.
Then he turns his face.
He looks at Scathach.
Now, the silence changes in quality.
It’s no longer shock.
It’s pure expectation.
Scathach stands still, her four arms crossed over her chest, a posture too relaxed for someone who has just witnessed Loki being ejected from this place. Her red hair falls heavily down her back, the dark marks on her skin seem to throb slightly, reacting to Vergil’s presence like symbols recognizing equivalent danger.
She observes him with genuine attention.
Not hostile.
Not friendly.
Curious.
"You’re Scathach, right?" Vergil asks, his voice calm, almost casual, as if confirming someone’s name in a coffee shop.
She tilts her head slightly.
"I am," she replies bluntly. Her four arms remain crossed. "What do you want?"
Vergil analyzes her for a moment.
Not like a predator.
Like someone assessing... affinity.
He notices the marks, the musculature, the way she occupies the space without needing to dominate it by force. Notice how the labyrinth behind her seems to respond to her presence, like a war dog awaiting a command.
Then he smiles.
Not the cold smile of combat.
It’s a genuinely interested smile.
"I found you quite strong," he says. Simple. Direct. "Want to go out with me?"
The world freezes.
Not metaphorically.
For a real, tangible instant, the entire arena seems to fail to process the information.
Some deities widen their eyes as if they’ve heard an impossible logical error. Others lean forward, as if needing to confirm they heard correctly. Someone drops a goblet in some distant wing, and the sound echoes too loudly.
Even the labyrinth stops.
Scathach doesn’t respond immediately.
She blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Her four arms slowly uncross, not in aggression, but in... adjustment. An unconscious gesture from someone who has been deprived of a state of absolute control.
"You..." she begins, and stops.
She looks Vergil up and down.
She analyzes.
She reassesses.
"You just sent Loki flying for miles," she says, her tone carefully neutral. "You interrupted the opening phase. You completely ignored tournament protocol."
Vergil shrugs.
"He was talking too much."
A corner of Scathach’s mouth twitches.
It’s not quite a smile.
But it comes close.
"And now," she continues, "you’re asking me out."
"Uh-huh."
"During a divine tournament."
"Oh no, as soon as it’s over. I found you very beautiful. I like strong and beautiful women."
The silence stretches.
Then Scathach laughs.
It’s not a delicate laugh.
It’s a low, hoarse laugh, full of genuine surprise—the kind of laugh someone lets out when they never expected to be approached like that.
"You’re insane," she says.
Vergil tilts his head.
"I’ve heard that before."
She stares at him for a few more seconds. The air around her warms slightly, not with anger, but with contained excitement—not sexual, but intellectual. Challenge acknowledging challenge.
"After the phase," she says finally. "If you get out of my labyrinth alive."
Vergil smiles a little more.
"Fair enough."
She takes a step back, crossing her arms again.
"Now go," Scathach adds. "Before Loki comes back... or something worse."
Vergil turns, starting to walk away.
"Hey," she calls.
He looks over his shoulder.
"Do you have a name?"
"Vergil."
She repeats mentally. "Vergil," Scathach says. "Do not die."
He replies without turning completely.
"I don’t plan to."
Space folds again.
Vergil disappears.
The arena explodes in murmurs.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!!!" Loki comes screaming from the fifth circle of hell where he stopped, he comes marching with his face all bloody, "DAMN IT, I, LOKI, WILL—"
"Shut up." Scathach said, starting to leave the arena. "Touch him and I’ll kill you." She continued leaving. "Start this shit already."
Loki swallows hard, "Damn it, being the god of mischief sucks, I wish I was a God of War to have the strength to send this b*tch—" He couldn’t even finish before a Divine spear impaled him, not to kill him, but just to remind him.
