My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 703: Lost in the Labyrinth

Vergil put his hands in his pockets and began to walk calmly.

Without haste.

Without hesitation.

The corridor before him seemed like all the others—dark stone, massive blocks perfectly fitted together, joints marked by runes as thin as veins beneath the surface. The illumination didn’t come from torches or visible crystals; the structure itself emitted a diffuse, bluish glow that made the shadows too dense to be natural.

The sound of his footsteps echoed in a controlled manner.

There was no long reverberation.

The labyrinth absorbed sound.

Just as it absorbed energy.

Just as it absorbed intention.

He turned right.

The corridor stretched for dozens of meters before opening into a circular chamber. The ceiling was vaulted, supported by stone ribs that intertwined like ribs. In the center, there was an empty pedestal—too smooth, too purposeful.

Vergil didn’t approach.

He walked along the edge of the room, observing.

The runes on the walls were arranged in spiral patterns, but not fixed ones. They rearranged slowly, like pieces of a living mechanism. It wasn’t an illusion. He could feel the microscopic displacement of mana guiding that reorganization.

"It’s not just physical reconfiguration," he murmured.

It was mutable logic.

He closed his eyes for a moment, not to expand energy—that had already proven useless—but to analyze the local flow. Each room seemed to have a runic "heart," a small core responsible for deciding when and how the walls would move.

He opened his eyes.

The exit he had entered through was no longer the same.

There were three corridors now.

He chose the one on the left.

Not because it seemed promising.

But because it didn’t seem so.

The first few meters were narrow, almost claustrophobic. The walls came close enough that the shoulders of someone taller would brush against the stone. The ceiling descended slightly, forcing a lower posture—subtle, but intentional.

Scáthach wasn’t just creating a labyrinth.

She was modulating the participants’ mental state.

Spatial compression.

Sensory isolation.

Gradual disorientation.

The corridor ended abruptly.

Dead end.

Vergil stopped before the smooth wall.

No door.

No crack.

No prominent rune.

He tilted his head slightly.

"Interesting."

He knew he had consciously chosen a less efficient path. He knew he could test the vibrations before turning. He knew he could look for micro-variations in the runic flow that would indicate more "stable" corridors.

But he didn’t.

He was allowing it.

Testing the limits.

He returned the same way.

The circular room had changed.

Now the central pedestal had a small crack at the top. He ignored it.

He chose another corridor.

This one led him to a series of sharp angles. Corridors that bent every few meters, creating a constant sense of curve. There wasn’t a straight line long enough to establish a reference point.

The runes here were different.

Fewer spirals.

More fractals.

Patterns that repeated themselves at different scales, confusing the perception of depth.

Vergil stopped in the middle of one of these curves.

He touched the wall.

The stone was cold.

But the mana beneath it was... displaced.

He narrowed his eyes.

The runes weren’t just changing position.

They were altering orientation.

North wasn’t north.

East wasn’t east.

The runic structure redefined the internal vectors of space.

He took a step back.

"It’s interfering with directional perception."

Not just in the physical sense. But in concept.

The labyrinth wasn’t confusing because it had many paths.

It was confusing because it made the notion of "direction" irrelevant.

He tried to establish an internal axis.

A continuous mental line based on his own steps.

He walked ten meters.

He turned.

He counted.

He went back.

When he returned to the starting point of the curve, the slope of the ground had changed by an almost imperceptible degree.

Enough to break the reference point.

Vergil remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he chuckled softly.

"Scáthach..."

It wasn’t irritation.

It was genuine admiration.

He continued.

Another room.

Rectangular this time.

Columns arranged in symmetrical rows.

The ceiling higher.

The sound of his footsteps echoed differently here—drier.

He walked to the center.

The floor had small movable plates.

Pressure trap.

He shifted slightly to the side, avoiding activating any mechanism.

The columns had carvings.

Not decorative.

Informative.

But not in common language.

It was a mixture of Celtic ogham with ancient Greek variations and something deeper—a structural layer not meant to be read, but to influence.

He ran his fingers over one of the carvings.

The rune vibrated.

For a moment, he felt an inversion. Non-spatial.

Conceptual.

As if the labyrinth had asked:

"Are you sure you’re going forward?"

He let go of the column.

"No."

He turned right.

Another corridor.

Another turn.

Another dead end.

This time, the dead end had a statue.

A faceless figure, holding a broken sword.

The blade pointed towards the ground.

Vergil watched for a few seconds.

Nothing happened.

He passed the statue.

The wall behind it closed.

He was in a new chamber.

Square.

No visible doors.

He didn’t react.

He just walked to the center.

The walls began to move slowly.

Not closing.

Rotating.

The entire room was rotating.

But without any sensation of movement.

He closed his eyes.

He felt the mana.

The rotation wasn’t physical.

It was internal guidance.

Space was being redefined.

When he opened his eyes, there was only one way out.

He walked through it.

"I’m choosing dead ends," he murmured to himself.

Conscious.

Deliberate.

He wanted to see how far the labyrinth’s logic held up.

He wanted to understand the pattern of error.

But the further he advanced, the more he realized:

There was no error.

Each dead end wasn’t useless.

It was an adjustment.

A test of response.

A recalibration of perception.

He entered another room.

This one was irregular.

The walls didn’t form right angles.

They were slightly inclined.

The ceiling had cracks through which a more intense light penetrated.

On the floor, concentric circles marked the stone.

He stepped on the first one.

Nothing.

The second.

A slight vibration.

The third—

The floor sank an inch.

Blades emerged from the side walls.

Vergil was no longer there.

He moved back before the blades completed their arc.

They retracted.

He observed the circles.

"Chain reaction."

He could go through.

But he chose to leave.

Another corridor.

More curves.

More rooms.

Time passed.

Minutes.

Perhaps more.

He didn’t feel lost.

But he recognized that he was being led to decisions that led to dead ends.

Consciously choosing places that didn’t advance.

Testing.

Learning.

He stopped before a seemingly ordinary wall.

He ran his hand over it.

Nothing.

He took two steps back.

He observed the junction with the ceiling.

A microvariation in the thickness of the rune.

He touched it.

The wall dissolved into mana dust.

Revealing another corridor.

He entered.

This one was different.

Too silent.

No visible traps.

No changing walls.

Long.

Straight.

He walked for almost fifty meters before realizing:

It was too long.

The labyrinth avoided long straight lines.

This was intentional.

He stopped.

He turned around.

The corridor seemed shorter now.

He started walking again.

And finally—

The space opened.

A large room.

Hexagonal.

The high ceiling supported by six pillars sloping inwards.

In the center—

Something different.

Not an empty pedestal. No visible trap.

A monolith of black stone, smooth as obsidian.

And before it, on the ground, a circle of fixed runes.

Fixed.

Not moving.

Vergil stopped at the entrance.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

The air here was different.

No more directional confusion.

No more reconfiguration.

It was static.

Deliberately static.

He walked to the edge of the runic circle.

The inscriptions were complex.

But not defensive.

They were... interrogative.

On the monolith, carved in ancient silver, was an inscription.

Not in common language.

But translatable.

He read silently.

"Only he who understands the path can advance without walking."

He tilted his head slightly.

"An enigma."

Finally.

He surveyed the entire room.

All six walls had closed doors.

No doorknobs.

No cracks.

The floor inside the runic circle was slightly lighter.

He stepped inside.

The runes glowed softly.

The monolith vibrated.

The inscription changed.

Now it read:

"That which moves without leaving its place, guides without pointing, and exists even when there is no ground?"

Vergil fell silent.

The labyrinth wasn’t just testing strength.

Nor perception.

It was testing comprehension.

He crossed his arms slowly.

A slight smile appeared.

"Interesting, Scáthach..."

The Minotaur roared in the distance again.

...

[Elsewhere in the labyrinth...]

Alice sat comfortably in the open hand of a nearly four-meter-tall stone golem. The creature was made of irregular blocks, joined by golden veins of energy that pulsed to the rhythm of her will. Her eyes shone a soft blue, devoid of self-awareness—completely submissive.

She swung her legs slightly in the air, like a child sitting on a windowsill.

The room she was in was vast.

Much wider than the narrow corridors other participants faced. The floor was dark volcanic stone, marked by natural cracks from which an orange glow escaped. The heat was constant, but not stifling.

In the center of the room, a creature stood tall.

A fire-breathing dragon.

Its body was long, muscular, covered in incandescent red scales. Thick smoke billowed from its nostrils with each breath, and its vertical eyes glowed like live embers. Flames dripped from its half-open mouth, falling to the floor like liquid lava.

It growled.

The sound reverberated off the walls.

The golem beneath Alice automatically took a step forward.

She didn’t seem impressed.

She didn’t seem excited.

Just... slightly bored.

The dragon spread its short wings and launched a concentrated jet of fire in their direction.

The flame struck the golem.

And simply dispersed.

The golden energy in the creature’s veins absorbed the impact effortlessly.

Alice tilted her head.

"Ah."

She raised her right hand.

She pointed her index finger at the dragon.

Expressionless.

No elaborate preparation. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

No visible magic circle.

"Goodbye."

The word came out softly.

The effect was instantaneous.

There was no explosion.

No prolonged scream.

The dragon’s body simply lost cohesion. The scales disintegrated into shimmering particles, the flames collapsed inward, and in less than two seconds the entire creature evaporated like vapor in the sun.

The heat in the room dropped slightly.

Only silence remained.

The golem remained motionless, waiting.

Alice sighed.

"These are rather weak..."

She rested her chin on her hand, still seated in the golem’s palm, and looked around with distracted curiosity.

It was then that she noticed something different.

The ceiling.

That room wasn’t completely closed.

Above it, occupying almost the entire upper vault, was a thick, laminated glass panel. Uncommon—reinforced by multiple layers of runes, metallic filaments, and stabilizing symbols.

But still... glass.

Through it, it was possible to see the sky.

The real sky of the Colosseum.

Blue.

With clouds slowly drifting by.

Alice leaned back, resting on the edge of the golem’s hand to get a better look.

"Ah..."

A small smile appeared on her lips.

"You can see the sky here..."

She blinked slowly.

"How cute."

The natural light illuminated her hair, creating soft reflections. It was a strange contrast to the interior of the labyrinth—warm, closed, mechanical.

She swung her feet again.

"Was it Scáthach who did this? Or was it Loki who asked for a dramatic touch?"

The golem rotated its torso slightly, adjusting its position to maintain balance as she moved.

Alice looked away, as if trying to see something beyond the glass.

"Hmm..."

She tilted her head.

"Where’s Daddy?"

Her voice held no real concern.

It was curiosity.

"It must be difficult not being able to get out of those directional runes."

She clicked her tongue.

"They’re quite clever."

Her eyes gleamed slightly golden for a moment.

She could feel the system.

Not completely.

But enough.

The directional runes were scattered like a three-dimensional network throughout the labyrinth. Not just on the walls—on the floor, the ceiling, the intermediate corridors themselves. They distorted vectors, confused spatial reading, scrambled internal references.

Vergil had probably already noticed.

And was probably enjoying analyzing it.

Alice gave a low chuckle.

"He must be choosing the most useless paths on purpose. Dad is too amazing to be affected by such poor runes."