My Wives are Beautiful Demons

A few days ago, before Vergil had left the Prison.

Footsteps echoed in the void of the Underworld, reverberating through the bones of a world that seemed to have stopped breathing.

Dante walked slowly, his shoulders heavy. Each step a reminder of the recent loss—and of the coming chaos. When he finally stopped, a presence emerged from the shadows.

"You did well to retreat, Dante," the man said, his voice cool and controlled. "You lost your beloved toy, yes. And getting it back will be… difficult. But that is far from our greatest problem right now."

He stepped closer to Dante, following his gaze to the empty space before them—a distorted magical screen, or perhaps just the weight of what was to come.

"The project failed, huh? The behelith is at least safe," he muttered, and for a moment, his expression twisted in frustration. Soon, however, the mask of calculated indifference returned. "Ever since we met that man… fate has been a constant plague."

Dante remained still, the tension evident even in his breathing.

"We have a problem."

Despite his neutral tone, it was clear that he was furious. Losing Spectre was a blow—but Seraphina's absence was what really threw him off balance.

The man beside him didn't respond immediately. He just watched silently, as if calculating the future developments.

Receiving death threats was routine for Dante. But few beings in the world could truly shake his defenses. And one of them was now moving among the pieces on the board.

"This has become even more… problematic," the man said finally. "After all, it's not just anyone we fear facing. Especially in this day and age."

The man turned slowly. "Sepphirothy Lucifer," he said bitterly. "That's how she introduces herself now. She's taken the Father's name… as her surname. Just like the Son." The man rubbed his temples, visibly irritated. "That idiot Spectre... I warned you he was unstable. And now he's gone after the most protected man in this world." He snorted. "You should have consulted me."

"I didn't know who she was," Dante replied through gritted teeth, angry at both the situation and himself.

"Yeah, no one would have. If only you'd asked me." He spoke angrily. "I don't understand why that damn Demon King was so obsessed with finding his troupe of children." He growled.

"Spectre almost killed Viviane," Dante retorted darkly. "The blacksmith of Excalibur. And he seriously injured Vergil. He used curses that... I didn't even know still existed."

"It doesn't justify it," the man cut in coldly.

"Is there a justification for madness?"

A long silence fell between the two. Only the echoes of the Underworld's void seemed to answer—cold, eternal.

"…No," the man finally replied, his gaze distant. "But there are consequences. And now, we're going to feel every single one of them."

The situation was, for all intents and purposes, a complete disaster.

The Underworld had elevated its hierarchy of power in a frightening way. Amon. Sapphire. Sepphirothy. Three entities that should not coexist on the same plane—monsters over six thousand years old, demonic pseudo-gods who were perilously close to the threshold of divinity.

If any of them discovered how to absorb or accumulate true divinity… then the world would have, indisputably, evil gods in their purest form. For now, they seemed to ignore that path. Thankfully.

But for how long?

And now, there were other names on the board.

Raphaeline. Stella. Cabernet. And now… this man.

Vergil.

The man in front of the magic screen exuded tension. He watched the images before him with heavy eyes, his pupils like sharp slits bored into the unfolding chaos.

"Shit…" he muttered.

He turned to Dante.

"How are our negotiations with that witch going?"

Dante crossed his arms in annoyance. "The Queen said she's busy. That she doesn't get involved in worldly matters… especially dramas between demons. But it's clear she's doing something around here. More witches have been appearing from time to time in the Underworld, and they leave quickly."

But then, as he turned the hologram… The man frowned. "…"

He rotated the image on the screen with a magical gesture. Spies had reported strange movements. The most powerful witch in the Nine Realms not only isolated herself in her personal Dimension, but was now often seen with a child. She took the girl up and down, always toward that hidden realm where time did not flow linearly.

The Queen of Witches.

That indecipherable bitch. He hated that—that he couldn't predict, control, or even understand her actions.

She made no sense.

Why had she isolated herself? Why a child? What was the real connection to Vergil? None of it added up.

And yet, she had the supernatural world in the palm of her hand.

Nowadays, no one could live without the witches' wares. Potions that replaced months of training. Enchantments that made it possible to travel between dimensions as if they were neighboring neighborhoods. Rituals that healed mortal wounds in seconds.

It was like the human addiction to cell phones.

She monopolized everything—trade with the elves of Alfheim, contracts with the dwarves of Nidavellir, influence even in Muspelheim and Helheim. She was the only one who dealt with all of the Nine Realms…and yet she did absolutely nothing with that power.

Nothing. Not a war, not an uprising, not even a declaration.

It disturbed him deeply. Because true power was the kind that didn't need to move to control.

"We have enough problems to deal with," he said finally, sitting down heavily in an enchanted chair. "And we have no room for error anymore."

Dante, standing before him, kept his posture tense. "How about we just kill him with that thing?"

The man narrowed his eyes. "No. That's too risky. If it goes wrong, we lose total control. But…"

He paused.

"We can use that thing."

Dante's eyes widened. "You don't mean the—"

"Exactly. Walpurgis is coming. The Great Banquet of the Demon Kings." He smiled, though without humor. "Why don't we give the Gremory princess a little push with that thing around her neck?"

Dante hesitated. "You mean… provoke the Dragon?"

"Yes. A grand event. A spectacle." He stood, his eyes shining with cold malice. "Where an ancient, angry dragon… destroys everything. Including him."

…

In a room where the darkness was thicker than pitch black—where the shadow itself seemed to whisper forgotten secrets—a figure sat upon a throne carved from the bones of extinct creatures and rooted in the beating heart of the World Tree. Living branches writhed subtly around the structure, emitting a dull, emerald glow.

The Witch Queen stood there, slowly polishing her staff made of living wood and ancient bones, her gaze fixed on nothing, and yet... on everything.

Then, with a voice that reverberated through every layer of the Ether, she spoke:

"Tell me, my daughter..."

FUSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

The room shook. Magic circles lit up like inverted moons on the ceiling, the floor, the walls—even the air.

Each one with runes from different forgotten civilizations.

One by one, the candles lit themselves, burning with silvery-blue flames.

In the center of the hall, among spirals of glassy smoke, an image began to take shape.

Morgana LaFey...

Imposing and serene, wearing a dress made of enchanted mist and fragments of moonlight, she materialized with her arms crossed and a tired expression...

"Well..." said the Queen, lowering her staff with a pale-lipped smile and eyes hidden by a vivid shadow, as if the universe itself feared to look at her directly. "How are you, my most precious and rebellious daughter?".

Morgana sighed heavily. "I know you wouldn't call me just to talk, Mama."

The Queen's face was still covered by a black mist that Morgana's own enchantments could not dispel—a living mask of absolute secrecy. But it wasn't necessary to see her face to know who she was. That kind of presence couldn't be faked.

"Tell me…" The Queen's voice sounded like whispering thunder, "Tell me about the new Demon King."

Morgana hesitated. A heavy silence formed. A hesitation… rare. As rare as a double eclipse.

The Queen arched an invisible eyebrow. "Hesitation? From you? Why, my most poisonous flower?"

Morgana took a deep breath, her eyes closed for a moment.

"Because I don't want to break my relationship with him. If you want to meet him… do it in person." She said calmly, but bowed slightly, respectfully, trying to avoid confrontation.

The Queen inclined her head. The air in the room seemed to freeze.

"Are you… denying me something?" Her voice slid like blades caressing glass.

Morgana stood up. Her posture was firm, but her voice soft:

"Seek what attracts you... and attract what you seek. A witch's priority must be herself. That is the Way."

She paused, her eyes fixed on the living mist of her mother's face. "And that is my choice, Mother."

The throne creaked as if it were laughing. The blur on the Queen's face began to dissolve. First, a faint outline of her mouth. Then, her eyes. And then—

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

A deafening, extravagant, prideful laugh exploded in the hall like a gale of madness and jubilation. The walls shook. The Queen's staff pulsed in response, emitting mystical notes that only arcane beings could understand.

"OH, MORGANA! YOU HAVE GROWN SO MUCH!" she cried, throwing her head back in theatrical ecstasy, like a demonic diva in her prime. "YOU CAN EVEN SAY 'NO' TO ME!"

She leaned forward, her eyes now visible—two black flames in silver spirals. A monstrous, maternal smile distorted her face into something that bordered on the sublime and the terrifying.

"YES. YES, I WANT TO MEET HIM!" she exclaimed. "I want to see him with my own enchanted eyes. The man who made you hesitate, who broke your balance, who made you love! Hihihihihihi... How fun!"

She slammed her staff against the ground.

THUUUMMM.

'I want to meet him!!!'