My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 583
Chapter 583: The Infinite Pantheon
[The Infinite Pantheon]
A place that existed on no known plane, suspended between time and nothingness. A colossal coliseum, erected around an abyss of pure light, where the fabric of reality shimmered like a liquid mirror.
There, every stand was made of celestial gold and divine obsidian. Each column supported not only the roof, but entire eons of faith and worship. Thousands of ancient languages echoed in chants, and the air vibrated with the force of countless immortal presences.
Gods.
All of them.
From all worlds, planes, and realms—from the creators of stars to the patrons of war and death.
Entities that ruled the sea, fire, fate, and chaos. Some were made of flesh and energy. Others, of pure concept without appearance, and of course, those famous ones with beautiful appearances that shocked mortals who saw them.
And yet, they were all there—gathered for a single purpose: to observe what was to come.
A heavy murmur rippled through the stands like a living wave.
Sacred names, ancient disputes, feuds that had shaped universes were whispered amidst the sound of cosmic winds.
Until he moved.
On the central throne—made of storm and time—an old man leaned forward.
His eyes, two living stars, slowly opened, sending flashes of blue energy across the hall. Lightning streaked across his skin like electric serpents, and his white hair gleamed with the light of a thousand suns.
One of the First God Kings, a force truly worthy of praise.
“Here we go again…” The murmur was low, but the echo spread like thunder to every corner of the coliseum.
The Gods stopped their conversations.
The old man rested his chin on his hand, surveying the ordered chaos before him. Gods of all sizes—some as immense as mountains, others small enough to hold a teardrop. The air smelled of cosmic incense and divine iron, and each breath vibrated the space at multiple frequencies.
In the center of the coliseum, a circle of light began to expand, revealing the symbol of an ancient pact: the Conclave of the Eternals—the gathering of the gods of all worlds, convened only when the balance of the planes was about to crumble… or when they were bored.
The old man sighed, the sound closer to suppressed thunder.
From his arm, sparks danced, forming the outline of a colossal hammer—not forged by hands, but born of lightning itself.
He raised it, and the movement was enough to distort the air.
The clouds around the throne parted, revealing the golden abyss below the coliseum—where billions of souls and worlds floated like shards of glass in an ocean of energy.
The gods fell completely silent.
The old man looked up—where the constellations trembled beneath the presence of that assembly—and murmured, in a weary, almost human tone, “Well…”
Then he slammed his hammer against the armrest of the throne.
The sound reverberated like the thunder of a thousand lightning bolts.
The entire coliseum shook.
The voices ceased.
The stars bowed.
“Since I got this from Thor… this hammer is quite capable…” he murmured.
And in the next instant, absolute silence fell.
All the gods—from the youngest to the oldest—bowed their heads in respect. None dared to move.
Time stood still.
The thunder died away, and silence once again filled the Colosseum of the Gods.
The figure on the throne rose, now completely transformed.
The wrinkled, weary old man was gone—before them stood Zeus, king of the heavens.
His body gleamed like newly forged bronze, and each breath made the air crackle with electricity. His short beard gleamed with golden light, and his eyes—two living storms—ran the divine auditorium with disdain.
“Well…” he began, rolling his shoulder as if awakening from a long slumber. “It seems everyone is here.”
His voice reverberated among the columns of the Colosseum, echoing to the ends of the planes. Some gods in the stands stirred, others ignored him. It was always like this.
Zeus gave a brief, humorless smile. “How long has it been since the last conference? A century? Two?” He shook his head and shrugged. “Oh, whatever.” Too many years had passed anyway.
A soft thunderclap accompanied the snap of his fingers. From his hand, lightning condensed, materializing the mythical hammer that glowed with the power of a Norse god: Mjölnir.
The younger gods sighed. Some chuckled quietly.
It was typical of Zeus—stealing, playing, teasing.
He turned the hammer in his fingers, examining it as if holding a new toy.
“Very well,” he continued, perching himself once more on the golden throne. “We should begin, shall we?”
As he spoke, a golden aura began to envelop his body. The wrinkles disappeared. His hair once again shone like molten gold. Aged flesh gave way to perfect, divinely sculpted muscles.
The rejuvenation of the gods—a silent reminder that time, here, was merely a formality.
An ethereal chorus echoed in the background, and the floating runes on the ceiling aligned, sealing the beginning of the conference.
Zeus’s voice rang out clearly:
“As usual… we gather to discuss the vagaries of the universe. Catastrophes, prophecies, disputes.” He paused, then smiled, revealing teeth as white as lightning itself. “But this time, I believe everyone knows the reason.”
The silence that followed was heavy, almost palpable.
Until he broke it himself, with a tone of false casualness:
“Let’s decide on the Celestial Tournament, shall we?”
The audience reacted with subdued murmurs. The name alone was enough to cause discomfort. It was the kind of event that changed destinies—an arena where gods, demigods, and chosen ones of the ages competed for glory and the rewriting of their worlds.
An ancient tradition… and a diplomatic nightmare.
As Zeus savored the silence, a long, irritated sigh echoed through the hall.
“Ah… what a pain.”
The sound came from the eastern wing of the Colosseum, where a blue-skinned, four-armed figure lounged lazily on a throne of dried flowers.
Shiva.
He was barefoot, wearing only a light cloak draped over his shoulders and gold ornaments that dangled lazily from his wrists. His eyes, always half-lidded, now stared at Zeus with the same boredom of someone watching a play repeated a thousand times.
“Seriously, Zeus…” Shiva said, resting his chin on one hand. “Are we really going to pretend this is important?” I could be meditating, sleeping, or dancing. Anything would be more productive than listening to you brag while holding another god’s hammer.
An amused murmur ran through the stands. Some hid their laughter; others simply looked away, fearing the reaction.
Zeus arched an eyebrow and spun Mjölnir in the air, lightning streaking through the air.
“Jealous, Shiva? Want me to lend it to you for a while?” His tone was teasing, almost childish.
Shiva snorted, giving a cynical smile. “Lending something you stole doesn’t make you generous, Zeus. It just makes you consistently irritating.”
Before the tension could escalate, a calm, sharp female voice interrupted:
“I agree with Shiva, Lord Zeus.” All eyes turned to the north side of the coliseum, where a woman with long, midnight-black hair sat cross-legged, watching them with silver eyes.
The blade resting on her knee gleamed—a divine katana, its ancient inscriptions seemingly moving like wind over water.
It was Suzanoo, the Goddess of Storms and sister of the Eastern moon gods.
She spoke elegantly, but the weight in her voice could silence entire seas.
“It’s as Shiva-sama said,” she continued, crossing her legs with studied grace. “These tournaments bring nothing but wounds, inflated egos, and shattered worlds.” Her eyes narrowed. “And yet, you insist on calling them ‘tradition.'”
Zeus watched her for a moment, the smile fading, replaced by something more ancient and calculated.
“Suzanoo… always so poetic.” He rested his chin on his hand, regarding her with interest. “But tell me, goddess of storms… if the tournament is so useless, why did you come?”
Suzanoo smiled slightly, the kind of smile that precedes thunder.
“I just came to see what’s so special this time… since it seems someone different came up with the idea this time.”
Suzanoo’s gaze cut through the room like a blade.
She turned slowly, the metallic gleam of her katana reflecting the golden light of the runes, and pointed her chin in the opposite direction of the Colosseum.
“I’m very curious.”
Her voice echoed cold, almost lazy, but the silence that followed was deafening.
All eyes, gods and entities from hundreds of planes, turned to the same spot.
There, beyond the obsidian columns and the ethereal flames floating in the air, she stood.
The air shifted.
The divine lights flickered, and even the stars suspended above the Colosseum seemed to dim for an instant.
The space around the figure warped into subtle circles, as if the very fabric of reality bowed in respect.
Yama.
The whispered name ran among the gods like a forbidden prayer.
Goddess. Judge. Guardian of the dead.
The Lady of the Underworld, ruler of cycles and final judgment.
But what emerged from the shadows was not what many expected.
There was nothing monstrous, nothing grotesque.
What was revealed was perfection—a harmony of celestial beauty and absolute terror.
Yama walked with the grace of a priestess and the majesty of an empress.
Her bare feet touched the ground soundlessly, and the translucent veil covering part of her body fluttered as if it breathed with her.
Her skin had a cold, pearly glow that wavered between pale and gray—like moonlit marble.
Her long, black hair flowed to her waist, moving with its own rhythm, as if it had a will.
And her eyes…
Ah, her eyes.
One was golden, radiant like the sun in an ancient temple.
The other was black as a total eclipse—no light, no reflection, only emptiness and power.
Around her neck, thin chains of gold and jade intertwined. On her wrist, tiny bells dangled, tinkling a barely perceptible sound that made the hearts of the gods beat erratically.
And behind her… the shadows.
Thousands of them.
Distorted shapes, silhouettes of dead kings, spirits, and judges of hell.
All bowed.
All serving her.
She stopped at the edge of the Colosseum’s light, and the contrast between the darkness that followed her and the glow of the runes made her figure seem even more unreal—a perfect paradox between life and death, grace and destruction.
Yama smiled.
And that gesture—simple, restrained—made even the oldest gods shift uncomfortably.
“Now, Suzanoo…” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it echoed like a chant across the planes. “What a rude way to address a hostess.”
She inclined her head slightly, and one of the bells on her wrist rang, pure and crystalline.
Instantly, the souls under her command knelt.
Zeus rested his chin on his fist, watching her with interest. The lightning around his shoulders dimmed, almost as if the thunder itself were paying attention.
“Yama…” he murmured, a smirk appearing. “Always a spectacle in itself.”
She stared at him—and for an instant, the Colosseum seemed to become a courtroom.
“Spectacle?” she repeated, arching a delicate eyebrow. “I prefer to call it balance.”
Zeus let out a soft laugh. “Ah, of course. Balance…” He gestured with his free hand, as if toying with the concept. “The perfect excuse for anyone who wants to play referee without getting their hands dirty.”
Yama didn’t answer immediately. He just watched him—and under that double gaze, even the King of Heaven felt something rare: weight.
Then she spoke, calmly and precisely:
“The tournament has existed ever since you decided to play at creating universes.”
She took a step forward, and each word she uttered seemed to make the ground tremble slightly. “When there is excess… when power overflows… when worlds begin to clash and break the rules that sustain the whole… the Celestial Tournament takes place.”
The gods looked at each other. The atmosphere grew denser.
Shiva raised an eyebrow curiously.
“Are you saying the balance is breaking again?”
Yama turned his gaze to him.
“It isn’t. It’s already broken. Or do you think it’s normal for so many factions… to have power and equality in this world? Demons, Fallen Angels, Werewolves, Heroes, Vampires… Witches.”