My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 635

Capítulo 635: Happy Empresses

Vergil ventured into himself—not as a poetic metaphor, but in an absolute and conscious dive, allowing his perception to spill into the most intimate layers of his soul. It was a path that very few dared to tread. Not even ancient demons, masters of centuries of carnage, willingly faced the abyss of their own essence.

But Vergil did not retreat. He knew every shadow that had shaped him, every luminous fissure that resisted existing, every scar that had become ingrained in his being long before he possessed a name.

When his consciousness finally stabilized, the mental world emerged around him with the delicacy of a restrained sigh.

And the most unsettling thing: it was a serene sigh.

Stretching beneath his feet, an endless field of red spider lilies undulated like a living ocean. The petals, thin and curved, trembled in an almost respiratory rhythm, as if that soil had its own pulse. The air carried a sweet, metallic scent, an aroma impossible to define: part flower, part blood, part memory. The wind, if it could be called that, neither howled nor howled; it moved with a silent reverence, as if recognizing Vergil as something intrinsic to that plane—and yet, something to be treated with ritual distance.

On the horizon, two structures tore through the dreamlike landscape with colossal grandeur.

The first, closer, was a demonic temple whose architecture was as precise as it was cruel. Its columns resembled the ribs of a colossal fossilized creature, and its arches seemed like blades about to close on anyone who dared cross its threshold. A cold, bluish light seeped through the cracks like the panting breath of a sleeping titan.

Further away, almost touching the scarlet firmament, rose a blood sakura of immeasurable proportions. Its branches twisted like exposed arteries, expanding in slow, organic movements, following a deep pulse—an entire heart suspended in the center of the sky.

Each falling petal left a crimson trail in the air, disappearing before touching the ground, like memories burned before they could manifest.

Vergil narrowed his eyes, studying this impossible panorama. His mental world used to be a fractured, noisy labyrinth, torn apart by internal conflicts that never ceased. There, order never lasted—everything was movement, chaos, combat.

But now… everything rested. Calm. Frighteningly calm.

Which, of course, meant that something out of the ordinary was happening.

He noticed the first anomaly when he turned his head.

Itharine was there, seated as if it were the most natural thing in the world, delicately sipping tea at a black marble table. Her human form was precise, elegant, enveloped in a dark dress that seemed to move like smoke. Her eyes—serene wells of inevitability—rose gently as she noticed Vergil. Death, the Knight, the ultimate incarnation of the End… within his soul as if at home.

And with her, conversing in absolute tranquility…

Qliphoth.

The Infernal World Tree.

The one that had grown from his own blood.

The one that had already almost consumed an entire world.

Now, in a humanoid female form, elegant, translucent, every fiber of her skin resembling rivers of scarlet sap flowing within glass.

The two were having tea.

In their mental world.

With fine porcelain.

Vergil looked away for a moment—not because he was uncomfortable, but because… this was simply strange even by his standards.

Itharine raised her cup.

Qliphoth nodded politely.

“Master,” Itharine greeted, in a calm voice that seemed to traverse centuries. “Hello, young one,” Qliphoth said, almost sweetly.

He opened his mouth to reply, but didn’t have time.

Above, the sky tore open.

Two humanoid figures in combat plummeted through the air, dueling with such perfect violence and grace that the air screamed around them. One was pure silver, white light refracted into scales and long hair that flowed like liquid metal.

The other was a scarlet hurricane, crimson dragon wings that cut through the fabric of reality with each strike.

Nivara.

Platinum Dragon Empress.

Crymsaria.

Scarlet Dragon Empress.

The two were fighting again—as they always did—testing limits, destroying small portions of the sky that then regenerated as if nothing had happened. It was an ancient, familiar, almost routine spectacle.

But they sensed Vergil.

And the entire mental world seemed to hold its breath in a collective gasp.

Nivara stopped first, hovering in the air with a blinding glow. Crymsaria took another second, probably because she was about to strike her sister in the face—but, noticing Vergil, she dodged and landed on the ground in a column of flames.

The two Empresses rushed toward him at the same time, like two storms determined to strike the same point.

“VERGIL!”

“FINALLY!”

They stopped right in front of him, both so intense that even the field of lilies seemed to tilt slightly.

Nivara placed her hands on her hips, sun-drenched in indignation. “You should have come sooner!”

Crymsaria crossed her arms, her wings folding back. “We wanted to talk to you!”

Vergil blinked.

Then, slowly, he tilted his head.

“And why,” he asked with absolute calm, “didn’t you simply call me?”

The silence that followed was so absolute that even the wind stopped.

The two Empresses—entities whose existence stretched across ages and who had witnessed the death of galaxies—looked at each other.

First confused.

Then… incredibly embarrassed.

“…It’s true,” said Nivara, scratching her cheek.

“…It really is,” cried Crymsaria, looking at her own feet.

They both spoke together:

“It’s true…”

Vergil took a deep breath, carefully measuring the patience he had reserved for beings who could destroy continents without raising their voices.

Behind them, Itharine took another sip of tea, satisfied.

Qliphoth smiled like a proud mother.

The lilies swayed as if laughing.

Vergil simply crossed his arms, awaiting the explanation he knew would come—and which, most likely, would be as chaotic as the two Empresses had always been.

Nivara took a deep breath, regaining that almost divine glow that always surrounded her, and smiled a smile as clear as newly forged steel.

“But the important thing is: you’re here now!”

Crymsaria crossed her arms, the fire in her eyes intensifying—but it wasn’t anger. It was firmness. Tense gratitude.

“We just wanted to thank you for killing that disgusting creature.”

Nivara nodded, her posture impeccable, but her jaw betraying that she was still clearly bothered.

“Regardless of our eternal rivalry, we agree on this. That thing was an offense… and we are grateful that you eliminated it.”

Vergil shifted his gaze between the two Empresses, analyzing every nuance of what they were hearing.

Rare were the moments when Nivara and Crymsaria agreed.

Even rarer were the moments when they expressed gratitude for something.

He raised his chin, his expression neutral.

“Did you want that abomination—the spirit of Ryomen Sukuna manipulated by Yama—to die so badly?”

The two Empresses exchanged a charged look. One of those silent looks that said much more than words could.

And then they spoke together, with the raw sincerity that only showed itself when the situation was truly serious:

“He had a fragment of us.”

Vergil narrowed his eyes.

Crymsaria continued, her voice firm, sharp.

“Probably a scale that fell during one of our fights.”

Nivara completed with a somber softness:

“Just one scale from our real bodies is enough to cause… immense imbalance.”

Crymsaria frowned, almost growling.

“Any inferior creature that touches a fragment of us is already corrupted, driven mad, mutated. But Sukuna…”

Nivara placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder—a gesture that only happened when the matter was truly grave.

“Sukuna was already a divided soul, unstable, cursed. Mixing that with a fragment of us was like lighting a fuse in a barrel of divine gunpowder.”

Crymsaria nodded slowly, her eyes burning with a bitter memory.

“That spirit was no longer Sukuna. It was a distortion. A plague blessed and cursed at the same time. A demon-bearer of our essence—but without any right to it.”

Nivara sighed, crossing her hands before her, almost in reverence to her own honor.

“And such a creature is an affront to our Race. To our existence. And to the metaphysical balance of this world.”

Vergil absorbed everything, his thoughts sharp as blades.

He understood what they were saying—not just the content, but the subtext.

The real importance.

Crymsaria then looked directly at him.

And when the Scarlet Dragon Empress stares at you without flinching, it’s because there’s no room for ambiguity.

“When you killed Sukuna… you destroyed the fragment along with it.”

Nivara smiled, this time with genuine light in her eyes.

“That’s why we came to thank you. And that’s why we wanted to speak with you so much. What you eliminated could have become… something worse.”

Crymsaria inclined her head, and a soft, almost respectful flame ran through her wings.

“You did more than kill an adversary, Vergil.”

Nivara concluded, with the serenity of a thunderbolt about to strike:

“You eliminated a distortion that could have awakened part of our true power within an unworthy being.”

And both, together, said with a rare synchronicity—dark, respectful, and for the first time… equal:

“Therefore, we are indebted to you.”

The field of lilies swayed.

Qliphoth smiled proudly.

Itharine raised her cup in a silent toast.

“I understand,” Vergil said, giving a small smile and patting the heads of the two empresses. “Whenever you need something, just ask,” he said, smiling. “I don’t bite.”

The two dragon empresses felt their whole bodies tingle and their cheeks grew hot, blushing at the sight of that gentle smile… They both lowered their heads and hid their eyes with the bangs of their long hair…

They looked at each other sideways… ‘…’