My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 643

Capítulo 643: Agreement Signed

Freyja’s body trembled.

It wasn’t a tremor of fear, nor of hesitation.

It was the shudder of something too ancient, too great, being touched at a point rarely reached. A latent rage created simply by Sapphire mentioning such an absurd agreement that sounded almost like a joke.

The temple reacted first.

The golden columns creaked like bones under pressure. The runes carved into the stone glowed bright red, burning like open wounds. The sky above the sanctuary, which until then had been a soft, eternal blue… tore open in shades of deep scarlet, as if a bloody dawn had been forcibly pulled over Vanaheim.

The pool water bubbled.

The crystalline blue disappeared in the blink of an eye, replaced by a thick, heavy, pulsating red… divine blood, not literal, but symbolic. The very emotional essence of the goddess overflowing.

For a moment, the Temple of Freyja ceased to be a place.

It became a reflection.

Like Vergil, any being who surpassed a certain threshold of power carried within themselves a representation of their own existence… an inner world, a symbolic domain where authority, identity, and essence mingled.

Vergil knew his well.

A demonic sanctuary erected upon an endless sea of ​​crimson spider lilies, each flower representing its connection to death. Above, a gigantic Blood Sakura, a distortion of the World Tree, Qliphoth, whose roots plunged into crimson rivers and whose branches supported an artificial sun, forged not to warm, but to observe.

The wind cut through that world with invisible blades. The fire burned without consuming. Blood flowed like living memory… and death… death watched everything in silence.

It was a powerful domain… but incomplete.

A pseudo-authority.

A crown that still grew alongside its bearer.

But Freyja’s world…

Vergil could barely breathe.

For a single second he saw.

Not as a common vision.

Not as a metaphor.

He saw Ragnarök.

Not the simplified myth told to mortals, but the true one: endless battlefields under collapsing skies, spears embedded in shattered horizons, Valkyries flying like golden shadows among the corpses of gods and monsters. Runes tore through the air like laws being forcibly rewritten. Magic wasn’t cast—it existed, dense, suffocating, inevitable.

There was beauty there.

But it was a cruel beauty.

Freyja wasn’t just love, fertility, and desire.

She was the war born of love. The magic that decides who lives. The death that chooses who falls with honor.

Where Vergil’s world was a sanctuary in formation, Freyja’s was an eternal battlefield, refined by ages of conflict, sacrifice, and impossible decisions. Compared to her…

Vergil felt this with uncomfortable clarity.

He wasn’t weak.

But before Freyja, he was like a child watching an adult who had already seen the world end… and rebuilt the worthwhile pieces.

What he saw was what Freyja most longed for… her Dominion was focused on only one desire… the End of the Norse Gods.

And quickly, he also felt that…

The tremor ceased.

The sky slowly returned to its golden hue. The pool water regained its transparency. The runes dimmed.

Freyja took a deep breath.

When she opened her eyes again, there was no longer just the goddess of love there.

There was command. Clarity. And a perfectly contained fury.

She looked directly at Sapphire.

“If you came to mock me,” she said, without raising her voice… and that made everything worse. “Go away. I don’t have time for this.” Her gaze slid to Vergil, assessing him not as a man… but as an event.

“Take your child with you, I don’t wish to reclaim my soul,” she continued. “It’s useless anyway.”

Sapphire shrugged, utterly indifferent to the accusation.

“Alright, let’s go Vergil,” Sapphire said as she turned calmly, “She probably doesn’t care anyway, so let’s just go. The important thing is that you still have an absolute desire with the Witch Queen, you can use it as you wish,” Sapphire said and walked away.

Vergil looked at his wife’s back. “You were going to use my secret trump card for this?” he questioned, after all, he was carefully guarding that wish he gained by letting Alice be trained by Seris.

“Hm? Of course, you don’t need that stupid wish to win Seris over anyway. That little girl, Alice. You’ve probably already won her over. You just have to flirt with her and you’ll easily win that old witch over.” Sapphire shrugged. “That wish of yours would be wasted anyway, we could help this goddess and you could have her too.”

Vergil continued looking at Sapphire. “When did the plan get to me having Freyja for myself?”

“Hm… well, you were going to do it anyway, weren’t you? You have that wolf-like look that wants to devour its prey.”

“No.”

“Seriously?”

“Very seriously.”

“I disagree.”

“Based on what?”

“I don’t know, feminine intuition.”

“Intuition is bullshit.”

“Want to bet?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“I won.”

“Yeah, count on it.”

“CAN YOU ALL STOP?!”

Freyja’s scream wasn’t just sound. It was an order, it was despair, it was the remnant of an ancient authority trying to impose itself on a world that no longer obeyed it.

The entire temple trembled as she advanced until she stopped before Sapphire and forcefully struck her chest, her fingers trembling not from fear, but from utter frustration.

“What the hell is this about asking Seris to break the curse?!” Her voice came out hoarse, torn, as if each word had been forcibly ripped away.

Sapphire, in contrast, laughed.

Not a loud laugh, but that short, satisfied, cruel laugh of someone who has just touched exactly where it hurts.

“Hmm… it seems the curse is still very much active,” she commented, tilting her head, analyzing Freyja as if she were an interesting curiosity. “You look so… different.”

She took a slow step around the goddess, assessing her.

“Almost human.”

Vergil frowned slightly, his gaze shifting from one to the other.

“…What curse is that?” he finally asked.

Sapphire stopped and answered without even looking at Freyja, as if describing a trivial fact:

“She’s trapped in Vanaheim. She can’t leave.” She made a vague gesture with her hand. “And Odin cast a delightful curse: Freyja can’t hurt anyone… nor bear weapons.”

Vergil blinked once.

Sapphire continued, her voice sharp:

“She’s basically become a human with a cosmetic power to shape the environment.” She smiled. “Sure, she still has that residual charm, but it’s pathetic compared to what she used to be.”

Freyja’s eyes burned.

Sapphire then moved closer, leaning in slightly to speak directly into her ear: “Isn’t that right, Valkyrie Leader?”

The name fell like a blade.

“Fólkvangr must be in chaos now,” Sapphire continued, too calmly. “Without you. Without your presence. Without your orders.” She raised an eyebrow. “And worse… you’ve lost all connections to your palace, haven’t you?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Vergil realized something at that moment.

It wasn’t just provocation. It was a statement.

Sapphire was describing, piece by piece, the complete dismantling of a goddess.

Freyja clenched her fists—and the simple act made her shudder, as if the world itself were reprimanding her for trying to react.

She didn’t attack.

She couldn’t.

Vergil felt the magic of the curse there—active, cruel, absolute. Any attempt at violence would backfire on her.

Sapphire noticed too. And so, she went even further.

“If this were before Odin banished you…” she said, with an almost nostalgic smile,

“…I would probably be facing one of the hardest battles of my life.”

She shrugged.

“But now?” She looked Freyja up and down. “Now you can’t even touch me.”

Freyja breathed heavily. Not from exhaustion—from contained hatred.

Vergil watched in silence, finally understanding the magnitude of the humiliation:

a goddess of war reduced to a spectator of her own collapse, unable even to react to the provocation of a primordial demon.

Sapphire let out a bored sigh, like someone who had just lost interest in an old toy.

“Enough,” she said, turning her back to Freyja without any ceremony. “That’s enough for today. We have things to do, deadlines to meet, and a tournament coming up. Poking fun at a goddess in an existential crisis wasn’t even at the top of the list.”

She began walking towards the temple exit, her steps echoing with absurd naturalness in that place which, minutes before, had been the reflection of a deity’s fury.

“Come on, Vergil.”

Vergil looked at Freyja for a moment.

Not with contempt.

Nor with pity.

But with something more dangerous: understanding.

He nodded once.

“Yes,” he replied simply. “We have things to do.”

And he followed Safira.

Each step they took seemed to return the temple to its forced silence—not the silence of peace, but the silence of something defeated without a fight. The golden columns stopped creaking. The runes faded completely. The air lost its crushing weight.

Freyja stood there.

Immobile.

Alone.

With the echo of her own losses vibrating in her chest.

They were already a few meters from the exit when—

“WAIT!”

The cry tore through the temple like a blade.

It wasn’t a divine order.

It wasn’t authority.

It was raw despair.

Sapphire stopped.

Vergil too.

Slowly, they both turned.

Freyja took a few steps forward, her eyes shining not with seduction, nor with fury… but with something much rarer in gods: a decision made against her own pride.

“I accept,” she said, her voice firm with force. “The deal.”

Sapphire arched a slight eyebrow. “Hm?”

Freyja clenched her fists, took a deep breath, and continued, each word wrung out as if it cost more than entire battles.

“You want Brísingamen.”

She swallowed hard. “I surrender.”

The name on the necklace seemed to rekindle something in the air—an ancient glow, an echo of power that didn’t need to be displayed to be felt.

Vergil narrowed his eyes slightly. He knew enough stories to understand the weight of it. Brísingamen wasn’t just an artifact. It was a symbol. It was identity. It was an extension of Freyja herself.

“But,” she continued, raising her gaze directly to Safira now, “as soon as the tournament is over… you return it.”

Safira was silent for a moment.

She didn’t scoff.

She didn’t provoke.

She merely assessed.

“You want to lend your essence,” she said slowly. “Not surrender it.”

“Exactly.” Freyja nodded. “You use it. You trade. You win.” Her voice trembled for a moment, but she didn’t back down. “And then… you return it to me.”

The temple seemed to hold its breath.

Vergil looked at Safira, curious. He knew that silence. It was a dangerous silence—the exact moment when she decided whether something was worthwhile or not.

Sapphire smiled.

Not a cruel smile.

A satisfied smile.

“Look at that…” she commented, turning completely to Freyja now. “She still has teeth.”

She walked a few steps forward, stopping a few meters from the fallen goddess. Her golden eyes met Freyja’s without any exaggerated superiority—just brutal equality.

“All right,” she said finally. “Deal accepted.”