My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 644

Capítulo 644: It will be called Níðhögg

“What are you doing?” Vergil asked as they walked back toward Brokk and Sindri’s forge.

Sapphire didn’t look at him. She kept her steady pace, and the silence stretched for a few moments before being broken. When she answered, her voice was calm, almost casual.

“It’s been a while,” she began. She continued walking while stretching slightly. “I know a lot of what’s going on in the world, even without showing it. And I know this tournament is more dangerous than it should be.”

“You mean Yama?” Vergil questioned.

“Nah. She’s a strong goddess, but her temper and lack of strategic intelligence end up sabotaging any plan,” Sapphire replied naturally. “I talked to Wukong once. I asked him about his own future.” She glanced away briefly.

“Hm… was that a long time ago?” Vergil asked.

“A year and a half ago.” She paused briefly. “The answers I got were nothing more than a scroll with Buddha’s cryptography.” She sighed. “Which, of course, can only mean one thing: something is going to happen. A blank scroll, with no defined future, that only an ancient Buddhist deity—greater even than Wukong himself—would be able to decipher.”

She looked ahead, a smile appearing soft but determined.

“That’s why I don’t want to risk it.”

Sapphire turned to him, her eyes firm despite her gentle expression.

“I can’t allow someone to destroy the life I love so much… alongside the man who stole my heart.”

Vergil slowed his pace slightly, frowning.

“Are you saying that because you think I’m not strong enough?”

Sapphire paused for a moment. She turned to him calmly, as if choosing her words carefully.

“No.” A slight smile appeared on her lips. “You are strong. Much stronger than you imagine.” She resumed walking. “But the principles of strength in this world are… complicated.”

Vergil remained silent, listening.

“I myself can kill a god,” Sapphire continued, without arrogance in her voice. “Yet, I am not considered a goddess because of that. Titles here are not born solely from brute power.” She cast a brief sideways glance. “Just as you killed Dionysus before great gods… and that didn’t make you one of them.”

She took a deep breath.

“Strength in this world is relative. It depends on who observes, who judges… and the moment.”

Vergil let out a brief sound, almost a dry laugh.

“This doesn’t resemble at all the mad, strength-obsessed woman I know.” Sapphire finally stopped. She looked directly at him, her smile now carrying something deeper—not pride, but awareness.

“Perhaps,” she said softly, “because even the mad learn that strength isn’t everything… when they finally have something to lose.” she joked.

They walked side by side without saying anything more.

The sound of footsteps echoing on the stone was gradually swallowed by another noise—heavier, rhythmic, alive. Hammering. The deep breath of bellows. The metallic crackle of something being pushed beyond its limits.

Brokk and Sindri’s forge loomed ahead, illuminated by an intense orange glow that pulsed like an ancient heart. The air was dense, heavy with heat, soot, and primordial magic.

Vergil was the first to stop.

His eyes fixed on the center of the forge.

Amidst sparks that cut through the air like dying stars, Brokk raised his hammer one last time, while Sindri adjusted still-glowing runes along the curved blade that was taking shape.

The weapon… was almost ready.

A scythe. The hilt was dark, forged from hardened and polished bone… Fafnir’s tooth, impossible to break with ordinary steel. The blade, wide and cruel in its curve, reflected the forge light with a deep, reddish hue, as if it had never been fully cleaned.

Because it hadn’t been.

The dragon’s blood still trickled slowly through its grooves, absorbed by the living runes that pulsed in response. Each drop evaporated into crimson vapor, leaving behind a menacing, almost conscious glow.

The weapon breathed.

Sapphire felt it first.

A shiver ran down her spine, not of fear—but of recognition. This was not merely a tool of war. It was a pact sealed in fire, tooth, and blood.

Vergil narrowed his eyes.

The pressure emanating from the scythe was heavy, ancient. Not overwhelming… but demanding. As if testing whoever dared touch it.

“So that’s it…” he murmured.

Sindri finally stepped back, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm, while Brokk delivered one last, precise blow. The sound echoed through the forge—dry, definitive.

The blade fell still.

Ready.

Brokk turned, his crooked smile heavy with pride. “Made with Fafnir’s tooth,” he growled. “And bathed in his blood while it still burned.”

Sindri adjusted his glasses, observing the weapon with almost reverent care. “I think this surpassed Mjolnir,” he added. “What a sinister aura.”

Brokk frowned suddenly.

The crooked smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

He tilted his head slightly, like a blacksmith listening to the metal… not with his ears, but with something more ancient. The air around the scythe trembled strangely. The runes didn’t pulse in a steady rhythm—they beat out of sync, like a hungry heart.

Sindri noticed immediately.

He adjusted his glasses again, more out of habit than necessity, and took a cautious step back.

“…This isn’t right,” he murmured.

The weapon’s aura expanded for a moment, heavy, suffocating. It wasn’t just raw power leaking out. It was intention. Desire. Something primal, raw.

Irregular… no.

Irregular was an understatement.

The scythe seemed thirsty.

Thirsty for death.

The runes lit up on their own, one after another, in a deep, dark red hue, as if responding to an invisible presence. The dragon’s dried blood reacted, simmering slightly in the grooves of the blade.

She called.

Not with voice.

With promise.

Brokk and Sindri exchanged glances.

It was one of those glances that dispenses with words—centuries of shared experience condensed into a single second of silent understanding.

Then they both turned their faces at the same time.

Toward Vergil.

Brokk cleared his throat, crossing his arms, trying to appear too casual for the situation.

“So…” he began, pointing with his thumb toward the scythe. “Grab this quickly so we can test something.”

Sindri nodded immediately, too quickly.

“Yeah, just a simple test,” he added, forcing a nervous smile. “Nothing serious. We want to see… who she reacts to.”

Sapphire’s gaze narrowed slightly.

She felt the scythe pull the atmosphere as Vergil stepped forward—not like a magnet, but like a predator recognizing something worthy.

The blade vibrated.

Low.

Anxious.

As if, finally, it had found someone capable of hearing the call.

Vergil took a step forward.

The heat of the forge seemed to recede as he approached the scythe, as if the fire itself retreated in respect—or fear. The air around the weapon trembled, distorted, too heavy for something that still lay motionless.

Sapphire watched in silence. She didn’t stop him. She only felt.

Vergil reached out.

His fingers closed around the handle made from Fafnir’s tooth.

At the exact instant of contact—

The world screamed.

A roar exploded through the forge, deep and lacerating, not like the cry of a raging dragon… but like the lament of something colossal condemned to death. The sound pierced the stone, made the forge’s runes flicker violently, and unleashed a wave of pressure that sent Sindri stumbling backward.

It was a cry.

A weeping roar.

The echo carried pain, hatred, and a sorrow so ancient it seemed to tear the air. The surrounding flames bent, wavered, some extinguished completely. Sparks spiraled upward, as if trying to escape.

The scythe’s blade gleamed with vivid crimson.

The dragon’s blood boiled.

Vergil didn’t let go.

His eyes narrowed, his body firm, his arm motionless despite the invisible force trying to push him away. The weapon vibrated in his hand, trembling like a wounded creature that had finally been awakened.

The roar ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

The silence that followed was worse.

Heavy. Oppressive.

The scythe fell silent… but now it pulsed, like a heart that had found a new rhythm.

Sindri swallowed hard.

“…this wasn’t just a magical reaction,” he murmured, adjusting his glasses with a trembling hand.

“It was born,” Brokk said in a low voice, his tone now deeper. “Probably thanks to the dragon’s blood and its tooth as a catalyst. This isn’t just a blade. It’s a weapon with Ego.”

Vergil raised an eyebrow, his expression closing in bewilderment. “A weapon with Ego?” he repeated, his voice sharp, almost disinterested, as if he were asking only to understand what was happening, not to show curiosity.

Brokk looked at him, crossing his arms, as if pondering the best way to explain what something so unusual meant.

“Well,” Brokk began, adjusting his posture, “the name says it all. Weapons with Ego aren’t just tools. They have their own consciousness. Soul. Will. A direct link to the power of materials and the expertise of blacksmiths, but also a trace of independence. It’s… as if they were alive.”

Vergil didn’t move a muscle. He just watched.

“They’re extremely rare,” Brokk continued, glancing at Sindri, who still seemed to be processing the impact of it all. “Mjolnir is one of those weapons. You know, right? Thor always treats it almost like a partner. It’s not just a hammer. Mjolnir has Ego. That’s why Thor makes that joke about putting liquor on it—as if Mjolnir were there having a drink with him.” Brokk shrugged, a small laugh escaping his lips, but without much humor. “A way to please the hammer. And, apparently, it likes it.”

Vergil showed no reaction, but understanding began to take shape. A weapon with Ego. This explained the uncomfortable feeling he had felt upon touching the scythe. It wasn’t just magic. It wasn’t just power. It was something deeper. Something that watched him. Felt him. Wanted him.

He looked at the blade again, the runes now almost inactive, but the sensation of its presence still dominated the room. The weight of the scythe in his hands seemed… more intense. As if it were waiting, waiting for something more significant.

“So… what happens to her now?” Vergil asked, his voice dry, but laden with controlled curiosity.

Brokk and Sindri exchanged glances.

“She chooses,” Brokk said seriously. “Either it chooses its wielder, or the wielder chooses it. And that, my friend, is rare. When a weapon with Ego bonds with someone, the relationship becomes… personal. They’re like… allies, but with their own interests. We can’t just hand it over to anyone. Not without a reaction.”

“Or without you actually needing it,” Sindri added, now more serious than before. “It has an appetite. And when a weapon with Ego senses the blood of its true owner, it begins to manifest. You, Vergil, could be that owner. Or not. It depends on the weapon.”

Vergil raised an eyebrow, his expression unchanged, but something in the depths of his eyes showed that he was already beginning to process the implications of this.

“If that’s the case, I’m not a fan of being controlled by a weapon with a will of its own,” he said dryly, almost as a warning.

Brokk smiled, but there was something tense in the curve of his lips. “You are a warrior. It’s no surprise that you attracted the attention of this scythe. And the scythe, like any weapon with Ego, doesn’t choose the weakest. It wants whoever can command it. Even if it screams, even if it seems ‘thirsty’ as you saw… it’s only the beginning. If you master it, it will be yours.”

The sound of the metal still seemed to vibrate in the background, in a silent tension. Sindri took another step back, moving slightly away from Vergil and the weapon. Fear was in the air now, a fear that didn’t come from power or strength, but from the uncertainty of a consciousness, an alien presence within the blade.

Vergil, in turn, looked at the scythe again. Something pulsed there, something he couldn’t see, but that was very, very close. He knew this wouldn’t be a simple test of strength.

It would be a game of wills.

Vergil kept his gaze fixed on the blade for a few more seconds before speaking again.

“Does it have a name?” “What’s the name?” he asked, his voice low but firm.

Sindri blinked, as if the question had pulled him from deep thought. He carefully adjusted his glasses and glanced quickly at Brokk before answering.

“Normally,” he began, “the name comes from the blacksmith. It’s almost… a final seal. It gives the weapon its identity.” He hesitated for a moment, watching the scythe pulse slightly in Vergil’s hands. “But this case is different.”

Brokk grumbled, crossing his arms.

“Yes,” he agreed. “We both forged this thing. Me and this guy.” He tilted his chin toward Sindri. “If we try to name it together, it’ll turn into a war worse than Ragnarök.”

Sindri moved a little closer to Vergil and, lowering his voice, whispered:

“Between us… my brother and I are going to have a terrible fight to decide on a name for it.”

Brokk gave him a sideways glance. “I heard that.”

Sindri made a vague gesture with his hand. “Of course you heard.”

Vergil ignored the exchange. His eyes were once again on the scythe. The blade reacted, emitting a soft, almost imperceptible vibration, as if it had heard the conversation—as if it had been waiting.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

The tearful roar returned to his memory.

The dragon’s lament.

The ancient pain.

The contained fury.

When he opened his eyes, his decision was already made.

“Then I choose,” he said simply.

The scythe vibrated more intensely.

Vergil inhaled slowly.

“It was born from Fafnir’s tooth… and carries his lament.” His voice was calm, almost respectful. “It’s not just a weapon of death. It’s an echo of something that was destroyed.”

He gripped the handle firmly.

“It will be called Níðhögg.”

The instant the name was spoken, the runes on the blade lit up all at once, pulsing with deep red. The air in the forge trembled, and a low sound, almost a satisfied sigh, ran through the metal.

The scythe accepted.

Sindri gaped. “It… reacted to the name.”

Brokk growled a short laugh, his eyes gleaming. “Phew, this place would have turned to ashes if that thing had refused.” he said and sighed, “NOW GET OUT OF HERE YOU BASTARDS, YOU ALMOST KILLED US WITH THAT THING!”

‘Ah…’ Vergil realized. ‘They’re back to normal. It was quite strange how calmly they were talking.’