My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 329: Regaining Consciousness

329 Regaining Consciousness

"Oh... my head hurts so much," Vergil muttered, pressing his temples with trembling fingers.

Every thought seemed to pass through a sieve of thorns.

His body throbbed with the memory of the battle. Not just the fight—the destruction.

He had fought within his own soul. And every blow, every impact against that inner world now reverberated in raw flesh: muscles torn from within, bones cracked where once there had been broken psychic ground, and organs pressed by forces that should never have existed.

It was a miracle that he was still standing. Or maybe... It wasn't just a miracle anymore.

Vergil let out a hoarse breath, trying to regain his focus. The pain was intense. Hot. Throbbing. But familiar. He knew this kind of feeling: the final limit... and the step beyond it.

But then, when he looked up, he froze.

Two presences stared at him, one with fire in their eyes, the other with restrained pain.

Sapphire, livid, with the spear trembling in her hands, pointed directly between his eyes.

And Sepphirothy, silent, but with Yamato pressed against the side of her neck.

The cut was so precise that the blade grazed the skin without penetrating it—a threat more symbolic than lethal. But only for now.

"Seriously?" He blinked, too tired to react with fear. "Two weapons in my face? Was there some meeting of threats and I wasn't invited?"

Sapphire didn't answer. Her firm grip on the spear trembled with emotion. Anger? Fear? Relief? It was impossible to tell. Sepphirothy, on the other hand, spoke with cutting coldness, her eyes narrowed, assessing his every microexpression:

"Prove to me that you're Vergil." Yamato's blade pressed a little closer.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Vergil let out another sigh. Long. Painful.

Then he slowly raised his eyes to meet hers with the expression of a man who had seen hell—and returned with sarcasm in tow.

"Do you really want this, Mom?" He raised an eyebrow, and a half-smile formed. "Because I can tell you... about those lingerie sets you keep hidden behind your motorcycle in the garage."

Sepphirothy froze. Sapphire's eyes widened.

"What—"

"Oh, and the glow-in-the-dark one? It goes perfectly with your collection of teen horror DVDs."

Sepphirothy lowered the Yamato with a heavy sigh and turned her face to the side, clearly trying to maintain her composure. Sapphire coughed—or laughed? —and reluctantly lowered her spear, still regarding him with suspicion, but now mixed with a thread of relief.

"Bastard..." Sepphirothy muttered, crossing her arms. "Only Vergil could be almost possessed by an evil entity and still make jokes about lingerie."

"Almost?" Vergil muttered, slowly running his hand over his neck where Yamato's blade had grazed.

"Well, anyway... yes, it's me." He waved his hand lazily, like someone greeting a neighbor after a bad night's sleep. "Hello."

That's when he felt the weight.

He looked down at his arm and saw the chains still attached to his flesh, like living scars, vibrating with restless energy.

Vergil frowned.

"Oh, man..." With an irritated sigh, he wrapped his arms in aura and simply made them explode with a dry crack of purple energy. The fragments of chain evaporated into the air like smoke being purged from the soul.

Sapphire and Sepphirothy exchanged quick glances.

They were still not convinced.

"This... wasn't supposed to be this easy." Sapphire crossed her arms, her eyes half-closed, analyzing his every gesture.

Sepphirothy just nodded with a frown, her hand still close to the hilt of the Yamato. She picked up the sword and threw it to him. "Oh, hello girl," he said, catching it.

Sapphire and Sepphirothy continued to stare at Vergil in silence.

"What now?" Vergil asked, arching an eyebrow.

"A question for us," Sepphirothy replied, keeping her gaze steady. "Spread your wings."

"Huh? Oh, right…" He stood up, rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension, and then extended his wings.

But something was… different.

He looked to his right and saw his usual demonic wing—black, firm, and membranous. Everything is normal.

But on the left…

"Hm? " He blinked, confused. A white wing. Angelic. With immaculate feathers, like freshly fallen snow. Sacred. Alive.

The silence fell like a sentence.

Sapphire gaped. Sepphirothy just sighed, too tired to be truly surprised.

"In the end… he really did become a nephilim," Sepphirothy muttered, crossing his arms. "But how in the name of all that is unholy does a demon become an angel? "

Vergil blinked, still staring at the wings, half fascinated, half suspicious.

"Nephilim? " he asked, frowning.

"Half-demon. Half-angel," Sapphire explained, her voice still thick with surprise.

Vergil turned to face her with an incredulous expression. "But… wasn't I already like that all along? "

They both stared at him as if he had just said the sky was green. Silence spoke louder than words. He responded with the same confusion they expressed.

"Do you think it's normal for a demon to use holy energy? " They both shook their heads without hesitation.

"Yeah." He tossed Yamato toward Sapphire. "Catch."

The instant her fingers touched the hilt of the sword, her hand snapped—intense tingling turned to pain, and then…

Smoke.

Flesh melted like wax under divine fire, and Yamato fell to the ground with a dry clinking sound. Sapphire's hand regenerated immediately, but the look she gave Vergil was pure astonishment.

"Sacred energy always defeats demonic energy," he said matter-of-factly, almost as if explaining something to a child.

He turned to his mother.

"You can hold it because you share Samael's bloodline. Like me."

Sepphirothy nodded, though his eyes still scanned the angelic wing warily.

"But what about Viviane? She's a demon too. How did she manage to use Yamato? " Sapphire asked, still massaging her regenerated hand.

Vergil just shrugged, relaxed.

"Viviane is a primordial spirit before she is anything else. A being of creation. Yamato didn't melt her hand because… well, she forged Excalibur. Twice."

Sapphire frowned. "That doesn't answer anything at all."

Vergil half-smiled. "That's exactly why you'll never fully understand Viviane."

Sepphirothy ran a hand through her hair in exasperation.

"What the fuck…" Sapphire muttered, still trying to process everything. "What about your outbursts? Are you going to start exploding and screaming again, or can we breathe in peace now? "

Vergil gave her a calm, almost amused look, and replied with a slight smile on his lips:

"No. It seems that my body... evolved. The container of power expanded a lot after I absorbed that damn thing."

He raised his hand, closing it slowly, feeling the flow of energy stabilized inside him.

"It's like, for the first time, everything is... in place."

Sepphirothy crossed her arms, relaxing slightly.

"Good to know. It's about time I stopped acting like a ticking time bomb."

Vergil let out a low laugh. "Let's face it… I was a bomb with a lot of style."

Sapphire rolled her eyes. "Now all I need to do is learn not to explode at the wrong people."

"I promise to try," he said, raising his hands in surrender, with that usual mocking smile. "But no guarantees."

They stared at each other for a moment—the kind of silence that carries more than words. Then Vergil stood, brushing some imaginary dust off his clothes, still feeling the recent weight of battle.

"The black hair looks nice…" Sepphirothy commented with a teasing purr, pouting slightly. "But I still preferred it white."

Vergil chuckled, glancing at her sideways.

"Yeah… I figured you'd say that."

"Of course you would. The white made it look more… divine and dangerous," she replied with a sly smile.

Sapphire, more restrained, assessed his eyes with an analytical gaze—and a hint of hidden tenderness.

"But the purple eyes… they suit you," she said, tilting her head slightly. "Better than one red and one gold. It's better at hiding the fact that you're a nephilim now."

Vergil raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Oh, so now you're worried about hiding who I am? "

"Not for you," Sapphire replied with a half smile. "It's for the world. I don't know if it's ready to deal with that."

Vergil chuckled softly and looked up at the broken sky of his soul, where fragments still fell like silent rain.

"Neither am I."

…

[Palace of the World of the Archons]

Four thrones, built of black stone and adorned with the coats of arms of the original houses, were occupied.

Amon was the first to speak, his voice hoarse as metal scraping against rock:

"It is decided. I propose a Walpurgis."

The flames of the candelabras flickered with his words. The atmosphere thickened.

"A banquet?" Phenex, his expression calm and his eyes burning like eternal embers, raised an eyebrow. "What need is there for a circus between kings and clans now?"

Amon did not hesitate. "It is not just a banquet. It is a political gesture, a call between the Royal Houses and the fifty most influential clans, a reaffirmation of hierarchy." He rested his elbows on his knees, his gaze fulminating. "Since the announcement of the new Demon King, there has been discontent. Murmurs. Some say the scales are tipping… toward chaos."

"Vergil." The name spilled from Astaroth's mouth like dripping poison. He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes like cold blades. "You can toast all you want, but I will not stand for these theatrics. He is a ticking time bomb with wings. You know that."

A musical laugh cut through the air.

"Oh, Astaroth… always so dramatic." Paimon snapped her fingers, and a chalice floated toward her. She took a sip and smiled with sweet venom. "Your speeches are more tiresome than Belial's prophecies." She leaned in, her golden eyes boring into his. "The Walpurgis is necessary. One hundred and fifty years without a gathering of kings? Hell already seems more disorganized than Olympus."

"Amon is right," she continued, crossing her legs with deadly elegance. "The clans are restless. And a storm starts with a whisper. A feast can calm them… or show who is willing to bite the hand of the throne."

Phenex sighed, his fingers drumming on the arm of his throne. "What if that's the case? What if the feast turns into a bloodbath? "

"Then let it be an elegant bloodbath," Paimon replied, smiling with infernal calm.