My Wives are Beautiful Demons

[The Underworld – Abbadon... Construction District, Construction Sector C-99]

The sound of metal against stone was constant, rhythmic like a tired heart. The crackling of ethereal whips, toxic fumes escaping from cracks in the floor, and muffled grunts made up the soundtrack of everyday life.

Malgron drove another ossium stake into the living concrete of the wall. The material pulsed, as if resisting domestication. Sweat ran down his broad back, evaporating before it even reached his waist. Not because of the heat, but because of the hostile nature of the air around him. The atmosphere there did not respect humidity.

Malgron was a second-generation demon, descended from a 13th-century pact with some obscure English baron. His horns were short and somewhat worn, and his yellow eyes no longer shone as brightly as they once had. He wore a grimy gray jumpsuit bearing the logo of the contractor "Construsangre Dermonic," one of many that reported directly to Paimon.

With his calloused hands, he adjusted the tool belt he wore around his hips. For a moment, he looked up: the Gothic towers rising in the distance were impossibly tall, made of twisted columns, blasphemous symbols, and condensed shadows. Each one housed a noble house or some important lair. He could only see the base of the structure—the rest disappeared into a purple mist, where screams and music mingled like wind.

He leaned on the handle of his sledgehammer for a moment.

"Ten more cycles and I'll request a transfer to the dimensional recalibration area," he muttered, spitting to the side. The slime hissed when it touched the ground. "This place is sucking the soul out of my soul."

Another worker approached. Ruzgath, a third-generation lesser demon, with a face tattooed with disciplinary runes and a mechanical arm that still squeaked after its last maintenance.

"Did you hear that?" asked Ruzgath, as he released the lock on his armored helmet and let his horns breathe.

"Heard what?"

"There's going to be a Walpurgis."

Malgron was silent for a second. One of the concrete tentacles tried to move, and he crushed it with a casual blow from his sledgehammer.

"Oh... that again? Hallway gossip. Last year they said the same thing."

"This time it's not a rumor," insisted Ruzgath. 'One of the people in charge of the structural foundation was a direct servant of Astarpth. And he said so himself. It's confirmed. They've already sent the pact pause seals and everything.'

Malgron raised an eyebrow.

"Really? Are they really going to do one?"

"After more than two hundred years. The leaders are going to meet. All of them. Primordials, smaller clans, even mediocrities like that idiot who calls himself Lucifer!"

"That Demon King?" Malgron laughed softly. "Isn't he the one who almost killed Archon Phenex's son?"

"Yes, he's also involved in the Pope's death..."

"Oh, that old man?"

"Yes. And now with Sepphiroth back and Sapphire around, things have gotten serious. Everyone is getting ready. Even the weak-blooded nobles are on the move."

Malgron sighed, putting down his sledgehammer. "Well... it was about time something happened."

[After hours – Streets of Ashes, South Zone of Abbadon]

Malgron walked through the alleys where the soot was thick enough to mold masks on the demons' faces. The buildings were crooked, made of twisted metal and dried flesh, with yellow lights flashing like nervous eyes.

The bars were beginning to fill up. The smell of black alcohol and roasted mystical meat filled the corners. Hoarse voices argued, laughed, cursed.

Malgron entered a low tavern called "Snake's Throat." The ceiling was so low that he had to lower his horns to avoid scraping them. He sat at the bar and ordered a "sangrulito," a typical drink among workers—a mixture of old blood and infernal brandy, served with a flaming ice cube.

Ruzgath was already there, along with two others: Nozzak, a demon with stone skin who worked on maintaining illusory corridors, and Laath, a demon who operated in corporate pact zones.

"Everyone's talking about it today," said Nozzak. "There was a guy who quit his job just to try to get an invitation to attend."

"Idiot," muttered Laath. "It's Walpurgis, not a street festival. Only those of blood or direct guests are allowed in."

"Still," replied Malgron, taking a sip that seemed to burn his throat and soothe his soul. "It's the first time we've seen this. I've always heard about it, but it seemed like a myth. And now... it seems that even the Heavens are paying attention."

"Do you think it's going to be a war?" asked Ruzgath.

Malgron was silent for a moment.

"Maybe. Or maybe it's just theater. But one thing is certain..."

He raised his glass, looking at the dark liquid pulsing inside as if it had a will of its own.

"All of Hell will stop to watch."

The atmosphere in the Serpent's Throat was stifling, the air thick with smoke and demonic pheromones hanging like an invisible veil. Hoarse laughter, the clinking of enchanted glasses, and the sizzling of grills with impossible meats dominated the space—until the door opened.

Not with a bang, not with violence. But with a smooth glide, like silk cutting an angel's throat.

She entered.

And the entire Underworld, for a moment, held its breath.

Her silhouette was first visible as a shadow against the red mist of the environment. Tall, with curves that defied any concept of heavenly or hellish proportion. She wore something that floated between a dress and a spell: fabric dark as an abyss, shiny as sin, clinging to her body like a promise. Her back was bare, revealing forbidden runes shining in a warm gold. Each step made the floor creak as if the boards were sweating.

Her hair was long, red with purple highlights, and seemed to move slightly even without wind. Her face was a direct affront to sanity: eyes that changed color with every blink, a smile that was half hunger, half contempt, and lips too red not to be dangerous.

The whole tavern stopped.

Glasses were dropped. Sips were suspended in midair. Even the gargoyles that served as light fixtures seemed to lean forward a little more. Some of those present, including Malgron and Ruzgath, swallowed hard—and that was rare. It was as if their own instincts were screaming, "She doesn't belong at this level of the food chain."

Lust incarnate. Power in high heels. A nightmare with the scent of poisoned jasmine.

She walked slowly through the hall, her eyes roaming over the rough, sweaty, dirty bodies of the workers as if choosing which part of an animal to devour first. No demon there could hold her gaze for more than three seconds. It wasn't just beauty—it was pure domination. A command carved in flesh.

When she reached the bar, the bartender—an old demon with scars that spoke of three interdimensional wars—widened his eyes, the glass he was cleaning fell from his hand and shattered on the floor.

She rested a perfectly sculpted finger on the filthy counter. The necromantic varnish on the wood cracked under her touch. She looked at him with lethal boredom and asked:

"Who owns this trashy tavern?"