My Wives are Beautiful Demons

"Who owns this trashy tavern?"

The silence was absolute.

The kind of silence that only happens when something terrible has just been said, and everyone's brains are simultaneously trying to calculate if they have any chance of escape.

The demons, who seconds before had been cracking dirty jokes, now stood motionless. Some averted their gaze. Others sweated acid.

Even the floor itself seemed to shake, and the flickering light in the room dimmed. One of the mirrors in the back cracked for no apparent reason.

Malgron looked at Ruzgath, who looked at Laath, who looked at the ceiling—as if the answer might fall from there.

The bartender tried to swallow, but his throat felt like glass at that moment.

"I-I..." he began.

"Don't tell me it's you," she interrupted, without even turning her face fully. 'You couldn't even manage a pigsty.'

She wasn't shouting. Her voice was low, melodic, sensual. But every word sounded like a curse disguised as an indecent proposal.

The silence lingered like an eternal echo. And then she smiled—with teeth that were not human.

"I thought this place would have more personality. Rumors deceived me. Or perhaps the standard of misery in the Underworld has fallen... even further."

The comment was a knife thrown with a velvet glove. And it cut deep.

Laath, with his narrow eyes, finally whispered:

"Who... who is she?"

Ruzgath didn't even turn to answer. He was still staring at the woman, as if afraid she would disappear if he blinked.

"I don't know. But I smell something strange..."

Malgron felt the back of his neck prickle. That feeling that he had entered a game where he didn't even know the rules, let alone the stakes.

The woman turned to face the hall for a brief moment, as if waiting for someone to dare to introduce themselves.

And then...

A raven.

It entered through the crack in the half-open door, cutting through the air like a living arrow. With a single flap of its coal-black wings, it landed softly on the woman's bare shoulder. Its eyes—a miniature scarlet abyss—glowed with silent wisdom.

She did not move, only tilted her head slightly to the side, as if listening to the wind reciting a forgotten secret.

"I see..." she said, with a crooked smile. As if the raven's words had painted the maps of reality red.

It was at that moment that the air crackled.

A dry sound, like ancient scrolls being torn by time, and a brutal presence took shape in the center of the tavern — a crackle of dense energy, smelling of myrrh and hot iron.

Amon.

One of the Four Supreme Demons of the Underworld.

Tall, with shoulders as broad as walls. His robes were a hybrid between armor and living skin, and his countenance oscillated between pride and arrogance — a well-contained but real arrogance.

He wasn't there to intimidate.

He was there to control the damage.

"Morrigan..." he said, and the name came out like a choked curse. As if pronouncing it would reopen old wounds.

She smiled slowly, like a flower opening in a field of corpses.

"How are you, little demon?" she mocked, sliding a fingernail across the raven's neck, which emitted a satisfied caw.

The room gasped.

Those present were paralyzed. Ruzgath almost fell off his bench. Laath gripped his cup so tightly that it cracked. Malgron remained motionless, as if turning his eyes to either side would condemn him to immediate nonexistence.

She was mocking Amon.

There. In public.

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?"

She approached him as if dancing with her own shadow. "You Archons... always pretending you're in control. But everyone knows. Where there is chaos... there is me."

The raven flapped its wings once. The floor cracked.

Amon swallowed hard. He looked around. Not for support—there was no one in that bar powerful enough to breathe beside them, let alone get involved.

It was him. And her. And war itself.

"You're breaking the rules," he said, as if trying to remember the reality of his own laws. "You can't... manifest here without the Council's permission."

She laughed.

She didn't smile. She laughed.

A sound so pure and chaotic that it cracked the mirrors. The drink in the bottles fizzed. A gargoyle melted.

"The Council?" she repeated, savoring the word as if it were a poorly served dish. 'Do you really believe your rules are worth anything, Amon? When all the real players are arming themselves behind the scenes?'

She took a step forward. Amon kept looking at him.

"I smelled it. Not Walpurgis. What comes after him. And if I'm here... it's because there's no more time for simulations."

She looked at the demons around her.

"This decrepit bar... full of servants, workers, and dead memories... was the best place to step foot first. Where the floor still screams underfoot. Where the earth is made of worn swords and dried blood."

She turned her eyes back to Amon—eyes that seemed to harbor a hundred thousand forgotten battles.

"I came only to collect the bodies," she said, her voice like mist among the graves. "I am the Goddess of War, Death... and Fertility. Where the soil is stained with blood, that is where my seeds flourish. This..." she opened her arms, indicating the fetid tavern, the silent demons, the air saturated with tension '...is the best place to be. Don't you agree?'

She smiled.

It was not a human smile. Not even a hellish one.

It was something primitive. A curving of the lips that spoke of feasts in valleys of corpses. A laugh that had preceded falling empires.

Amon remained motionless for a few seconds. The silence stretched like a thread about to snap.

Then he sighed. Long. Deep. Like someone who carries the world on their shoulders and stumbles on a precipice.

"Not this too..." he muttered, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand. 'As if I didn't have enough problems already.'

His tone was one of raw exhaustion — not fear. But that of a veteran warrior who had lost count of his scars.

"The Heavenly Father demanding transparency in our affairs... A shitty Demon King monopolizing three hellish queens and still thinking it's not enough..." He began to walk in circles, his gaze lost. "Heavenly dragons, about to wake up and reduce worlds to dust... Traitors plotting things... the Witch Queen invading the underworld... And now you."

He stopped. He looked at her again. Morrigan.

"You show up here. In a fifth-rate bar, in the ass of Abbadon, as if you were sightseeing in the midst of the apocalypse."

She just stared at him, that smile still on her lips, the raven flapping its wings slightly, as if it found it all very amusing.

"What the hell is going on here?" Amon finally spat the question into the air, as if expecting the very fabric of reality to answer.

Morrigan didn't answer right away. She just approached him. One step at a time, like a sentence coming from beyond.

"Well..." she said, almost with mocking tenderness. 'I'm glad you understand everything that happened for me to be here. See? There are many reasons for me to be here.' She leaned in slightly, close enough for him to smell her perfume.

"How about calling Sapphire?" She turned pale, the workers sweating with fear, the ceiling seeming lower now. 'I have fun with her... and you don't have to worry!' She said happily.

Amon sighed... "I don't think you've been following the news... Your little friend Sapphire died a while ago, now all that's left is an old bitch in love with a 20-year-old boy. Good luck with that." Amon said with a wave. "Your Spartan friend is even speaking properly and asking for favors. You should see how she talked to Sun Wukong about the boy." Amon said and turned away.

"Please, no killing the population, okay? Go see how your friend is doing." Amon said before disappearing...

"What?..." Morrigan couldn't even think about what he had just said... "Sapphire? In love?..."