My Wives are Beautiful Demons

The main gates of Abaddon—giant arches carved from black stone and protected by centuries of curses—opened like the wings of a fallen angel. Not with screams or creaks, but with an almost theatrical reverence. Hell, for a moment, held its breath.

The carpet that unfolded across the castle staircase was made of living fabric, sewn with veins of molten gold and constantly shifting shadows. Trumpets of celestial bones sounded from above. The gargoyles on the towers turned to watch. The sky split into shades of red and purple.

Vergil emerged from the ceremonial carriage to the sound of a hellish fanfare—made of broken bells and distorted choirs. His cloak, as long as the lament of a defeated empire, danced in the wind as if it had a will of its own. He wore black and silver, and each step he took seemed to mark a new chapter in books that had not yet been written.

At his side, his wives descended — figures who transcended the concept of beauty, for they carried authority, danger, and desire in equal measure. Katharina, the crimson empress, led the female entourage as if she already ruled that place. Stella, with eyes of steel, scanned the crowd like a general about to declare war. Raphaeline, made of silence, walked without a sound—the shadow that swallows the lights. Ada, the master of poison and charm, looked at the steps as if measuring where the next body would fall. And Roxanne, vibrant and dangerous like a carnivorous flower in full bloom, spun around and smiled at the eyes that dared not look at her directly.

And there were eyes. Many.

Demonarazzi. That's right.

A crowd of demons from the lower, minor, and medium clans gathered around the path like a horde eager to witness the impossible: the rise of someone from outside the Seven Thrones to the castle that, for ages, had been neutral territory — or rather, untouchable.

They were demons with arcane cameras, eyes implanted with magic lenses, floating servants with crystal spheres broadcasting live to the blood palaces and cursed towers throughout Hell. The flash of each camera was a silent lightning bolt that reflected off the stones like shards of fire.

Vergil stopped in the middle of the staircase. He looked around.

He smiled.

"Really?" he said aloud, so everyone could hear. "Hell has paparazzi now?"

Roxanne laughed, snapping her fingers to light her infernal makeup with a new glow. "Oh, love, you're out of date. Demonic fashion has exploded since the blood of war turned to profit."

Katharina raised an arm and struck a subtly majestic pose. Three cameras exploded in almost simultaneous flashes. "And now that we have a young, handsome, and... controversial King, the media in Hell is hungry."

"They'll use these images for everything," Ada murmured, her eyes half-closed. "From posters to spontaneous worship rituals."

"Or voodoo," Stella added dryly.

Vergil tilted his head, posing casually with one foot on a step above, his cape fluttering as if a private storm were trapped on his shoulders. He raised both hands, like an artist being cheered.

"Well... Record it." His smile was pure steel veiled in velvet. "Let's give Hell a new kind of legend to tell."

The flashes intensified. Someone shouted his name. Another demon fell to his knees. A succubus fainted.

Raphaeline turned briefly to one of the cameras, her expression as empty as the night. A single flash captured the moment before the lens burst into spontaneous combustion. She merely whispered to herself, "Ridiculous."

The scene took on the tone of a parade.

Vergil, in the center, the wives in precise formation around him—like planets orbiting a black star.

"Let's go," Vergil said, leading the way.

The group began to advance, followed by a tall, slender demon who emerged from the shadows as their designated guide. His skin was a gray-purple hue, almost translucent, and his amber eyes shone with a mixture of respect and curiosity. He wore ornate clothing, typical of the high nobility, and nodded to Vergil with a measured bow.

"This way, Your Majesty," he said in a soft, reverberating voice, leading them through corridors that breathed history and power, walls covered with pulsating tapestries, where scenes of infernal battles and ancient pacts unfolded before their eyes.

The hall that opened up ahead was vast beyond imagination, a room that blended Gothic architecture with living elements—columns that seemed to have been torn from the bowels of forgotten worlds, and a polished floor that reflected the flames of torches in shades of blood and ebony.

Inside, the demonic high nobility gathered: haughty figures dressed in robes embroidered with ancestral symbols, each bearing the marks of their clans, ceremonial weapons, and gazes as sharp as blades. The murmur ceased instantly, the hall frozen in respectful and tense silence, as the three demon kings—Vergil, Raphaeline, and Stella—crossed the immense double doors.

Everyone's eyes turned to them. The air grew thicker, heavy, as if every soul there recognized the weight of history about to be rewritten.

Vergil walked with steady steps, his presence effortlessly commanding the space, his piercing gaze sweeping across the room. Raphaeline, relentless in her aura of mystery, moved like a living shadow, her expression impassive as if assessing every creature there. Stella, with the calculating coldness of a strategist, observed the hall with the precision of a hawk, ready to anticipate any movement.

A deathly silence dominated the room, broken only by the sound of the three's footsteps, echoing like the beats of an ancient drum marking the rhythm of the new era.

The demon guide leaned toward Vergil again, while one of the oldest elders of the nobility, a being bent by age but with a fierce gaze, stepped forward.

"Your Majesties, it is an honor to witness your arrival." The voice echoed through the hall with the force of centuries, deep and laden with an ancient authority that made the silence even deeper.

Vergil smiled, a smile as sharp as a blade, and advanced through the hall with the cold elegance of one who already dominates the game. The atmosphere around him seemed to bow to his presence. The moment he entered the heart of the party, Walpurgis officially began.

It was as if the air changed weight, and the flames in the torches grew, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

But before he could surrender to the dark and promising atmosphere of that infernal ritual, a voice invaded his mind, urgent and tense.

"Come here now... We have a huge problem." It was Cabernet, her mental voice cutting through the distance, coming from the second floor, as she held her dress and hurried through the corridors.

Vergil frowned, a hoarse sigh escaping as he adjusted his suit collar with a slow, calculated gesture.

"It was too good to be true..." he muttered, the slight bitterness in his voice unable to hide his growing tension.