My Wives Are Seven Beautiful Demonesses

A searing pain exploded in my head—like a flashbang made of memories detonated behind my eyeballs. My knees buckled as visions tore through my mind:

Born to Daemon Nocturne— The Demon King of Hell. And Lilith Nocturne von Morningstar.

What?! You may think—why von Morningstar for my mother and not my father?

Good question. I'd love to know too. But apparently, this is Hell. And in Hell, bloodlines are traced by influence, not by biology. Turns out, she held the title first.

Lilith wasn't just a queen. She was the primordial sin, the first wife of Adam, the seductress of angels, the nightmare under your bed, and the reason Succubi exist in the first place.

And my father?

Daemon Nocturne. A warlord-turned-king who unified the lower circles of Hell by brute force, charisma, and one suspiciously successful game of hell-chess with Beelzebub.

A power couple? More like a ticking apocalypse waiting to happen.

And then they had me—Dominic Nocturne von Morningstar, their only son.

Spoiled? Sure. Loved? Uh... not exactly.

Because here's the thing: shortly after I was born, Lilith fell into an eternal sleep. Like Sleeping Beauty, but replace the spinning wheel with birthing me. Apparently, the act of pushing my hellish soul into this realm nearly shattered her very essence.

Yeah. Try living with that kind of guilt. "Oh, sorry I caused your mother to enter eternal metaphysical coma. My bad."

And my dad? Murdered. Publicly. On his throne.

By who? The Seven Satans. You know, the Big Sins. Wrath, Lust, Gluttony, Envy, Pride, Sloth, and Greed. The so-called "Council of Sin." They tore my father apart, not just because he was king. But because he cheated.

Not on Lilith, no. Cheated them.

The Seven Satans had a deal. My dad broke it. They wanted to tie their useless daughters to the heir to the throne—me.

But Dad, not wanting to ruin my future, chose the most thoughtful way a Demon King could express paternal affection:

He told them to go screw a Balrog and keep their disappointment-spawn away from me.

Yeah. That didn't go over well.

So, they waited. Until I turned seven—

Now the question arises—why seven? Why not, say, two? Or ten? Or even thirteen for that spooky-teen angst?

Turns out, age seven has great metaphysical significance in demonic law. Something about the seventh spiral of the soul, the seventh seal of will, the seventh flavour of despair—look, I don't have the original scrolls, but the number seven was cosmic-grade important, especially for contracts.

Especially demonic marriage contracts.

See, the moment I hit seven, a certain curse-slash-contract kicked in. A pact made long ago by my father and the Seven Satans themselves. A clause so infernal, so insidiously worded, that even Hell's top lawyers couldn't weasel their way out of it.

It went something like this:

"In exchange for peace, power, and a temporary truce, the Demon King agrees to betroth his future son to the daughters of the Seven Satans. Upon reaching the seventh year of life, said heir will pass his sin affinities and innate demonic talent equally to the seven betrothed, in accordance with Hell's Binding Law of Reciprocity."

Translation?

I was the sin piñata.

Crack me open and—surprise!—all my power spills into seven adorable walking red flags.

My entire magical potential—gone. All affinities to the Seven Deadly Sins—transferred. My body? Left hollow. Weak. Practically mortal. The once-prophesied heir of Hell… turned into a power-depleted reject.

Oh, and the girls?

The seven "useless" demonesses suddenly became monster-class prodigies overnight. They were each originally born without any sin affinity—a cosmic joke, like sinless demons. But after the ritual, each of them manifested a perfect compatibility with one of the Deadly Sins. Max-level affinity. God-tier control. System-breaking potential.

I became their sacrificial upgrade stone. Their patch notes were amazing. Mine said: "Bugged. Nerfed. Trash."

I was exiled not long after. Not because anyone hated me, mind you—at least, not everyone.

It's just... when your bloodline royalty becomes magically crippled, Hell politics turn vicious. Loyalty has an expiry date, and mine was printed on my seventh birthday cake.

They stuffed me inside that coffin, after they siphoned away the last traces of my demonic aura. No ceremony, no farewells. Just a bunch of high-ranking nobles pretending like this was a mercy burial instead of an execution.

"Let the Heir sleep in eternal stasis," they said. "May his soul find peace."

Peace? I was nine.

Why nine? Why not right after the contract?

Because someone got cold feet.

Not one of the Satans. No, those psychos were fully onboard with Plan Yeet-the-Prince-Into-a-Coffin. But there was one… maid.

Yes. A maid.

My personal caretaker. Assigned to me the day I was born. Her name?

Grayfia Lucifuge.

Titles? Too many.

"Silver-Haired Queen of Annihilation.""The Unmoving Glacier.""First Maid of the Crimson Moon.""One-Woman Warcrime."

She was a walking contradiction—elegant, silent, respectful, and more terrifying than a nuclear bomb dipped in moonlight. If the Satans were flames, she was the unmelting ice that could smother them all.

Despite being technically a servant, she had enough clout to rival a High Duke of Hell. No one disrespected Grayfia and survived. And yet… for some incomprehensible reason, she chose to stay by my side.

Even as my power disappeared.

Even after I became… nothing.

No one dared question her decision. Maybe they assumed she was just pitying the crippled heir. Or maybe she was assigned by Lilith before her sleep and took the command too literally.

But I know she loved me. Why, you ask?

Well, the answer is right before me.

[Name: Grayfia Lucifuge]

[Race: Demon]

[Level: ???]

[Job: Supreme Maid / Executioner of House Morningstar]

[Title(s): The Unmoving Glacier, One-Woman Warcrime, Silver-Shadow of Lilith, Oathbound]

[Affiliation: House Morningstar (Loyalist)]

[Affection Level: ??? (ERROR: VALUE OVERFLOW)]

[Combat Class: Unknown | Danger Rating: SS+ (Auto-caution Protocol Engaged)]

As for why I think it's romantic love and not some loyalist or maternal leftover affection?

Let's just say… no one stabs a High Satan in the heart while whispering "You don't deserve him" unless they've caught feelings of the Yandere variety.

And that's exactly what Grayfia did.

To the surprise of everyone—including me—on the day of my "burial," she cut down one of the Satans' Avatars mid-ritual. And in doing so, she violated the ancient truce law that kept the entire demon world from exploding in another civil war.

That's how deep her oath to me ran. That's how terrifying her affection could be.

But she didn't save me.

Not in the way you'd expect.

She just… stopped them from completely erasing me. Instead of letting them disintegrate my soul, she sealed me inside this sarcophagus using an ancient relic—The Coffin of Evernight. It preserved my body and consciousness like a cursed stasis pod while the rest of Hell forgot about me.

Not even the Satans knew where she'd hidden it.

And now?

Now I was awake.

My body still ached from reactivation, and I couldn't summon a flicker of energy. My sin affinity was still gone—ripped and divided like a cursed inheritance between seven demonic heiresses who probably forgot I existed.

Except… no.

They hadn't forgotten me.

The seven thrones before me?

Each one glowed faintly.

Faint traces of magic pulsed from the sigils—Wrath, Lust, Greed, Sloth, Pride, Envy, Gluttony. And each bore a faint burn mark—a recent one.

Someone had been here.

Seven someones.

A soft wind blew across the ruined sanctuary. Dust curled in the air. From somewhere behind the altar, I heard it:

Click. Clack. Click.

The sound of high heels on marble. Slow. Icy. Unhurried.

I turned, heart slamming against my ribs.

From the shadows, a figure emerged.

Her silver hair was tied in a tight braid that glimmered like moonlight dipped in steel. Her maid uniform was pristine—black and white, lace-trimmed, and fitted like a glove. A crimson ribbon at her collar fluttered as she walked. She carried a silver tray with a steaming cup of… was that demonic tea?

I blinked.

She didn't.

Her crimson eyes locked onto mine with the intensity of a weapon system recalibrating its target.

She stopped exactly three feet away.

Then, bowed deeply at the waist, silver braid falling over one shoulder.

"Master."

I blinked again.

"…Grayfia?"

She straightened. "Yes, Master. You are awake."

"Wha—how—when—?"

"I have maintained vigil over your slumber for one thousand and twenty-two years, four months, and nine days. The cycle of Hellfire reached alignment last night. The stasis seal weakened. I enacted Revival Protocol Alpha."

"One thou—what the HELL?!"

"Exactly, Master."

Oh, you've got to be kidding me.

A thousand years?

I missed a millennium?!

I opened my mouth to scream, rant, curse the world—

—and she shoved the teacup into my hand.

"Drink," she said softly. "You will collapse otherwise."

I stared at the cup. It was still steaming. It smelled faintly of burnt cinnamon, mint, and forbidden regrets.

"...Is it poisoned?"

She tilted her head. "Only lightly."

"...Fair."

I sipped.

A warmth spread through my insides. Not the warmth of healing, but of something ancient and stabilising—like someone had poured a piece of Hell's core into a kettle and brewed it into liquid courage.

For the first time since waking up, I felt… alive.

I straightened my back. My fingers stopped trembling. My voice stopped cracking like I was a cursed pre-teen on caffeine withdrawal.

"Grayfia… Why now? Why bring me back now?"

She looked at me, eyes unreadable.

"…Because they've returned."

I blinked. "Who?"

She gestured toward the thrones.

"The demonesses. Your wives."

My heart did something ugly in my chest. "They… came back?"

She nodded.

"They have matured. Changed. Become monsters the likes of which even Hell fears. They rule their respective territories with absolute power. But something is stirring. They felt it."

She turned her gaze upward, as if seeing through the ruined temple roof.

"The seal on your essence—on you—weakened. They sensed it. All seven of them. And they came. Not together, not in unison. But one after another… They stood here. Before your coffin. Each one…"

She hesitated.

"…Each one touched the stone lid. Left a mark. And whispered a message."

I swallowed. "What did they say?"

Grayfia's lips thinned into a cold smile.

"One said, 'He's mine. The rest can burn.'Another whispered, 'He forgot me… I'll make him remember. With fire.'Another traced a heart into the dust and said, 'I'm still waiting for my first kiss, Dommy~'One just stared at the coffin for an hour. Then laughed. Then cried. Then laughed again."

She lowered her voice.

"Each one has changed. But none have forgotten."

I stared at the thrones again.

The power radiating from them felt sharp. Obsessive. Twisted. As if seven universes of pain and longing had been bottled into demon girls with god-complexes and abandonment issues.

"…They're Yanderes now, aren't they?"

Grayfia didn't answer.

Instead, she knelt.

Both knees to the floor. Head bowed.

"Forgive me, Master. I could not prevent your fate. I failed you."

"…Grayfia—"

"I will not fail again." Her voice was soft, deadly. "This time, I will serve not just as your maid. But as your shield. And sword."