My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 404: Chaos and Profanation

Chapter 404: Chaos and Profanation

Vergil stopped in the center of the ceremonial road, his cloak rippling slowly in a breeze that no one else could feel. The stones of the avenue of honor seemed to sparkle in his presence, as if the demonic earth itself recognized that something inevitable was about to happen.

The noise ceased. The chaos, the fighting, the roars, the screams… everything disappeared into a sudden, suffocating stillness.

The Demon Warrior—a brute scarred by the wars of the Underworld, muscles that looked like living mountains, yellow eyes spitting fury—turned to him. Perhaps it was boiling blood, perhaps it was arrogance… but he dared to speak:

“And who are you to—”

He never finished the sentence.

With a snap of his fingers, Vergil not only silenced the demon: he reduced him. Not physically — yet — but in dignity, in presence, in existence.

The warrior’s body bent involuntarily, as if the air around him had tripled in weight. His knees began to buckle. The mystical battle runes on his skin—a mark of pride among demon warriors—began to bleed. Literally. A crimson trickle ran from each symbol, and with each drop, the warrior seemed smaller, more tired, more… irrelevant.

“You dare interrupt the King’s path,” said Vergil, his voice low, controlled—and a thousand times more terrifying than any scream. “On a sacred avenue. During the ceremonial coronation parade.”

The warrior tried to lift his head, but a sharp crack echoed—the sound of his pride breaking in two. Vergil continued walking toward him, his steps steady, his eyes now glowing an unholy purple.

“You have decorated your body with symbols of war… and yet you act like a drunken circus goat. Are you so thirsty for violence that you cannot even wait for royalty to pass before tearing out your frustration with whatever that… decorated ox has said?”

The Minotaur, upon hearing this, took a step forward. A terrible idea.

Vergil didn’t even turn to face him.

His shadow stretched impossibly, slithering toward the Minotaur and rising like a living scythe. It struck him once—not with physical force, but with shame. The Minotaur, a creature who had once commanded legions in the hellish arenas, fell to his knees as if he had remembered his childhood and realized that he had been a disappointment even to his own mother.

Vergil finally stopped between the two, his gaze as contemptuous as that of a god watching two ants trying to fight on his banquet table.

“Tomorrow, you would wake up telling this story to your friends, wouldn’t you? ‘I fought in front of the royal procession! Everyone saw me! I made history!'”

He laughed coldly, without joy.

“Well, know this… you did not make history.”

He raised his hand.

“You became a joke.”

He snapped his fingers again. “Let’s try some illusory demonic magic, courtesy of Alice.”

Instantly, the two combatants were covered by a vivid and cruel illusion. The Demon Warrior found himself dressed in a pink tutu, spinning comically and tripping over his own feet. The Minotaur, meanwhile, wore cardboard armor with words like “MOMMY DRESSED ME” written in childish runes, and a ridiculously shiny tiara on his head.

The crowd around them burst into laughter. Even the demons who minutes before had feared the presence of the two now pointed at them as if watching a play.

“Look closely,” Vergil said loudly, so that everyone could hear. “These are the two champions who dared to obstruct the King’s path. Two idiots so consumed by ego that they forgot their place.”

He turned to the guards.

“Tie them up like animals and drag them behind the royal carriage. They will clean the ceremonial floor with their faces until the end of the parade.”

The order was obeyed immediately. Magical chains appeared out of thin air and bound the two, who were still reeling from the magical humiliation. They did not resist. They could not. Vergil’s presence had drained every ounce of dignity they possessed.

Vergil walked back, and as he passed the demonic nobles and commoners, none of them dared to breathe louder than a whisper.

When he reached the carriage, Katharina was waiting for him at the door, a broad smile on her face.

“That was beautiful. A performance worthy of an emperor.”

“They needed to learn,” he said, running his hand through his now slightly tousled hair.

Stella raised an eyebrow. “You’re more theatrical than I imagined.”

Raphaeline chuckled softly. “And more cruel. I’m… impressed.”

Ada simply said from the back: “They won’t stoop any lower. The example has been set.”

Roxanne craned her neck out the window, watching the two demons being dragged away, mud and blood trailing behind them.

“They look cute in tutus. Can we put that in the festival performance?”

“Let’s talk about it,” said Vergil, finally relaxing back into his seat.

The carriage started moving again. The drums began again, though now at a more restrained pace—as if the instruments themselves had learned that they were in the service of someone far, far above their comprehension.

And, dragged on ropes like two foolish oxen that had strayed from the pasture, the “champions” of shame were led in public humiliation behind the procession.

At the front, the King did not smile. But inside, Itharine roared with satisfaction.

“That,” Itharine whispered, “was fun, master.”…

[Gremory Palace…]

Cabernet’s footsteps echoed like thunder through the devastated corridors of the ancient hall of Runeria. Broken statues, burned tapestries, the smell of broken magic and ancient blood in the air. Her black battle dress dragged across the floor like a living shadow, amber eyes crackling with fury and despair.

“Runeas!”

Her voice tore through the silence—a plea and a threat at the same time.

She turned a corner. Her heart stopped.

There, in the center of the great hall of broken marble, between cracked columns and shattered windows, lay the body of Runeas.

The Empress’s daughter fell like a heavy feather onto the steps of the ancestral throne, her semi-materialized draconic wings scorched and shattered. Her pale skin glowed faintly, as if the life within her were a candle burning out.

But what drew a cry from Cabernet was not the blood.

It was the absence.

In the center of her daughter’s chest, where the Dragon Empress’s Crimson Jewel had once pulsed, there was only a burnt hole—empty, surrounded by black cracks that spread like magical poison. A symbol of ancient power… stolen.

Cabernet fell to her knees. The sound of Runeas’s breathing was a fragile whisper, almost inaudible.

She wrapped her arms around her, her eyes wide, her throat closed in a scream that did not come out.

“…who did this?” she whispered, her voice trembling not with fear, but with pure hatred.

The jewel had been taken by force. This was not a simple battle.

It was a desecration.