My Wives Are Seven Beautiful Demonesses-Chapter 128 - No. 99th Floor & Vampire King’s Ex-Wife?!

Chapter 128: Chapter No.128 99th Floor & Vampire King’s Ex-Wife?!

[Location: Dungeon—Vampire King’s Castle]

After leaving that awkward episode behind, I resumed the climb— Ninetieth, Ninety-First, Second... all over up to the Ninety-Eighth.

Grind was... monotonous.

Painfully so.

Floor after floor blurred into a repeating cycle of crimson corridors, shattered gothic halls, and increasingly desperate remnants of vampire nobility who still believed bloodlines meant something inside a dungeon that no longer answered to a king.

Just living a revelous life, carnal desires, indulging in excess long after the throne that justified such decadence had rotted away.

That was the impression the higher floors of the Vampire King’s Castle gave me.

Not resistance.

Not strategy.

Decay.

By the time I stepped onto the Ninety-Ninth Floor, even the dungeon itself felt... tired.

The air was thick, not with killing intent, but with stagnation—sweet, cloying, perfumed with old blood and older arrogance. The crimson marble beneath my boots was polished to an obscene sheen, reflecting distorted versions of myself with every step, as if the floor still believed mirrors mattered.

Behind me, my shadows moved in silence.

Erebus led the formation, posture rigid, presence oppressive despite the absence of aura. Paimon and Vael flanked the rear, Bob walking a step behind me like a fuckin’ vibrator given legs. Astra hovered lazily near the ceiling, humming something off-key while pretending not to watch Eris, who was riding on my shoulder, half-awake and clutching my collar.

She had insisted.

I had relented.

The Behemoth—now nameless, now shadow—was gone, dismissed deep into my darkness, but the decision lingered like an unresolved note.

Papa first.

The words echoed again, uncomfortably warm.

I shook the thought away as the corridor widened.

The 99th Floor opened not into a battlefield—but into a grand hall.

No.

A ballroom.

Golden chandeliers floated unsupported, burning with violet witchflame instead of candles. Crimson drapes cascaded down cathedral-high windows that showed not the dungeon’s void, but a painted illusion of a moonlit city—laughing nobles, flowing wine, endless night.

Music played.

Soft.

Elegant.

A waltz, slow and intimate, echoing from nowhere and everywhere.

"So, Erebus, Astra—who’s in charge of this floor?"

My voice cut through the music, flat and unimpressed.

The waltz didn’t stop.

If anything, it grew clearer—as if the hall itself had leaned in to listen.

Erebus inclined his head, the violet lights within his faceless helm dimming for a fraction of a second—an old habit from when he still possessed a body capable of hesitation.

Astra twirled in front of me, mischief practically leaking out of her bone-white mask—even though I still had no idea how the damn thing managed to emote.

"Oho~?" she sang lightly. "Straight to business, my king? No appreciation for atmosphere? This is tastefully dramatic, you know."

Erebus answered before I could tell her to shut up.

"Ex-Queen of Vampire, Carmilla—"

The name settled into the air like dust disturbed from an ancient coffin.

The music faltered for half a beat—just long enough to be noticed—then resumed, smoother than before, as if correcting itself. The chandeliers pulsed faintly, violet witchflame rippling in time with the waltz, and somewhere beyond the illusionary windows, the painted moon seemed to brighten.

Eris shifted on my shoulder, stirring slightly.

"Papa... noisy..." she murmured, half-asleep.

I reached up without thinking, steadying her with two fingers against her back. The motion was automatic. Anchoring.

Erebus continued, voice even, devoid of judgment.

"Carmilla Noctis-Valeblood. Former consort of the Vampire King. Divorced—no, discarded—approximately eight centuries ago, prior to the King’s full seclusion within the dungeon."

Astra drifted closer, lowering her voice theatrically. "Mmm~ ’discarded’ is such an ugly word. She prefers liberated."

"I didn’t ask for commentary," I replied.

She pouted. For a skeleton. Somehow.

Paimon snorted softly behind me. Vael said nothing, but his grip tightened imperceptibly on his weapon.

A discarded queen.

On the Ninety-Ninth Floor.

Of course.

I exhaled slowly, scanning the ballroom. There were no enemies. No visible traps. No armies of vampire elites waiting to swarm.

Instead, the hall was... lived in.

Tables lined the edges of the dance floor, laden with goblets filled with deep red wine that smelled unmistakably of blood—but refined, aged, curated. Plush couches of velvet and obsidian were arranged in conversational clusters. Laughter echoed faintly, disembodied, as if memories themselves were trapped here and forced to replay on loop.

At the far end of the ballroom stood a raised dais.

Upon it, a single throne.

Not the Vampire King’s.

Smaller. More elegant. Designed not to dominate, but to invite.

And seated upon it—

She clapped.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The sound carried across the hall, crisp and mocking, and the waltz faded into silence with her final clap.

"Well," Carmilla purred, her voice smooth as silk drawn over a blade. "You certainly took your time."

She rose from the throne in one fluid motion.

Carmilla was... striking. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

Not in the monstrous way of elder vampires warped by power or hunger—but in a way that spoke of cultivated allure. Long raven-black hair cascaded down her back, streaked with silver that shimmered faintly under the witchflame. Her gown was deep crimson, slit high along one leg, embroidered with sigils that drank in light instead of reflecting it.

Her eyes—ancient, wine-dark—settled on me.

Then flicked to Eris.

Then back to me.

Ah.

I felt it then.

Interest.

Not bloodlust.

Not hostility.

Curiosity.

"Well, well," she murmured. "You’re not the senile relic I expected."

"I get that a lot," I replied flatly.

She laughed—a genuine sound, rich and amused.

"Oh, I like you already."

Astra leaned toward me and whispered, far too loudly, "She’s flirting."

"I know."

"It is Mana Sanguine... wow. So you died and your brother—oh, Azmuth too, how surprising too~" Her gaze swept from Astra to Draugr with teasing tone laced with undoubted curiosity.

Carmilla’s smile sharpened.

Not cruel.

Not hostile.

Just... knowing.

"Ah," she said softly, circling a slow step down from the dais. Her heels didn’t click against the marble. They never quite touched it. "So the rumours were true after all."

Her gaze lingered on Erebus for half a breath longer than necessary, then, as if recognising him, her eyes widened for the first time with surprise clear in them.

"...No," Carmilla whispered, disbelief slipping through the cracks of her composure. "That presence—"

Her eyes narrowed, then softened, then sharpened again, as if running through centuries of memory in the span of a heartbeat.

"Alexios," she said.

The name fell gently. Almost disbelief.

Erebus did not move.

He did not bow.

He did not acknowledge her with anything more than his continued existence.

That alone was answer enough.

Carmilla exhaled a slow, almost amused breath. "So even you were claimed in the end." Her gaze slid back to me, and this time, the interest deepened—curiosity turning into something far more dangerous... Is that affection I see? "How utterly... poetic."

Astra clicked her tongue. "See? Told you this floor was dramatic."

I ignored her.

"Carmilla," I said calmly. "You’re in charge here."

"In charge?" She laughed lightly, drifting closer, her steps leaving faint ripples in the air like disturbed water. "Oh no, darling. That implies responsibility. I merely... curate."

Her eyes flicked to the illusionary windows, to the painted city and endless night. "This floor is a museum. A celebration of what vampires once were—before paranoia, fear, and a certain King’s obsession with eternity ruined everything."

Her gaze sharpened. "And before he cast me aside."

There it was.

Bitterness—not loud, not explosive—but aged, distilled, and potent.

Eris shifted on my shoulder, stirring awake at the subtle shift in tension. Her golden eyes blinked open, unfocused at first... then locked onto Carmilla.

She stared.

Carmilla froze mid-step.

The air thickened.

For the first time since we’d entered the ballroom, the illusion flickered.

"...Oh," Carmilla murmured, eyes widening just a fraction. "What an... interesting child."

Eris tilted her head, wings twitching once.

"Papa," she asked quietly, "pretty lady smells... old."

Astra choked.

Paimon coughed violently.

Vael turned his head away with the unmistakable posture of someone trying very hard not to laugh.

Carmilla blinked.

Then—

She laughed.

Not mockingly.

Not offended.

Genuinely amused.

"Oh, I adore her already," she declared, clasping her hands together. "Such honesty! Children are simply divine."

I adjusted Eris slightly. "She’s tired. Don’t provoke her."

"Provoking?" Carmilla placed a hand over her heart, feigning hurt. "Perish the thought. I was merely admiring."

Her gaze lingered on Eris longer this time—careful, measuring. Whatever she saw there, it made her... cautious.

Interesting.

"You’re not here to fight me," Carmilla said at last, straightening. "If you were, the floor would already be drowning in blood. Which means..." She smiled again, slow and knowing. "You want something."

"I want to clear the floor," I replied. "And access the hundredth."

Her eyes glinted. "Ah. Straightforward. I respect that."

She turned, gesturing elegantly toward the ballroom. "Then indulge me, Lord Intruder. One dance. One conversation. No blades. No shadows."

Her gaze flicked briefly to Erebus, then back to me.

"If you survive that," she continued lightly, "I’ll hand you the entry permit myself."

Astra leaned in again. "She’s definitely flirting."

"I know," I repeated.

Eris yawned, resting her head against my neck. "Papa... dance?"

I paused.

Then sighed.

"...Fine."

Carmilla’s smile widened.

The music resumed.

Not the waltz from before—but something slower. Intimate. Old.

But before that—

"Come forth."

My shadow stretched, and Behemoth’s shadow crawled up and knelt before me.

"PAPA! PUPPY!"

I simply sat her on the snout.

Eris’ entire face lit up like a sunrise.

"Puppy!" she squealed softly, immediately patting the massive shadowed skull with both hands, her wings fluttering in excitement. The Behemoth’s shadow rumbled low and gentle, its enormous form carefully lowering itself so she could sit comfortably, movements precise to the point of reverence.

Carmilla stared.

Actually stared.

For a long, silent moment, the ancient vampire queen forgot to breathe.

"...You," she said slowly, eyes never leaving the scene, "command monsters the way others command furniture."

"It listens," I replied simply. "That’s all."

Eris giggled, hugging the shadow-behemoth’s snout again. "Good puppy."

Carmilla’s lips parted in something between laughter and disbelief. "Extraordinary."

The music swelled, elegant and slow, filling the ballroom with a nostalgic warmth that felt deliberately crafted to lower guards and blur edges. The chandeliers dimmed slightly, witchflame shifting to a softer hue, casting long shadows that swayed like dancing partners along the marble.

Carmilla extended a gloved hand toward me.

"Shall we?"

I glanced at Eris once more. She was already half-lost in her own world again, leaning comfortably against the shadow-behemoth, eyelids drooping.

"Stay," I told the shadow quietly.

It stayed.

Not as a guardian.

As furniture.

I turned to Erebus and others, inclined my head in Eris’ direction. To which Erebus returned with the small nod.

Carmilla’s hand lingered in the air, a delicate invitation—and a subtle test.

I took her hand lightly, letting my fingers brush hers. The touch was deliberate but neutral, acknowledging her position without yielding mine. Carmilla’s eyes sparkled with that faint, dangerous amusement that only centuries of experience could craft. She leaned in slightly, enough that her perfume—a rich, aged wine mixed with something darker, something sharp—brushed against my senses.

"Careful," I said softly. "I don’t do favours lightly."

She chuckled. "Neither do I. Then we are... well-matched, I suppose."

The shadows of the ballroom stretched and twined around our feet, subtle and obedient, as if sensing the careful balance of power between us. For the first time, the illusionary crowd in the painted city behind the windows seemed to freeze, holding its collective breath. Even the chandeliers stilled, their violet witchflame flickering once in anticipation.

I let her lead a half-step forward, then another. The waltz dictated nothing; the floor dictated nothing. It was only us, moving carefully across the polished crimson marble. Eris remained perched atop the shadow-behemoth, lightly tapping its armoured snout with tiny hands, utterly unconcerned with anything but her play.

"You are... quiet," Carmilla said after a moment, her voice low, soft, curious. "Not many enter here without bloodlust, without the fire of ambition. Yet you move like..." She paused, searching for a word. "...like you already own this floor without claiming it."

"Observation," I replied simply. "And hierarchy. One absolute. Everything else falls in line naturally."

Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "Ah. So you truly understand children, monsters, and the dead alike. That is... unusual."

I glanced at Eris. She yawned and shifted slightly, tiny wings brushing the shadowed floor. I didn’t correct her; she had learned to prioritize. Papa first. The memory of that decision still anchored her core.

Carmilla’s gaze flicked toward Erebus, then Vael and Paimon, lingering for a beat too long. "And these..." she said, almost murmuring, "are shadows of what was, yet they move with purpose. They obey... without fear, without charm. Fascinating."

"They obey because I am necessary," I said evenly. "Because they choose to anchor themselves to someone certain."

Her eyes glittered—not with malice, not with lust, not with fear—but interest. "And yet," she murmured, circling slightly, her steps silent against the marble, "there is no arrogance. Not the arrogance I expected from one who reaches this height."

"I don’t need arrogance," I said quietly. "I need... strength. To take what’s mine. To protect so my close ones don’t get hurt ever again..."

"I see, I pray for your enemies~" Her gaze was excessively affectionate.

’What the hell is going on?’

Her laugh was soft this time. Not teasing. Not amused.

Interested.

"Ah... so that’s it," Carmilla murmured, fingers tightening just a fraction around mine as we moved. "Not conquest. Not dominion. Protection."

The word lingered between us like a fragile glass ornament.

"I’ve seen men claim they’d burn worlds for love," she continued, tone conversational. "They always burn the loved ones first. Accidentally, of course."

"I’m not that type of man," I replied calmly.

That finally drew a genuine pause from her.

Her steps slowed. Her head tilted, silver-streaked hair sliding over one shoulder. "No," she said slowly. "You aren’t."

The chandeliers dimmed further, casting the ballroom in a twilight glow. The illusionary city beyond the windows shifted—nobles froze mid-laugh, wine suspended in mid-pour, as if the memory itself had stalled.

Carmilla studied me with new eyes now. Not as a flirtation. Not as a threat.

As a variable.

"You carry yourself like someone who has already lost everything once," she said softly. "And refuses to lose anything ever again."

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it either.

Behind us, Eris giggled faintly in her sleep, hugging the shadow-behemoth’s snout tighter. The massive shadow adjusted minutely, cradling her with a gentleness that would have horrified its former living self.

Carmilla noticed.

Of course she did.

Her gaze lingered there longer than before, something old and complicated flickering behind her eyes.

"...I had a daughter once," she said casually.

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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