My Wives Are Seven Beautiful Demonesses-Chapter 149 - No. Zeus Is Here!

The sky screamed.

Not in sound.

In resistance.

The locked clouds above Manhattan shuddered violently, spirals breaking apart into jagged fractures of stormlight as two divine authorities pressed harder, closer, grinding against the limits of the Old Accords like tectonic plates on the verge of shearing.

Ares’ war-mist surged.

Not outward.

Upward.

It climbed his frame like living armour, crimson bleeding deeper into black, veins of molten intent pulsing across his arms and shoulders. The spectral weapons hovering around him screamed in resonance, vibrating as if begging to be used.

Artemis did not retreat.

But she shifted.

Not her stance.

Her priority.

Her silver eyes flicked once—not to Ares—but to the skyline beyond him. To the city. To the millions of unaware lives packed into glass and concrete beneath the collapsing heavens.

Her jaw tightened.

Artemis lifted her bow.

Not to aim.

Not to threaten.

She turned it sideways, the crescent curve facing the city, and spoke a single word that was older than Olympus’ pillars and quieter than prayer.

"Curtain."

The night responded.

Not explosively.

Not violently.

It folded.

Space itself creased.

Manhattan did not vanish—but it slipped. Like a reflection disturbed by a stone, the city smeared, duplicated, then stilled. The screaming sky froze mid-shatter, lightning locked in branching veins like cracks in glass.

A veil dropped.

Not darkness.

Separation.

The real world slid aside, sealed behind a membrane so thin it was almost insulting—and yet absolute. Sound muted. Pressure diffused. Causality... deferred.

A bounded field, anchored to Artemis’ authority as Huntress of thresholds.

A battlefield without collateral.

Ares laughed.

A deep, delighted sound that shook the artificial horizon of the Curtain-dimension.

"Ha! Still the responsible one, I see," he said, rolling his shoulders as war-mist boiled higher. "Always cleaning up after everyone else."

"Someone has to," Artemis replied evenly. "And I won’t let your pride slaughter a city."

"My pride?" Ares’ grin widened. "No, sister. This is procedure."

The thunder above them roared again—contained now, echoing endlessly within the sealed sky as a drum struck inside a vault.

Below—

We stood at the epicentre.

Eris slipped into my arms, and Zeraphira took my arm around her shoulder, keeping me steady.

Zeraphira’s grip tightened.

"Stay behind me," she ordered, voice low and hard, infernal fire stabilising around her halberd as the artificial ground beneath the Curtain rippled like stressed glass. "Whatever happens next, you do not move."

I didn’t argue.

Not because I agreed—but because my body refused.

Pain pulsed in slow, nauseating waves through my ribs, my spine, my core. Every breath felt borrowed. The backlash from the Vampire King, the forced demiurgic output, and then Ares’ pressure layered on top of it... my internal state was a ruin hastily pretending to be functional.

Eris pressed closer, small fingers curling into my coat. Not trembling.

Anchoring.

Her golden eyes never left the sky where Artemis and Ares faced one another, two absolutes grinding against the fabric of rules.

"Papa," she murmured, softly enough that only I heard. "They’re very loud."

I swallowed blood and managed a faint breath of amusement. "Yeah... they are."

Above us—

Ares took a step forward.

The ground did not crack this time.

It yielded.

The artificial battlefield warped under his foot, reality compressing as if the concept of resistance itself was reconsidering its options.

"Curtain or no Curtain," Ares said, voice rolling like artillery through the sealed sky, "this ends the same way."

Artemis’ bow rose.

Fully this time.

Silver intent coiled along the string, not forming an arrow yet—waiting, patient, disciplined. Her mantle fluttered, night-silver motes aligning behind her like a constellation drawn by a careful hand.

"You always mistake inevitability for righteousness," she replied. "That’s why you never see the ambush coming."

Ares’ eyes gleamed. "I am the ambush."

He vanished.

Not with speed.

With priority.

The battlefield lurched as Ares’ authority asserted itself—war did not move through space; it claimed the next moment.

Artemis fired.

The arrow did not chase him.

It intercepted the future he was moving into.

A crescent of silver cleaved through empty air, and Ares slammed into it mid-manifestation, war-mist detonating outward as he was forced fully back into reality.

The impact shook the Curtain like a struck bell.

Zeraphira grunted, digging her halberd into the ground to anchor herself. Selene squealed delightedly, clinging to her sleeve.

"YES—counter-frame denial! She’s reading his initiative order!"

"Selene," Zeraphira snapped. "Now is not—"

Too late.

Ares twisted mid-air, laughing, and threw a fist through the arrow’s remains.

Not blocking.

Overriding.

The silver intent shredded, authority unraveling as war-mist swallowed it whole. Ares hit the ground running, each step birthing spectral weapons—axes, spears, shattered shields—ripping free from the battlefield like memories given form.

"This is my tempo!" he roared.

Artemis moved.

She didn’t retreat—she repositioned the hunt.

Her form blurred, splitting into layered afterimages that didn’t scatter randomly, but arranged themselves like a stalking pattern. Ares tore through two, each impact annihilating illusions with concussive force, but the third loosed an arrow from his blind angle.

It struck his shoulder.

Not deep.

Enough.

Ares snarled as silver intent bit into war-mist, pinning it for half a heartbeat.

Artemis used that heartbeat.

She appeared above him, bow inverted, and drove the crescent curve down like a guillotine—

Ares caught it.

Barehanded.

The ground cratered beneath his feet as his grip closed, veins of crimson-black authority flaring violently.

"Too slow," he growled.

Artemis’ eyes narrowed.

"On purpose."

She released the bow.

It dissolved into light.

Ares’ grip closed on nothing—and the instant of surprise was enough.

The night shifted.

Not darkened.

Aligned.

Shadows snapped into coherence, becoming vectors instead of absence. Artemis reformed behind him, new bow already in hand—this one forged of condensed starlight and hunt-intent.

She struck.

Not Ares.

The war-mist.

The arrow tore through his aura, unraveling the compressed battlefield memories, detonating them outward in a controlled implosion. Spectral weapons shattered mid-flight, dissolving into harmless motes.

Ares skidded back, boots carving trenches through the artificial ground.

He laughed.

Harder.

"Oh, I missed this!" he bellowed. "You never fight fair!"

"I never fight noisy," Artemis shot back.

She drew again.

Silver light flared—

And then—

It stopped.

Not because she hesitated.

Because something else asserted itself.

The thunder above the Curtain changed.

Not louder.

Deeper.

The sealed sky rippled, not from impact—but from recognition.

Ares froze.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Enough for everyone to feel it.

Process.

The air thickened—not with pressure, but with precedent.

Artemis stiffened.

Her bow lowered half an inch.

"Ah," Selene whispered, suddenly less playful. "Uh-oh. That’s... that’s not phase two."

Zeraphira’s eyes widened slightly. "That feeling... that’s not Ares."

No.

It wasn’t.

The thunder rolled again.

And this time, it carried words.

Not spoken.

Declared.

The Curtain shuddered as a third authority pressed against its boundary—not forcing entry, not attacking, but requesting jurisdiction.

Ares’ grin returned—slow, vicious, satisfied.

"There it is," he said softly. "Took you long enough."

Artemis closed her eyes.

Just for a moment.

"...Damn it."

The sky split—with lightning being more symbol than phenomenon.

It did not strike downward.

It opened.

A vertical seam of pale-gold light tore through the sealed heavens of the Curtain, not ripping, not shattering, but unfolding like a document unrolled by unseen hands. The thunder did not roar this time.

It intoned.

A pressure unlike Ares’ war or Artemis’ restraint descended—measured, absolute, bureaucratic in the way only ancient divinity could be.

Judgment without anger.

Authority without passion.

The seam widened, and from it stepped a figure loathed in a long robe (chiton) and cloak (himation) with a crown wreathed of olive leaves on his head.

Not a helm.

Not a crown of conquest.

Olive leaves—ancient, deliberate, heavy with meaning.

Zeus stepped out of the seam as if descending a courthouse stair rather than emerging from a tear in reality itself. The pale-gold light behind him folded shut with a soft, decisive finality, sealing the Curtain’s sky once more.

The thunder did not vanish.

It knelt.

Every vibration in the artificial firmament aligned to him—not in fear, but in acknowledgement. Like clerks standing when a judge entered the chamber.

Ares straightened immediately.

Not bristling.

Formal.

His war-mist did not recede, but it tightened, compressing closer to his body, disciplined now rather than feral. He rolled his neck once, cracking it softly, and dipped his head just enough to count as respect.

"Father," Ares said, voice still edged with heat, but tempered. "You’re late."

Zeus’ eyes—storm-grey, vast, unreadable—shifted to him.

"I am precisely on time," Zeus replied calmly. His voice carried no echo, no amplification—yet it filled the Curtain all the same, each word slotting into reality as if reality itself had been waiting for it. "You invoked the Old Accords."

Ares’ grin returned, sharp and eager. "I did."

Zeus’ gaze moved.

Not to Artemis first.

To the battlefield.

The warped ground. The shattered constructs. The frozen seams in the sky. The careful containment of collateral. His eyes lingered for a moment on the edge of the Curtain, where Manhattan’s displaced reflection shimmered faintly beyond the veil.

"...You exceeded necessity," Zeus said mildly.

Artemis stiffened.

Ares laughed under his breath. "He always says that."

Zeus’ gaze finally settled on Artemis.

His expression did not harden.

That was worse.

"Daughter," Zeus said. "Step aside."

Artemis did not move.

She lowered her bow slowly, not in surrender—but in acknowledgement of presence.

"No," she said.

The word hung there.

Clean.

Unapologetic.

Even Ares blinked.

For half a heartbeat, the thunder stirred—testing, tasting—but Zeus raised one finger, and the sky stilled again.

"Explain," Zeus said.

Artemis met his gaze, winter-cold eyes unwavering. "Ares’ avatar attacked me without provocation. In the course of defending myself, an external party destroyed it. The fragment he claims was consumed was taken in the aftermath of that attack."

Ares scoffed. "You’re really committing to that fiction?"

Zeus did not look at him.

"Continue," Zeus said.

Artemis inhaled once, steadying herself. "Invoking the Old Accords over such a fragment—on mortal soil, no less—constitutes disproportionate escalation. I intervened to prevent mass casualty violation."

Zeus considered her words in silence.

The silence stretched.

Not tense.

Evaluative.

Finally, he spoke.

"You interfered with a lawful claim."

"Yes," Artemis replied.

"You opposed a god exercising his rights."

"Yes."

"You have drawn arms against Olympus’ executioner."

Artemis’ jaw tightened.

"Yes."

The thunder pulsed once.

Not a threat.

A period.

Zeus turned his head slightly.

"Then you stand in violation of Olympus’ decorum."

Ares’ smile widened.

"Ah," he said, spreading his arms theatrically. "There it is."

Zeus’ gaze shifted back to Ares.

"And so do you."

The war god froze.

"...What?"

Zeus’ eyes narrowed by the barest fraction. "You invoked recompense without exhausting lesser avenues. You escalated to execution intent before arbitration was concluded."

Ares’ war-mist stirred, offended. "Execution is one of the options."

"Not when collateral risk exceeds threshold," Zeus replied evenly. "Not when the fragment in question constitutes residual essence, not core divinity."

Ares’ grin thinned. "You’re saying I overreacted."

"I am saying," Zeus corrected, "that you were impatient."

For the first time since he arrived, Ares looked... displeased.

"You always take her side," he muttered.

Zeus ignored that.

His gaze shifted downward.

To us.

To me.

I felt it immediately.

Not pressure.

Inspection.

The kind that stripped layers without touching them.

Every instinct screamed.

Not danger.

Exposure.

Eris pressed closer into my side.

Her grip tightened—still not afraid.

Curious.

Zeus’ eyes lingered on her for a fraction longer than comfortable.

Then moved on.

To Ravvy, trembling and clutching my coat. To Gabriel, hovering rigid with terror. To Zeraphira, standing like a fortress pretending not to flinch. To Selene, who had gone suspiciously quiet.

Finally—

His gaze returned to me.

"Demon brat, quite a mess you made~"

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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