My Wives Are Seven Beautiful Demonesses-Chapter 171 - No. Hell Stirs (3)

[Location: Morningstar Safe House, Eight Hell]

The Morningstar Safe House in the Eighth Hell was no ordinary refuge. It stood cloaked in forgotten wards, its walls formed not of stone, but of obsidian glass harvested from the Abyss itself—material so resistant to corruption that even the Satans hesitated to tamper with it. Outside its hidden perimeter, the Eighth Hell stretched like a wound that refused to heal. This realm had many names, whispered in dread across infernal courts and mortal cults alike, but the most enduring was "The Abyssal Purgatory of the Damned."

It was called a prison, but that word barely sufficed. The Eighth Hell was a necropolis of broken gods, ancient devils, and forgotten horrors that no other Circle dared to house. Here, the very air was so thick with miasma that even the mightiest demon needed wards to breathe freely. The land shifted like a dream gone rotten—plains that bled black ichor, forests of calcified bones, rivers that boiled without heat. And far above, the sky was a blind void, no stars, no moon, no fire—only an oppressive emptiness that pressed down upon intruders like a predator's gaze.

The safe house itself was buried within this nightmare, veiled by enchantments laid by Lucifer Morningstar's own hands at the start of his exile from the Silver City. Its gates bore the sigil of the Morningstar, a mark that bent the very laws of this Circle to deny entry to uninvited souls. Even the damned, restless and whispering beyond the wards, could only claw at its invisible walls like dogs shut out of paradise.

But right now, three figures were sitting inside the reception area. Ariandel Belphegor is one of them, while the other two were no less beautiful. One was even on the level of Valeria, if not more.

"I said, it's your fault because of you instead of all of us going together to darling only Valeria, Ravvy and that Ezravia got to go, and now we are trapped in Hell."

The girl pointing looked like anger had been sculpted into elegance.

Long black hair flowed down her back in glossy waves, sharp emerald eyes burning beneath delicate brows. She wore a dress of layered silk that shimmered like oil over gold—beautiful, expensive, and entirely impractical for the Eighth Hell.

Aurellie Mammon.

Fiancée of Greed.

Collector of treasures, grudges, and perceived injustices.

Across from her, half-sunk into a wide obsidian chair as though gravity held a personal grudge against her, Ariandel Belphegor blinked slowly.

Very slowly.

Painfully slowly.

Her molten gold hair spilt over the armrest like lazy sunlight, and her pale violet eyes carried the eternal expression of someone who had just been asked to stand up when she had absolutely no intention of doing so.

"…We're not trapped," Ariandel said at last, voice soft and drowsy, as if the argument were happening at a comfortable distance from her soul. "We're… strategically stationary."

Aurellie's eye twitched.

"That is just Sloth language for 'I didn't want to walk.'"

Ariandel gave a small, apologetic shrug that required the minimum amount of muscle engagement.

"I conserve energy for when it matters."

"It mattered when the Prince woke up!" Aurellie snapped. "It mattered when Grayfia reappeared! It mattered when half of the Seventh hell was ripped apart in her clash with the seven, making the perfect opportunity for us to leave without them knowing. But! You had to say you were 'too tired to destabilise inter-hell geopolitics before breakfast!'"

Aurellie threw her hands in the air, silk sleeves fluttering dramatically.

Ariandel blinked at her.

"…It was early," she said gently.

"It was history, Ariandel!"

A third voice cut in before the argument could spiral into its eighth loop of the hour.

"Must we pretend this was avoidable?"

Both of them turned.

Regalia Luciferis.

Fiancée of Pride.

She stood near the tall abyssal-glass window, hands clasped behind her back, posture so perfectly straight it looked sculpted. Her hair—silver-white with faint prismatic undertones—fell in a flawless sheet down her back. A narrow crown of black crystal rested upon her head, not worn for show, but because it belonged there.

Where Aurellie burned, and Ariandel drifted, Regalia ruled.

"We did not fail to go," Regalia continued calmly. "We were not permitted to go."

Aurellie crossed her arms. "That is a generous interpretation of being politically benched."

"It is an accurate one," Regalia said.

Ariandel tilted her head slightly. "…I thought we were being subtle."

"We were being monitored," Regalia corrected. "The moment Valeria, Ezravia, and Ravvy slipped past their watchers, surveillance across all Seven Thrones doubled. The Satans are not fools."

Aurellie muttered, "Debatable."

Regalia ignored that.

"The path to the mortal realm closed within hours. Every sanctioned gate now requires direct throne authorisation. Unregistered movement is being flagged as potential treason."

Ariandel slowly absorbed this.

"…So," she said, "we are strategically stationary."

Aurellie groaned and flopped into a chair across from her.

"I hate when Sloth is accidentally right."

Ariandel's fingers idly traced the armrest. "…Do you think he remembers us?"

Aurellie blinked. "That is your concern?"

"It's a valid one," Ariandel murmured. "A thousand years is a long nap."

Regalia's expression didn't change, but something in her gaze sharpened.

"It does not matter what he remembers," she said. "I am his Pride. I will remain," Regalia finished, voice level, absolute.

Silence settled over the chamber like fine dust.

Aurellie stared at her.

Ariandel blinked once.

Twice.

"…That was very dramatic," Ariandel murmured.

Regalia did not turn from the window. "It was factual."

Aurellie leaned back and threw an arm over her eyes. "Ugh. I hate it when she does that tone. It makes everything sound like a law of reality."

"Because it is," Regalia said.

"See?!" Aurellie groaned. "That!"

"You're his Greed too," Ariandel said sharply, lowering her arm and fixing Aurellie with a pointed stare. "We all seven are."

The words lingered.

Not because they were loud.

But because they were true.

Regalia finally turned from the window.

When she faced them, the prismatic light from the abyssal glass framed her features like a coronation portrait—sharp cheekbones, steady crimson eyes, a composure that had never cracked even when the heavens burned.

"Yes," Regalia said. "You are correct."

Aurellie blinked.

Ariandel blinked slower.

"…Oh," Ariandel said. "You're agreeing with me. That's… new."

"I am not disagreeing," Regalia replied. "I am clarifying hierarchy."

Aurellie sat up. "Excuse me?"

"We are all bound," Regalia continued evenly. "But not all bindings express themselves identically. Lust moves openly. Envy moves laterally. Gluttony consumes proximity. Sloth waits. Greed accumulates."

Her gaze flicked to Aurellie.

"And Pride… anchors."

Ariandel hummed sleepily. "…That sounded important."

"It was," Regalia said.

Aurellie scoffed. "Anchors don't matter if the ship never docks."

Regalia's eyes sharpened.

"The ship has already docked," she said. "You simply were not on it."

That stung.

Aurellie's jaw tightened, golden pupils flashing. "Careful. You're speaking as if Valeria won something."

"You two seem to be forgetting about the one who got to darling first," Regalia's voice cut cleanly through the room.

Ariandel's eyes narrowed. "Zeraphira."

Aurellie's widened.

"…Right," she muttered, sitting back slowly. "Wrath."

The word lingered in the room with a weight that pressed against even the Abyss-forged walls.

Ariandel shifted in her chair, which for her counted as a significant emotional reaction.

"She was always the closest geographically," Ariandel murmured. "Wrath borders more unstable territories. Lots of spatial tears. Easier to slip through."

Regalia's gaze turned distant, calculating.

"Zeraphira did not slip," she said. "She forced passage. There is a difference."

Aurellie grimaced. "Of course she did. That woman has never entered a room quietly in her life."

"She is not subtle," Regalia agreed. "But she is effective."

Ariandel yawned softly. "Do you think she's already… attached again?"

Aurellie's nose wrinkled. "Attached? She probably walked in, punched a wall, declared herself his fiancée, and dared the universe to object."

"…That does sound like her," Ariandel admitted.

Regalia turned back to the window, staring out at the shifting void beyond the wards. Shadows moved out there—things too old to have names, sliding along the perimeter of Lucifer's ancient protections, testing them like teeth against bone.

"Wrath bonds through conflict," Regalia said quietly. "If the Prince is weak… she will stay to protect him."

Aurellie snorted. "If he's weak, she'll train him until the ground begs for mercy."

Ariandel tilted her head. "Is that not… also protection?"

Aurellie opened her mouth.

Closed it.

"…I hate when Sloth makes sense."

Ariandel gave her a small, pleased smile and sank further into the chair.

Regalia's fingers tightened slightly behind her back.

"Wrath being near him is both blessing and risk."

"How is that a risk?" Aurellie asked. "She's on our side."

Regalia glanced at her.

"Wrath does not do 'sides.' Wrath does 'targets.'"

A small silence followed that.

Ariandel spoke first, voice soft. "You think… if the Satans move against him…"

"Zeraphira will burn the sky," Regalia finished calmly.

Aurellie actually smiled at that. "Good."

"Yes," Regalia said. "Good… until escalation becomes annihilation."

Aurellie waved a hand dismissively. "Please. None of the Satans want open war over an engagement contract."

Regalia looked at her for a long moment.

"You are Greed," she said. "You understand value."

"…Obviously."

"What is the value of the Morningstar heir?"

Aurellie's smirk faded slightly.

Regalia continued, voice measured.

"A living political keystone. A unifying symbol. A legitimizing figure for old pacts. A threat to any throne built on the assumption of his permanent absence."

Ariandel blinked slowly. "…That sounds expensive."

"It is," Regalia said.

Aurellie leaned back, frowning now. "So some of them might want him alive."

"Yes."

"And some might want him gone before he stabilizes anything."

"Yes."

"And some," Ariandel murmured, "might want to keep him weak… but usable."

Regalia didn't smile.

But her silence was confirmation.

Aurellie let out a long breath. "Ugh. Politics. I preferred it when we were just emotionally repressed brides in separate fortresses."

Ariandel raised a hand slightly. "I was never repressed. Just… horizontal."

Regalia ignored them both.

"The key issue is this," she said. "We do not know what he is now."

Aurellie scoffed lightly. "He's Dominic."

"That is a name," Regalia replied. "Not a state of being."

The words settled heavy.

Ariandel's voice softened. "You think he changed."

"A thousand years of sealing is not sleep," Regalia said. "It is isolation, distortion, and survival. Even if his power was stripped… time still shapes the mind."

Aurellie folded her arms. "Or he's still the same soft-hearted idiot who apologized to servants."

Ariandel's lips curved faintly. "That was cute."

Regalia's gaze sharpened. "That was dangerous."

Aurellie looked at her. "You didn't dislike it."

Regalia did not answer.

Which was answer enough.

Silence stretched again, filled only by the distant, muffled reverberations of the Eighth Hell—like something massive turning in its sleep beneath the world.

Ariandel finally spoke.

"…So what do we do?"

Aurellie groaned. "We wait. Obviously. Pride just gave us a speech about being monitored."

Regalia inclined her head. "Correct. We wait."

Aurellie threw her hands up. "I hate waiting."

"You hate not controlling outcomes," Regalia corrected.

"Same thing."

"No," Ariandel murmured. "Waiting is resting with anxiety."

Aurellie pointed at her. "That is the most Sloth sentence ever spoken."

Ariandel smiled faintly, unbothered.

Regalia turned from the window and approached the central table—a circular slab of abyssal crystal etched with dormant sigils.

"With gates restricted, we cannot reach the mortal realm physically," she said. "But influence does not require presence."

Aurellie perked up slightly. "Now you're speaking my language."

Regalia touched the table. Sigils flickered faintly to life.

"House Mammon still controls three major trade arteries through neutral hellspace."

Aurellie straightened. "Five."

"Three that are not currently under audit by your father," Regalia corrected.

"…Fine. Three."

"Belphegor's territory maintains dream-channel bleed into the mortal subconscious."

Ariandel blinked. "…Oh. Right. I do own that."

Aurellie stared at her. "How do you forget owning dream highways?"

"I don't use them often," Ariandel said gently. "Too much effort."

Regalia continued. "And Pride retains ceremonial authority over several pre-fall contracts that even the Satans cannot publicly void."

Aurellie smirked. "So we can't go to him…"

Ariandel finished softly, "…but parts of us can."

Regalia nodded once.

"Subtlety," she said. "No direct contact. No messages that can be traced. No overt interference."

Aurellie's eyes gleamed now. "But nudges…"

"Whispers," Ariandel added.

"Pressure on surrounding systems," Regalia said. "Information flow. Resource drift. Minor coincidences."

Aurellie grinned. "I can redirect certain rare-material shipments through mortal fronts near his region. Nothing obvious. Just… convenience."

Ariandel nodded slowly. "I can ease nightmares in areas where hostile forces gather. Make them tired. Slower."

Regalia's gaze lowered to the glowing sigils.

"And I," she said quietly, "can ensure that any ancient law invoked against him… encounters procedural delays."

Aurellie laughed. "You're weaponizing bureaucracy."

"Pride does not rush," Regalia replied.

Ariandel smiled sleepily. "We are helping… without being seen."

"Yes," Regalia said. "Because the moment we are seen—"

"The Satans clamp down harder," Aurellie finished.

"And Dominic becomes a battlefield," Ariandel murmured.

None of them liked that image.

Aurellie looked away first. "…He always hated conflict."

Regalia's eyes softened by a fraction. "Which is precisely why it will find him."

Ariandel closed her eyes briefly. "…Then we make sure he has room to breathe before it does."

Regalia nodded once.

"Agreed."

The sigils on the table flared softly, reacting to their shared intent—not a spell, not a pact, but alignment.

Far beyond the wards, something vast brushed against the safe house barrier again.

This time, the wards pulsed brighter.

Inside, three fiancées of sin began moving pieces on a board none of the Satans yet realized had been set.

And in the mortal realm, a certain oblivious prince continued his days—training, arguing, healing, living—

Completely unaware that Hell had started adjusting itself…

To make space for him.

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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