My Wives are Beautiful Demons

The lake of blood bubbled slowly around the small island, as if each bubble were a breath trapped in the air. Demonic roots twisted around the scene, but the center remained still: the tea table, the red-skinned woman with orange hair, and the blue-eyed young man who seemed calmer than he should have been.

Vergil still sat, one leg crossed over the other, his body leaning back slightly, as if watching a tedious show.

Qliphoth, before him, let the steam from his cup dissipate into the heavy air, but his golden eyes were fixed on the man before him. There was something about his calm that deeply disturbed her—as if he were the one in control.

She narrowed her eyes and said,

"I will not allow you to take this territory."

Vergil sighed. Not a weary sigh, but a sigh filled with calculated contempt.

"Fine," he said simply, squaring his shoulders. "I don't care."

The words slammed into her like an invisible slap.

Qliphoth clenched his fist under the table. That indifference... that irritating lightness. He should have been frustrated, furious, trying to find ways to fight his decision. But no—he was smiling as if he'd gained something.

Vergil noticed the tension in her eyes. His mouth curved into a lopsided smile.

"If that's all, you can send me back. I'm going home."

He leaned back further in his chair, his tone casual, almost bored.

"After all, I've already wasted months here." His eyes narrowed, glinting with sarcasm. "It's not like I've gained anything in particular."

Qliphoth set his cup down hard, the clink echoing like a discordant note.

"I'm not going to do that."

Vergil tilted his head to the side, studying her like a hunter watching prey who hadn't noticed the trap.

"Oh?" His smile grew. "Then tell me... what do you want?"

He tossed the words around like someone offering a worthless coin, but the gleam in his eyes said otherwise. He pretended to give in, pretended to hand over the reins, but it was clear he was seeking something.

Qliphoth folded his hands in his lap, his posture erect as a wall.

"I want to get out of this place."

Vergil let out a short, mocking laugh.

"Leave?" He pointed to her feet, covered by the long scarlet skirt. "You have feet. You can walk."

Her golden eyes sparked with irritation.

"It's not that." His voice was deep, firm. "I want to see the world."

Vergil leaned back again, tapping a finger against the arm of the chair, as if measuring the weight of her confession. Inwardly, he smiled—he'd been right. From the beginning, he'd known that this entity didn't just want to talk. She wanted something.

"See the world…" she repeated slowly, as if savoring the words.

Then she shrugged indifferently.

"Join my soul," she said with the naturalness of someone offering a sip of wine. "That way you'll leave peacefully."

Silence.

The air seemed to thicken. The roots enveloping the island ceased their movements, as if even they had stopped to listen.

Qliphoth's eyes widened slightly. She hadn't expected him to offer something so quickly, so directly. Her gaze fixed on his face, searching for signs of irony, of playfulness. But Vergil just stared at her with that irritating smile, half calm, half defiant.

She stared at him silently, her fingers twitching slightly on the table.

"You…" she began, but her voice died away.

Vergil arched an eyebrow.

"What? Are you afraid?"

The provocation struck deep. Her golden eyes narrowed, sparking like embers about to set the forest ablaze.

"It's not fear." Her voice was low but firm. "It's… caution."

Vergil leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand.

"Caution…" she repeated, as if trying a word for the first time. "You want to see the world, but you fear paying the price."

Qliphoth didn't answer immediately. She just stared at him, her eyes hard, her jaw tense.

Vergil laughed softly, a husky, provocative sound.

"Think of it this way…" He raised his hand, opening it as if revealing something invisible. "I gain an interesting partner." You win the world.

He dropped his hand, resting it on the table.

"Or else…" his eyes glinted sarcastically, "you can stay here. Alone. Talking to no one."

Her face hardened. Vergil's words had hit the nail on the head: loneliness.

She took a deep breath, as if trying to control something inside her. Her lips parted, but she didn't speak immediately. She just continued to stare at him, as if trying to pierce his mask.

Vergil didn't move. His smile remained there—serene, insolent, the smile of someone who could wait for all eternity without giving up a step.

"You…" Qliphoth murmured, his voice low, almost a breath. "You have no idea what you're summoning."

Vergil tilted his head slightly, his gaze flashing.

"And you have no idea who you're dealing with." The answer came sharp, firm, cutting through the air like a naked blade.

The lake of blood trembled in response, its bubbles bursting faster. The roots writhed like impatient serpents. But in the center of the island, the silence remained dense, untouched.

Qliphoth slowly leaned back in his chair. His golden eyes, still fixed on him, had changed: they were no longer merely arrogant, but filled with something new—hesitation…and a flicker of dangerous curiosity.

Vergil saw this. And smiled. Wider. More assured.

"Well?" His voice dropped low, drawled, like a challenge that brooked no retreat. "Are you going to stay here, rooted in this vault, drinking tea until the end of time…"

He leaned forward, his gaze as cold as steel.

"…or are you going to walk beside me and see the world with your own eyes?"

Qliphoth stared directly into Vergil's eyes as he suggested something so absurd. After all, it was something she never expected to hear… the problem was, it was a huge trap…

Qliphoth doesn't know the properties of Vergil's body… or rather, she didn't even bother to research him further… what would happen if he tried to merge with her soul like a parasite?… Would she be devoured? Would she join those two dragons?…

Who could have predicted that?… But Vergil… was truly interested in devouring this woman.