My Wives are Beautiful Demons Chapter 538: Qliphoth

Chapter 538: Qliphoth

The protector in the white kimono didn’t look away from Vergil, but her icy tone didn’t hide a hint of discomfort.

She wasn’t lying. That thing—the Tree, the dormant entity, the heart that had been beating since before ti—had called to him.

Vergil smiled as if this were the confirmation he’d always hoped for. His footsteps echoed steadily, the sound contrasting with the tense silence of the group.

“Everything I desire, hm?” He lifted the black gem, which now trembled in his hand like a caged animal. “So it’s not just a jewel. It’s a key.”

Naberius narrowed his eyes, biting his lip with sadistic pleasure. “If it is, I want to see the door it opens.” His sword flared with discreet flas, as if he, too, were impatient.

Sapphire snorted, taking a step forward. “Idiot.” If you put your hand there without thinking, you’ll turn to ash before you have a chance to laugh.

“Ah, Sapphire…” Vergil laughed softly, a clipped, feverish laugh. “It’s precisely the risk that gives the prize its sweetness.”

Sepphirothy frowned, observing every detail of the suspended fruit. Her eyes narrowed like blades. “It’s not just power,” she said. “This fruit is a test. It gives nothing away. It forces you to tear from yourself what you most fear losing.”

Ada flinched, tugging at her mother’s arm. “Mom… don’t let him. If he touches that, he won’t co back the sa.”

Raphaeline held her daughter’s hand tightly, but didn’t answer imdiately. Her eyes were fixed on Vergil. Not on the man everyone saw—arrogant, provocative, addicted to chaos—but on sothing beyond, in the shadow of an abyss that had always accompanied him. She pressed her lips together and said softly,

“He never cos back the sa.”

The fruit pulsed stronger, as if responding to Vergil’s approach. Each beat echoed in everyone’s chest, as if the Tree’s colossal heart wanted to align the rhythm of their bodies with his.

Suddenly, the sap lake bubbled violently. Golden vapors rose, and within them, images began to form—shattered visions, fragnts of what could be.

Armies burning under Sapphire’s light. Naberius’s laughter echoing over fields of bones. Sepphirothy bathed in darkness, fighting her own shadow. Raphaeline with her scythe raised, surrounded by the corpses of her allies. Ada alone, weeping in a deserted forest.

And, in the center, always in the center, Vergil.

Now crowned in blood, now crucified by chains of light, now walking over ruins as the sole survivor.

“Hah…” he let out a sigh almost of ecstasy. “So this is what you show ?” The price and the glory, side by side.

The protector closed her eyes, as if to avoid witnessing what was to co. Her voice sounded weak, yet still sharp:

“Touch the fruit, and it will tear you apart until nothing remains but your truth. The Tree judges not with rcy. It tears.”

Vergil raised his hand, the black crystal pulsing in unison with the suspended fruit.

He smiled. Not a smile of bravado, but of soone who accepted madness as fate.

“Then let it tear.”

And he took the final step toward the Heart of the Seed.

“Vergil!” Raphaeline shouted, but her voice echoed sluggishly, as if space had swallowed the sound.

The instant his fingers brushed the surface of the fruit, a burst of black and gold light filled the room. The roots trembled, the sap boiled, and everyone was thrown against the walls, like leaves in a gale.

The lake roared, and the entire Tree seed to awaken, and Vergil’s body simply… Gave up, and he fell.

…

Vergil couldn’t quite pinpoint the mont he lost consciousness. He rembered only the explosion of black and gold light, the pain tearing through his body in opposite directions, and then… nothing. Not even the comfort of darkness. Just a cut, a void.

When he opened his eyes again, he didn’t recognize the place.

The ground beneath his feet was made of gray roots that writhed like petrified serpents. The air was thick with an acrid, tallic sll, like blood exposed to the sun. Above, instead of sky, was a crimson veil that seed to pulse like living flesh.

Vergil took a deep breath and nearly choked. It wasn’t air. It was like breathing smoke mixed with liquid iron.

He took a few steps forward, and the landscape revealed itself.

A demonic forest stretched as far as he could see: twisted trees, leaves like blades, trunks oozing greenish pus that fell into boiling pools. Among the branches, figures moved, always out of sight, as if the forest itself were watching.

But what dominated the scene was the lake.

A vast lake, dark and viscous, covered almost the entire clearing before him. Its waves moved slowly, as if breathing. Each bubble that rose to the surface exploded into red vapors, which rose into the air and spread like veils of smoke.

In the center of this lake was a small island. A dry patch of land, inappropriately calm, like a point of order amidst the chaos.

Vergil narrowed his eyes, assessing. He felt the call coming from there.

And then, without realizing it, in the blink of an eye… he was there.

The island beneath his feet was solid, covered in a dark moss that resembled dried at. He blinked again and realized sothing even more impossible.

In the center of the island was a tea table.

Small, elegant, made of a dark tal that glead in the red light of the lake. On it, two cups stead. Steam rose in lazy spirals, scented with sothing sweet—honey, cinnamon, perhaps ward blood.

Seated at the table was a woman.

Vergil didn’t have ti to react. One mont he was standing; the next, he was sitting in the chair, his hand resting next to the cup prepared for him.

His gaze slowly rose to her.

The first thing he noticed was her skin: a deep red, gleaming like polished marble, which seed to absorb and reflect the light from the lake at the sa ti. Her long hair fell in incandescent cascades, a living fla in shades of orange and gold. It moved as if breathing, following the pulse of the room.

On her head, a colossal, wide-brimd hat cast shadows that hid half her face. Yet, from her black-painted lips, a discreet smile shone—dangerous, insinuating, like a blade covered in silk.

Her body… was inhumanly perfect. Broad, feminine shoulders, a slender waist, wide, full hips. Her voluminous breasts lifted the fabric of her black dress like shadowy mountains, and every curve seed to have been sculpted not by nature, but by divine—or demonic—intention. The aura emanating from her was not simply one of power. It was a feeling of temptation, of supremacy, of sothing that forced his gaze to linger.

Vergil felt his stomach tighten, not with fear, but with recognition. He was standing before sothing ancient. Sothing beautiful and devastating.

“It’s good to know that the successor of that idiot demon god,” she said, her voice as soft as honey but thick with iron, “is soone who has so much… potential.”

The sentence was accompanied by a delicate sip of tea. Her long fingers, with sharp black nails, held the porcelain as if it were a treasure.

Vergil opened his mouth, confused, ready to respond—but the words didn’t co. Only silence.

He realized he was trapped. Not physically, but in presence. It was as if the space around him allowed no other action than to observe her.

And in that instant, he realized sothing even more uncomfortable: he didn’t know how he had sat there. He was just there.

He swallowed hard.

“You are… who?” His voice was hoarse, but firm.

She smiled, tilting her head slightly to the side. The hat cast a shadow over her mouth, but it didn’t hide the lush gleam of perfect teeth.

“Qliphoth.”