My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 298

Chapter 298: I found him, Sweetie.
“Looks like they’re gone.” Vergil murmured, his low voice echoing faintly off the concrete walls stained with mold and decay.

The silence in the abandoned tunnel was thick, almost solid – as if time had stopped there, smothered between the dead tracks and the stories no one wanted to remember.

He walked with slow steps, his boots echoing in the shallow, dirty puddles of the old New York subway. There was something lonely about that moment, but it wasn’t ordinary loneliness – it was the kind of isolation that only someone with too much power and too little patience knew.

The search was getting tiresome.

Using the memory fragments he had stolen from Alex’s corpse, Vergil had been scouring every marked spot, every place that perhaps – just perhaps – still housed a member of the so-called Faction 6.6.6.

That was the name. It sounded theatrical, almost childish…

But there was something about the echoes left by that organization that made my skin crawl. Something wrong. Instinctively wrong.

In life, Alex didn’t know much.

He was just one of the many broken people the world spat out.

A young man who had thrown himself into this sect with a pathetic desire – to erase his mother’s memories.

Vergil didn’t even ask for details.

He didn’t want to know.

It was a family problem.

And he understood enough about families to know when not to stick his face in.

The only thing that mattered to him was: Alexa’s mother was dead.

And that… for some reason, was reason enough for him to want to keep Alexa on her toes. Even if she had never asked him to.

Even so, he had ordered Fenrhaem not to reveal the full contents of Alex’s memories to her. “If it has anything to do with Alexa, don’t tell. It doesn’t belong to me.”

It was the kind of decision that didn’t seem coherent with the rest of him… but Vergil no longer bothered trying to appear coherent. Not after everything.

“I apologize, my lord.” Fenrhaem’s guttural, reverent voice echoed out of nowhere. “They’ve been gone for weeks.”

Vergil cast a cornered glance at him. A look that said more than any verbal order.

Without saying anything, the wolf simply bowed and dissolved back into its shadow – like a living tattoo returning to its master’s skin.

Vergil then took a deep breath, the smell of iron, mold and abandonment tearing at his throat.

“I’m tired of this shit.” The anger was contained in his voice, but alive. It was the kind of frustration you didn’t shout – you carried it.

The truth?

He wanted answers.

But more than that… he wanted it all to end.

He ran a hand through his hair and stared into the darkness ahead, as if it might give him some answer other than the previous ones. But it didn’t. It was just another empty tunnel. Another dead end. Another echo of nothingness.

“I should let it go. I should have left this shit alone.” His jaw cracked. “If it hadn’t been for Viviane…” His voice died in his throat.

Viviane.

The only one who still made it all worthwhile.

Perhaps the reason he hadn’t let the world burn to the ground at the hands of this specter. Not that he cared about the world, he didn’t give a damn…

But the fact that Spectre had almost killed Viviane… That was enough.

But even that was beginning to weigh on him.

Vergil leaned against the damp wall, the cold concrete biting into his back through his sweat- and dust-soaked shirt. He let his head hang back a little, staring at the cracked ceiling of the disused tunnel as if searching for some answer.

Nothing came. No divine voice, no infernal revelation. Just the distant echo of the subway still running above and the muffled sound of the city that never slept… but seemed to have forgotten him completely.

As if he was waiting for the universe itself to give him permission to stop.

But the universe was deaf.

DING! DING!

The sound cut through the dense air like a razor. Too loud. Too real.

Vergil took his cell phone from the pocket of his dark leather jacket. He didn’t even bother to look at it – at this point, anyone who still had the courage to call him deserved to be heard.

“Go ahead.” he said in a low, deep, slurred voice.

On the other end of the line, the silence lasted just a second. A sharp second.

Then a feminine voice, sweet as poison and wrapped in that unmistakable charm of someone who speaks smiling with their eyes closed:

“I’ve finally managed to talk to you, my sweet…” Vergil didn’t reply, but the corner of his mouth almost lifted into something that could have been mistaken for a smile.

Paimon.

The only person from Hell he still spoke to by choice – and perhaps, the only one who spoke to him out of genuine liking. She was literally the only demon, after his wives, that he kept in touch with.

“And it’s not just you we’ve found…” she continued, in a tone of teasing pleasure. “They found him. Spectre.”

The air grew heavier in the tunnel.

Vergil moved away from the wall, standing up straight as if instinctively knowing that the lull was over.

“Where?” he asked, dry as gunpowder.

“The Vatican.” she replied, almost in a whisper. “He’s there now… doing what he does best.”

She laughed softly before continuing, as if she were recounting a bloody play.

“Three heroes face him. Guardians of the tomb of the last Pope. Forgotten by the world, but still alive… and faithful. They believe they can stop him.”

“Can they?”

“Of course not.” Paimon said with a muffled laugh. “But the show is beautiful.”

Vergil closed his eyes for a moment. This was what he had been hunting for days, maybe weeks… and now the chance was there, dancing in front of him.

“Keep your eyes on him,” he ordered.

“Always, my dear…” she purred. “And Vergil…”

“Hm?”

“You should see him with your own eyes. Spectre… he’s changed. He’s different. He’s…”

She hesitated for a moment, as if savoring the right word. “…pure. As if the darkness had finally forgotten to imitate the light and had become something new.”

The line went silent after that.

Vergil stood there, feeling the vibration of the underground as if Hell itself were stirring.

He slowly put his cell phone back in his pocket.

“Time for mass.”

[Vatican – Battle Interrupted Dimension]

The sky was black as sin, but the clouds weren’t natural. They were made of screams, forgotten memories and the smoke of spiritually burning bodies.

The ground, once sacred, now broke into floating pieces of blessed stone – a broken cross levitating in the middle of nothingness.

Spectre had wiped out almost all of the rest of the inquisition that was concentrated in the Vatican. Those who served God in a twisted way fought and died by his hand.

He was alone. Yes… he came alone to make this whole scene… Something unthinkable, given that he always walked with strong people by his side.

Like Dante, Seraphina and Lucian… Yet here he was… Killing all the rest

While he seemed to be simply killing at will, he was actually absorbing the divine essence that each of them carried. The bloodied knights were being used as batteries without even knowing it.

Meanwhile… three beings were fighting him… although they weren’t very well prepared to deal with something like this. They were all Heroes in Training…

The first, a tall woman with short silver hair like steel. She wore light, gleaming armor, forged from the scales of Europe’s last dragon. In her hands was the spear Balmung, inherited from Siegfried – her direct ancestor, the dragon slayer of Germanic mythology.

Her name was Eva Von Siegfried, and her eyes, cold as winter, were as steady as freshly forged blades. Her presence was sharp, straight, like a living wall that refused to fall.

She had already lost part of her shield, her left arm was bruised, but her focus was absolute.

“Go away.” she said, her voice as firm as the steel she carried, as her aura grew and the stone beneath her feet began to crack.

Spectre, in front, just smiled dismissively – a skewed little smile, as if he’d heard a joke too good to interrupt.

Next to Eva, two young men held their positions – not behind her, but to her flank.

Partners. Warriors.

The first, on Eva’s right, was as slender as a blade designed by a master blacksmith.

He wore light clothes, reinforced by flexible plates of enchanted jade.

His drawn eyes were cold, calculating, and he kept his breathing controlled like a monk – without haste, without hesitation.

Xiao Liang.

Bearer of the Goujian, the legendary sword of the King of Yue, forged millennia ago with the sole purpose of never rusting and never being defeated.

The blade rested in its scabbard, but its spirit was already at war.

He didn’t say much. Nor did he need to.

You only had to see him draw his sword to understand why the legend had chosen him.

On the left, more robust and with a look of silent fury, was Arthur Díaz.

His dark, disheveled hair fell over a face marked by scars and determination.

He wore a battle-worn overcoat, with no pomp, no pride – just purpose.

Strapped to his back, he carried Tizona, the sacred sword of El Cid Campeador, the Spanish hero who wielded steel even after death.

Arthur was not an elegant warrior.

He was raw. Unstoppable.

His faith was his weapon – and his anger, his fuel.

He hated Spectre in a way that no one there could explain, and perhaps not even he knew exactly why. But the sword accepted him, and that was enough.

The three of them formed a triangle of different but equally unbreakable wills.

Courage.

Strategy.

Faith.

The kind of trio you’d see in books of legends.

Or in epitaphs.

Spectre spread his arms.

Almost disappointed.

“Three ghosts with old toys, get out of the way.” he muttered, his voice echoing among the desecrated ruins of faith.

The fallen cross.

The broken marble.

The sky still bleeding.

And the war was about to begin again.