My Wives are Beautiful Demons - Chapter 334

Chapter 334: Last Day in Prison (Part.II)
The room was cold and damp, with walls peeling from time and an acidic smell that seemed to emanate from the concrete itself.

It was there that the few “freed” prisoners received back the remains of their dignity — packed in pale boxes and accompanied by suspicious looks.

‘That crazy woman… she said she made this prison, but she just reused some place… liar.’ Vergil thought of his mother, who had said she had ‘Created’ this place.

Vergil entered the room with firm steps. The guard who had escorted him there kept his distance, as if simply approaching him would violate some silent survival agreement.

Behind the stone counter, a skeletal demon with six eyes and two pairs of nervous hands consulted the records. His fingers trembled slightly as he read, as if each line on the parchment recorded a different sin.

“Lucifer… Cell 13… Pavilion 9…” The employee swallowed hard. “Personal items returned as per records. One black overcoat, infernal synthetic fabric, high resistance category. Original clothing—black pants and shirt. No weapons. No magical accessories.”

With trembling hands, the demon pushed a small metal box across the counter. Vergil opened it slowly, as if he already knew what he would find. He removed the shirt, put it on over his torn orange uniform, and finally pulled on the overcoat. The garment slid off his shoulders as if it missed being there—heavy, elegant, almost alive.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment after putting on the overcoat. He took a deep breath. Not as if he needed air, but as if he was accepting the return of an old role.

Then he faced the demon at the counter.

“That’s it?” Vergil asked, with a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. “No souvenirs? Not even a souvenir handcuff?”

The clerk laughed nervously. “J-just your registered items, sir. It’s p-protocol…”

Vergil took two steps forward. The demon froze. The security rune above the door glowed for a moment—activated automatically by fear, not actual danger.

Vergil leaned slightly over the counter, with that same blank, curious look that made even shadows tremble.

“You know…” he began, casually, “…in certain American prisons, they at least give you a coffee and a cigarette when they let you out. Here? Not even a ‘thanks for not killing anyone.’ Shameful.”

The demon laughed. A high, nervous laugh that died in his throat when Vergil didn’t blink.

“Relax,” Vergil said, straightening. “You’re only alive because it’s too soon for me to get upset again.”

The guard at the door stood still. Rigid. A block of fear masquerading as discipline.

Vergil looked at him, and without stopping smiling, he commented:

“You’re more still than an NPC in a cutscene…” Vergil commented disdainfully, casting a lazy glance at the guard in front of him. “Calm down, I’m not going to hit you… unless you ask me very politely.”

The guard didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink. His wide eyes behind the magic visor said it all: he was petrified.

Vergil let out a soft sigh, adjusting the collar of the black overcoat he had just put on — now clean, intact, with the impeccable fit of someone who wears his own presence as a weapon.

“Now… I’m dressed like myself.” he murmured, as if the act of putting on that piece of clothing was the final nail in the coffin of the world that imprisoned him.

He then turned around, pointing with his thumb to the magic collar around his neck — thick, full of sealing runes that pulsed dark red like open wounds.

“What about this? Aren’t they going to take it off?”

The guard swallowed. “L-Lord Amon… said that… that you would take it off yourself…”

Vergil raised an eyebrow, as if he had heard a joke in questionable taste.

“Of course you did.”

He reached for the collar.

No spell. No ritual. No magic words.

The collar exploded with a sharp crack, sending arcane sparks and a hissing sound that shook the room. Fragments of the enchanted metal fell to the counter in front of the guard, who almost took a step back, but stopped himself out of pure survival instinct.

Vergil rolled his neck with a snap, as if he had just gotten rid of an annoying itch.

“There. Free. Again,” he said, as he dismissively left the remains of the collar on the counter. “Good luck, man. I hope your paycheck is worth the trauma.”

He then turned unhurriedly, walking down the hallway as if he were not leaving a prison—but as if he had just come out of a break.

The main door to the prison opened with a creak that sounded more like a relieved sigh from Hell itself. Outside, the darkness seemed to breathe—heavy, alive, almost reverent.

Vergil crossed the threshold with calm steps, his hands in the pockets of his recently recovered overcoat, his expression bored as if he were leaving a waiting room, and not a maximum security cell in Hell itself.

“I feel like I’m in a trailer for a famous game,” he muttered.

But he didn’t take two steps before he realized it.

The air vibrated.

A second of silence.

And then — shock. Movement. Impact.

Three presences appeared like lightning, cutting through the charged atmosphere with absurd speed. Before anyone could react — before Vergil could even finish a sarcastic thought — he was enveloped, crushed and practically thrown backwards by a trio that seemed more like an emotional storm packed with pure brute force.

Ada hugged him first, wrapping her arms around his torso, her face buried in his chest as if trying to make sure he was real. Roxanne came right after, grabbing his waist like an anchor—breathless, her heart racing, her eyes moist but proud. And finally, Katharina, who jumped on his back as if she were a child returning to her father’s lap, growling through her teeth:

“If you disappear like that again, I’ll kill you. For real this time.”

Vergil stood still for a moment.

Arms of steel around him, three unstoppable forces crushing him with more emotion than restraint, but he showed no discomfort. On the contrary—a barely perceptible sigh escaped his lips. Relief? Pride? Something in between. Maybe just… peace.

“You three should be classified as siege weapons,” he muttered, with that slight sarcastic tone that hid more than it said. “I thought you were out of prison, not in another one.”

Roxanne punched him lightly on the shoulder, smiling. “Shut up. You dared to be arrested and stay away from your wives, you bastard!”

Ada raised her red eyes. “We thought that…”

“Don’t think that.” He interrupted softly. “I’m back. And nothing in this hell can bring me down.”

Katharina pressed herself tighter against him. “Liar. You only came back because they let you. We know how it works.”

Vergil sighed and, for the first time that day, raised his arms and returned the hug. One arm wrapped around Ada and Roxanne at her side, the other held Katharina tightly while she was still hanging.

“Yeah… But even a king needs to be welcomed by his queens.” He said finally.

Still wrapped in the trio’s embrace — as fierce as it was comforting — Vergil tilted his head to the side, looking over his shoulder with an arch of his eyebrow that already had the next irony on his lips.

“Are you the only ones who came to get me?” he asked, with that lazy, teasing tone he reserved only for those he trusted. “I thought my mother was going to come. After all… it’s all her fault.”

Silence fell like a blade.

Ada pulled away first, not too far, but enough for him to see the shadow of tension in her eyes.

Roxanne glanced sideways, her arms still crossed behind his back, as if to hold him in place—not out of necessity, but out of fear that he would evaporate.

Katharina, hanging on his back like an angry tail, huffed.

“She sent us,” Katharina said dryly. “She said she was sorting out a lot of problems… We should talk later. Let’s go home.”

Vergil didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, still. The silence around him was heavier than any words. His gaze fell on Roxanne.

“…What happened?” he asked, directly, staring at her with that dangerous calm. “You’re going to tell me.”

Roxanne looked away. Then away again. And again. Vergil smiled—like a hunter watching his prey pretend he’s not cornered.

He crossed his arms.

“Chocolate milkshake… with caramel sauce… and that ridiculously tall whipped cream,” he said, as if reciting an arcane password.

Roxanne bit her lip.

“Oh, and of course… carrot cake with chocolate frosting and crunchy sprinkles.” He continued, casually.

She shivered. Almost. Just one more push.

“Four-flavor ice cream,” he murmured like a sweet threat. “Crispy crust, hot chocolate sauce… and those enchanted sugar shavings that you always pretend you don’t like, but eat the whole jar in secret.”

“Vergil…”

“Dulce de leche. Strawberry Swiss roll. Your grandmother’s dimensional pudding…”

“ENOUGH!!!” Roxanne screamed, raising her arms, red up to her ears. “The Witch Queen wants to meet you, THERE, I SAID IT! STOP TEASING ME!!!”