My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 326: Supreme Crazy Demon

"You must be pretty nervous, huh?" Vergil's voice echoed, deep and laced with sarcasm. He stood in the center of a collapsing world, watching with a faint smile of amusement as chaos seeped into every inch of his soul.

But this was no mere mental projection.

This was the Core of the Soul.

The true heart of his existence.

The point where all fragments of power, memory, and essence intertwined. An inner universe formed by legacy, trauma, and blood... a perfect reflection of who he was... or had been.

The field around him bloomed with spider lilies of vivid crimson red, so intense they seemed drawn with his own blood. Their petals pulsed with a subtle, living aura, and each flower was rooted not in soil but in representation of the Blood of the Ball Clan.

Overhead, a blazing sun burned like a living furnace, radiating golden-orange flames. It was no ordinary heat… it was power. The Flame of the Agares Clan, wild, proud, ever consuming, ever reborn. He felt it burning inside, and yet he stood firm.

The breeze that cut through that world was no simple wind. It was alive, ethereal, as if it whispered a thousand stories, decisions, and renunciations. The Wind of the Sitri Clan, shaped by choices that could not be undone. It brought an almost melancholic freshness, perfumed with forgotten hope.

The night, when it descended into that inner world, was not an absence of light—it was the presence of shadow. A curtain of absolute and inevitable power.

The touch of death hung like a silent veil, covering the ground with black stars that shone like closed eyes. It was the weight of the end. The final call that one day all would answer.

Finally, the very earth beneath his feet… solid, marked by cracks that shone silvery blue… was shaped from Vergil's own body.

It was the foundation of his soul.

Every rock, every fissure, every piece of that soil pulsed with his battles, his pains, and his conquests. It was him in raw form.

But now… all of that was desecrated.

Spectre, the parasitic entity that had invaded his body, had dove into that well and corrupted every aspect.

The spider lilies rotted one by one, blackened and suffocated by roots of darkness that forced them to wither in silence.

The sun of Agares now bled, its light dripping like poisonous oil, staining the sky with purple streaks.

The wind of Sitri had become a suffocating storm, made of distorted screams and broken promises.

The night of Death was in turmoil. Stars fell like burning tears, and each one left marks of agony on the ground.

And Vergil's ground, once firm, was now thorny, cracked like open flesh. It was as if his own body were rejecting his soul.

Around him, Spectre was shaping this world with invisible hands—installing prisons of energy, chains of doubt, and towers of fear.

A world of locks.

Psychic locks.

Emotional locks.

Existential locks.

Then came the silence.

Not the silence of peace, but the one that precedes a birth from the abyss. A suffocating pause, like the contained breath of the universe before that which should not exist.

The sky tore.

With a sound that did not belong to the world of the living, the firmament of the soul opened like torn flesh, and through the purple and black veil, eyes began to appear.

Thousands.

Amorphous eyes, floating like sickly constellations.

Watching. Judging. Hungry.

The roots of corruption grew unchecked, snaking through the soil like blind snakes, entwining themselves with the flowers, strangling them one by one.

The stones began to scream.

Not with voices. But with memories.

Screams of childhood.

The loss.

The weight of each mistake.

The faces of those he had disappointed.

The hands of those he had killed.

The earth groaned.

The horizon bled.

And from the sky, bodies fell.

Shattered bodies, some faceless, others with features that alternated between familiar and monstrous.

They all came from above, suspended by soul strings—broken puppets from some hellish theater.

They were versions of themselves.

Vergil the child. Vergil the teenager. Vergil the warrior. Vergil, the monster.

All dead.

All judged.

In the center of the torn sky, Spectre finally manifested.

Not as a defined being, but as a hole in reality. A living eclipse.

Black. Spinning in endless spirals.

Within him, shapes tried to emerge—claws, faces, mouths—as if all the malice in the universe had been crushed and poured into a single point of existence.

"You are nothing, Vergil." Spectre's voice boomed across the plane, echoing as if it were being spoken from within bone.

"Everything you have built will be swallowed. There is no structure that can withstand the truth: you are a broken soul trying to pretend it is whole."

The world fell silent.

The chains that wrapped around Vergil's body tightened with brutal force, to the point of tearing the skin of his soul.

But he didn't scream.

He just looked up.

A gaze that carried the weight of a thousand lives.

One of them, golden — incandescent like the sun from above, carrying the divine flame of ancient redemptions and broken promises. The other, black as complete death, a chasm of pure denial, where even hope refused to enter.

And then he laughed.

It wasn't mockery.

It wasn't despair.

It was the laughter of someone who saw the bottom of the abyss... and smiled back.

"Heh... hehehe... HA..."

He arched his body slightly, even though he was still tied, the chains creaking around him. And then:

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

The laughter echoed with a metallic timbre, cracking the air like thunder in a closed chamber.

It wasn't madness.

It was defiance.

Vergil's essence — mutilated, weakened, perhaps on the verge of death — still burned with the certainty of someone who doesn't bow down.

"You're still quite arrogant..."

He spoke in a hoarse voice, covered in bruises, but without losing his firmness.

Even kneeling.

Even handcuffed.

Even with the world falling down around him.

"Arrogant enough to think you understand who I am."

He lifted his chin. And the world around him shook slightly.

"You think you see a broken soul..." His eyes flashed in unison... "...but all you see is the foundation of something you'll never be able to destroy."

The chains shook.

Not like steel... but like living beings.

They screamed.

Yes, they screamed. Not with a voice, but with a high-pitched, unearthly howl that tore through the plane like nails on a cosmic chalkboard. They were made of fear, regret, limitations... And now they were being violated.

Vergil smiled.

Slow. Cruel. Almost animalistic.

"Ahhh… Are you afraid now?" His voice sounded low, distorted, and reverberating with multiple tones, as if a legion spoke through his mouth.

The veins in his arms began to pulse with a liquid purple energy, as if the power of corruption itself was dancing beneath his skin.

The chains tried to tighten. To bind. To resist.

But he only surrendered his fingers, and with a sharp tug —

RAAAAAAASSSHHH!!!

He broke the first one.

Shards of guilt flew like psychic blades, and Vergil absorbed them into his bare chest, as if he were sipping the poison of the world.

"You were born to restrain me…" He murmured, eyes lowered, shadows trailing from his mouth like black vapor.

"…but now…you will serve as a weapon, my infernal chains."

He grabbed another chain with both hands, and this time—it didn't break.

It transformed.

The metal screamed, twisted like a steel serpent, and fused itself to Vergil's wrists, digging in like inverted manacles—demonic bracelets that pulsed with burning runes and buried desires.

"I will call you Ouroboros," Vergil said. "I will make good use of you, my weapons."

The remaining chains came at him in a frenzy, trying to choke him, but he had already changed. "Come, my children."

Vergil's hair grew like a living torrent, falling down his back to his waist, rippling in absolute black, as if darkness itself had woven every strand.

And his eyes… once contrasting light and dark… Now burned with a radiant purple, the kind of glow that doesn't illuminate… It corrupts.

It was him.

"You called me a broken soul…" Vergil raised his arms, and the chains now danced around him like angry serpents, sharp and obedient. "…but even a cracked soul becomes a perfect blade… if you know where to sharpen it."

The world shook.

Not with fury.

With fear.

The roots of corruption, which had once crawled arrogantly, now hesitated. Stopped. Shrunk back like blind worms before a new hunger they didn't recognize—a hunger older than themselves.

Vergil laughed.

But not like before.

The laughter that exploded from his lungs was a demonic thunder piercing through time, a sound that should not exist in any sane reality. It was visceral, animalistic, pure chaos in voice form.

"AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—!!"

The sound made the chains of the world scream.

The dead flowers began to writhe, as if trying to burrow back into the soil.

The black sky retracted, like skin being ripped from within.

The eclipse overhead trembled, and Spectre—the primordial terror—whispered for the first time… not with disdain. But with caution.

"…what have you become…?"

Vergil spread his arms wide.

The chains, now named Ouroboros, extended like sidereal serpents, circling him with a choreography of carnage.

His silhouette was inhuman.

Long, deformed by raw power, a mixture of nobility and aberration.

Dark horns formed on his head like crooked crowns.

The shadows retreated.

The corruption... trembled.

And then Vergil spoke, with a firm, ancient voice... He was a little delirious, but the following sentences were the last he would speak to Spectre.

"Listen... In this world, whenever there is light, there will also be shadows." He muttered, hiding his face with his hand after laughing uncontrollably.

"As long as the concept of winners exists, there must also be losers."

"And I will never be the loser."

"I have many selfish desires, so I won't let you have them."

"I'm going to kill you."