My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 711: Parallel Battles.

Vergil stood still for a few moments after hearing the word that echoed from that being, not as simple speech, but as an absolute command that seemed to pierce the air and settle into the very structure of the environment: "Lucifer."

There was something profoundly artificial about that statement, but at the same time it wasn’t purely mechanical. It was an execution without emotion, yet sustained by something alive, something that breathed and responded, even if in a limited way.

He showed no irritation, nor haste; on the contrary, his eyes narrowed with growing interest, as if he had found a rare phenomenon amidst the monotony of the predictable.

His hand rested on the hilt of the sword, still unhurried to draw it completely, while his mind already advanced far beyond that first contact.

"Do you understand what you’re doing?" he asked with a calmness almost out of place in the situation, as if offering the other the chance to demonstrate self-awareness, to prove that there was something beyond that cold repetition of orders.

For a brief moment, there was silence, a minimal interval that could be interpreted as processing or simply a lack of response, but then the voice returned, distorted and uniform, reaffirming the same sentence: the order was to exterminate Lucifer.

There was no interpretation, no doubt, and definitely no negotiation.

Vergil let out a light sigh, closer to a gesture of disappointment than any intense emotion, and then a discreet smile appeared on his lips, laden with intention and curiosity, as if that initial impasse only confirmed that dialogue had never been a real option.

The next movement happened too quickly to be followed by ordinary eyes, but it wasn’t chaotic; it was precise, calculated, and absolute.

The blade partially left its sheath and, in the same instant, the cut had already been made, so clean that for a second it seemed as if nothing had happened.

The opponent’s body remained erect, motionless, maintaining the illusion of integrity until gravity finally reclaimed what had been separated, and the head slid, detaching itself with surgical precision before hitting the ground with a dry sound that echoed through space.

Vergil didn’t move, didn’t celebrate, and didn’t even adjust his posture; he merely observed, awaiting final confirmation of his initial hypothesis: that this was nothing more than another easily disposable enemy.

However, what followed did not correspond to common logic. The body did not fall, there was no collapse, and no apparent failure arose in the system that supported it.

Instead, there was movement. Slow, deliberate, but undeniably functional.

The hand rose as if searching for something in the void, and the head, fallen to the ground, responded to this invisible call, sliding not like an inert object, but like something that still belonged to that whole.

She rose, spun in the air with a disturbing naturalness, and snapped back onto his neck without resistance, without blood, without a scar. The cut line simply vanished, as if it had never existed.

It was at that moment that Vergil laughed for the first time, a low but genuine sound, laden with an interest that had just intensified considerably.

He took a step forward, now more attentive, analyzing not only the external form but the functional structure of that being.

It wasn’t a traditional automaton, for there was no mechanical rigidity in its movements; at the same time, it wasn’t merely a living organism, since its response lacked any sign of pain, instinct, or self-preservation.

When the opponent advanced again, his attack came direct, predictable, charged with brute force, but devoid of adaptation.

Vergil dodged at the last instant, moving just enough to avoid impact, and then responded with another cut, this time piercing the torso.

The body was split in two, falling separately to the ground, but the result was the same: no failure, no loss of function, only reorganization. The halves moved, approached each other, and merged again, restoring their original form with unsettling efficiency.

From that point on, combat ceased to be a simple exchange of blows and became an active analysis.

Vergil began to test limits, varying the cutting patterns, fragmenting the body into different configurations and observing how each part responded.

He separated limbs, divided the torso, dismantled the structure into multiple segments simultaneously, scattering them throughout the environment like pieces of a living puzzle, and yet each fragment demonstrated sufficient autonomy to return to the whole.

However, something began to stand out amidst that seemingly perfect repetition: the response time wasn’t completely uniform. Some parts reacted immediately, while others exhibited minimal, almost imperceptible delays, but consistent enough to indicate a limitation.

This discovery completely altered Vergil’s posture. His smile deepened, not out of amusement, but from the intellectual pleasure of finding a flaw in a system that, at first glance, seemed flawless.

He stopped attacking in isolation and began to apply continuous pressure, preventing the body from fully recomposing itself, forcing the system to deal with multiple simultaneous interruptions.

Each cut now had a specific purpose: to overload, fragment, and delay. The opponent tried to counterattack, but its execution-based nature made it predictable, unable to adapt to the increasing speed of the attacks.

Vergil, on the other hand, had already understood the pattern and began to exploit it with increasing precision.

The hall began to fill with moving fragments, pieces of the body trying to recompose themselves as they were separated again before completing the process, creating a continuous cycle of destruction and interrupted reconstruction.

For the first time, regeneration wasn’t instantaneous. Small intervals appeared, milliseconds that accumulated and generated more perceptible flaws, opening gaps that hadn’t existed before.

Vergil emerged in the center of that chaos, his sword still raised, while the fragments around him hesitated for a minimal, but decisive, instant. His eyes fixed on that phenomenon, and the smile that appeared on his face carried a silent certainty.

It wasn’t invincible... It was just complex... And everything that was complex... could be broken. Very easily.

...

[Returning to Alice and Shiva]

Alice, at the exact moment the impact violently ripped her from the ground, her body hurled like a projectile through the labyrinth while Shiva’s dance continued, relentless, as if each movement were part of an inevitable rhythm that allowed no interruption.

The blow wasn’t just brute force; there was precision in it, a cadence that transformed attack into a continuous flow, and Alice felt it in her own body as she crashed through the stone walls, each collision tearing fragments from the labyrinth and scattering dust into the air, creating a trail of destruction that betrayed the intensity of the confrontation.

Her body finally slowed down only after traversing several barriers, rolling across the ground until it stopped abruptly, the final impact reverberating through her bones while the momentary silence that followed seemed out of place in the face of the violence that preceded it.

For a moment, she remained motionless, feeling the weight of the accumulated damage, her breathing irregular as the metallic taste of blood mingled with the dust-laden air.

Around her, the environment had been altered by her journey: cracked walls, scattered stones, and a path forced open, as if the labyrinth itself had been torn to allow her passage.

However, this brief interval was not safe. Not in that place, and definitely not against someone like Shiva.

Before she could even fully stand, footsteps echoed in the distance, hesitant, hurried, and then she realized she was no longer alone.

For a moment, she remained motionless, feeling the weight of the accumulated damage, her breathing irregular as the metallic taste of blood mingled with the dust-laden air.

Around her, the environment had been altered by her journey: cracked walls, scattered stones, and a path forced open, as if the labyrinth itself had been torn to allow her passage.

However, this brief interval was not safe. Not in that place, and definitely not against someone like Shiva.

Before she could even fully stand, footsteps echoed in the distance, hesitant, hurried, and then she realized she was no longer alone.

Alice clenched her teeth and forced her body to react, bracing herself on the ground to stand while ignoring the pain that protested with every movement. She didn’t have time to fully orient herself, because the air shifted before any sound even arose.

The pressure came first, heavy, crushing, as if space itself were being compressed, and then Shiva reappeared, not running, not advancing haphazardly, but continuing its dance, each step perfectly aligned with an intention that didn’t need haste to be lethal.

There was no deviation in its movements, no hesitation; it was like watching an absolute pattern unfold, inevitable and constant.

Alice raised her guard at the last instant, the next impact hitting her before she could fully stabilize her posture.

The collision didn’t throw her as far as the previous one, but it was enough to make her slide across the ground, her feet carving furrows in the stone as she was pushed backward.

This time, however, there was a difference. Her eyes were focused, no longer just trying to resist, but to understand. Shiva’s dance wasn’t chaotic. It was structured. Each movement connected to the next, creating a continuous cycle that, once started, became increasingly difficult to interrupt.

"Damn it," Alice cursed, "I’m screwed."