My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 328: Your cycle of curses has come to an end (Part.II)
Chapter 328 Your cycle of curses has come to an end (Part.II)
The collision with Spectre was more than a blow—it was a negation of the very concept of resistance. The impact was so absolute that the world turned inside out. The sky was dragged to the ground like a veil torn away. The ground became a sea of living blood, seething with the echoes of the dead.
The stars did not fall. They were driven away.
And finally... silence fell. Thick. Sacred.
Vergil floated, surrounded by his chains—now motionless, like serpents asleep after a feast. He was a living shadow. An entity outside of order. A pure concept of mastery.
Below him, Spectre lay. Distorted. His countless eyes blinked in silent panic, trying to piece together what was left. But there was no more form. No more control.
The once majestic eclipse above now cracked like a cracked mirror, and shards of black light rained down slowly, bathing the scene in the tragic beauty of an inevitable end.
Vergil stepped down.
One step.
Two.
Each footfall cracked the air like glass breaking beneath the feet of a god.
And then, facing the crumbling horror that had once threatened his soul, he spoke.
His voice was multiple. It was ancient and future at the same time.
"I am the nightmare you tried to create. The weapon you tried to use."
He raised his arm.
He pointed his finger.
"Now… you will be mine."
And the laugh came.
Low.
Deep.
But not lonely.
Because it was no longer just Vergil.
It was all his shadows. His reflections. His demons and delusions.
Every soul he had consumed laughed with him.
And for the first time since the beginning of time...
Spectre screamed. But not in pain. In terror. For the first time...
...He knew what it was to be taken.
And then he broke.
Not with fanfare. Not with spectacle. But with the coldness of something inevitable.
Spectre's essence fell away like a veil torn from within. Every part of his form—his eyes, his screams, his tendrils of corrupted thought—vaporized into a silent swirl of shadows that imploded in on themselves. As if the very idea of his existence had been revoked by something older. Purer. More cruel.
Vergil watched in silence, his chest rising and falling slowly. The air around him vibrated, distorted by an invisible heat. His body was covered in cracks of purple and black light, the currents pulsing in a rhythm like a heart—but not his own. It was as if the world was breathing for him now.
And then came Spectre's last breath.
A prayer? An insult? No one would know. Just a formless sound, like a choked-up memory. And before it could be extinguished completely…
Vergil reached out.
Not to offer mercy. But to take.
The shadow that remained of Spectre tried to retreat, but there was nowhere left to run. Space closed in geometric waves, the pillars of the soul collapsing around it like falling dominoes.
And Vergil closed his fingers.
The absorption was not immediate. It was painful, slow, and symbolic. The last particles of Spectre were pulled through the cracks of reality, sucked into Vergil's open palm, consumed not as power… but as will.
He didn't want to defeat Spectre. He wanted to be his last thought.
And he did.
What was left of the entity concentrated into a tiny point of black light on his hand, flickering… begging. And Vergil crushed it with two fingers, as if putting a full stop to the sentence of a forbidden universe.
Silence.
The world around him began to come together. Slowly. Hesitantly.
As if the very plane of the soul was waiting for instructions.
But Vergil didn't move.
He was breathing deeply, his shoulders hunched not with exhaustion—but with restraint.
Vergil wasn't exhausted. He was… full.
Every cell in him vibrated with excess, with that which was more than power. It was presence. A gravitational mass of will, of concept, and of newly formed dominion. But at that moment, amidst the wreckage that remained from the battle, his voice came out low. Rigid. Sarcastic.
"How pathetic…" He muttered, staring at the shapeless, misshapen smudge before him.
The goo that had once been Spectre writhed in an almost pathetic attempt to maintain form. A gray, pulsing puddle, sweating failure and agony. It no longer had a face, nor a scream, nor a shadow—just a mistaken presence. Something that should have disappeared... but that Vergil now kept alive as a memory. Or a trophy.
He watched for long seconds.
He knew what that meant.
Soul invasions were nothing new in his world—but two such anomalous entities colliding within the same internal space? It bordered on the unthinkable. And yet... he had won. Not by planning. Not by luck.
But by being, pure and simple, Vergil.
He sighed, as if clearing his thoughts. Then he murmured, with the shadow of a cold smile on his lips:
"It's as you said, my dear…" He murmured, remembering when Sapphire explained about him swallowing the Platinum Dragon Empress' Orb…
And Vergil… smiled. "I ended up absorbing it myself."
He laughed out loud—a dry, cutting laugh that tore through the air around him. Rain began to fall on the inner world, heavy, slow, like tears that the sky didn't want to admit it was shedding.
The liquid hit his shoulders, running down his rune-marked skin, evaporating as it touched the chains of Ouroboros, now almost silent. Sentinels. Accomplices. Witnesses.
Vergil walked slowly, his feet creating ripples in the liquid ground that was now forming under his steps. The world-soul was reforming, as if processing its new structure with reverent slowness.
"It seems this case is over…"
He grunted, cracking his neck, the sound echoing like steel pressed to its limit. "At least the leader is dead."
He stared at the newly formed horizon—still jagged, stitched together from broken memories and visions that never came to fruition.
"The subordinates are missing."
It was then that something shimmered. A puddle in front of him—pure and reflective like a wet mirror—revealed his new appearance.
Vergil dropped to one knee, his eyes fixed on his distorted image.
Black hair.
Purple eyes.
An aura that seemed made of smoke and ambition.
His face was the same... but it wasn't.
He touched himself—first his forehead, then the soaked strands that had once been white as silver. The touch confirmed it. The color had disappeared. Replaced by night.
"Hahaha..." The laughter came low, bitter, almost intimate. "They'll get nervous… right? Better get back to normal… Well, I'll see their reaction first."
