My Wives are Beautiful Demons
Chapter 409 - 409: A Rising Bomb

In the distance, Sapphire floated in the sky like a storm incarnate—her flaming hair dancing in the wind, a demented smile curving her lips like a blade about to be unsheathed.

Vergil watched her with a slight smile, his eyes half-closed, as if admiring a work of art—dangerous, unpredictable, but magnificent.

"Sometimes I forget..." he muttered, almost to himself, "...how strong she gets when she's eager for a fight."

Sapphire spread her arms wide, spinning in the air with the excitement of a goddess of war in the midst of a festival of chaos. Then her voice boomed like sarcastic thunder in the sky.

"Hey, Sepphirothy! Why didn't you attack straight away, huh? Were you afraid of the ice queen?" — the taunt came with a mocking laugh.

Sepphirothy, still standing on the back of the Shadow Dragon, crossed her arms firmly. Her gaze was sharp, but her body reacted before she did: her breasts, trapped under her armor, rose with the sudden movement. She frowned, annoyed with herself, and whispered through clenched teeth:

"This girl has no filter..."

Then, louder, she replied with a bored look:

"Do you think I'm stupid enough to touch the skin of an Ancient Ice Dragon directly? Good luck with that, princess."

Sapphire laughed defiantly. But in the next instant, her expression changed.

"Hm?"

She raised the hand she had used to strike the Empress. The skin began to pale, darkening at the edges... and then, slowly, crystallize. Thin veins of silver ice began to rise up her arm like silent snakes, hungry and relentless.

The smile faded—but not out of fear. It simply gave way to understanding.

"...Ah. Now I understand why you didn't attack her directly..." she murmured, staring at her arm. "True Ice..."

Sapphire's eyes flashed with new intensity, and then, as if in instinctive response, red flames burst from her skin as if they had been trapped there for ages. The fire wrapped around her arm, roaring like a hungry beast, and in a few seconds, the ice cracked, melted, and evaporated with a high-pitched sound, almost like the scream of a spirit being exorcised.

She spun in the air again, her smile returning — sharper than ever.

"True Ice... easily cauterized by the Burning Flame. Seems fair."

Below, Vergil let out a dry laugh, shaking his head.

"Is that why you suggested she attack first?" he asked Sepphirothy, with a mischievous look.

Sepphirothy shrugged, impassive, as if to say, "I told you so."

"I'm not stupid enough to try my luck with True Ice. That's not magic, it's a concept—a frozen curse. Willpower can't melt the impossible."

Vergil smiled with sincere admiration, watching the sky turn red and silver-blue as the two forces collided.

"And to think she treated this like a warm-up..."

Sepphirothy sighed heavily. "That woman has fire instead of brains."

As Vergil and Sepphirothy exchanged sharp words above the stormy sky, something in the world below them began to change. The crater where the Platinum Dragon Empress had crashed pulsed—an open wound in the heart of the demonic earth.

And then, the silence was broken.

The ground shook.

Everything began to freeze.

From the center of the crater, icy smoke rose like a breath of death—thick, heavy, alive. The ice spread at an absurd speed, engulfing rocks, mountains, even the light itself seemed to surrender to that force. Dry trees crystallized into fragile sculptures before they even touched the ground. The air vibrated. The sky darkened.

And in the midst of the fog... she awoke.

A cyclone of ice rose like a crown around the creature. The storm hissed in ancient tones, almost like voices — a language forgotten by time and sealed by the gods.

Then came the roar.

ROOOOOOAAAARRRRR!

It was as if the world tore apart from within. A sound that was not only heard—it was felt. Bones vibrated, hearts lost their rhythm, and even magic itself faltered for an instant.

Vergil looked down and narrowed his eyes. "She got... angry."

The Platinum Dragon Empress emerged from the smoke. Her scales, now even more translucent, shimmered like blades of sacred glass. Her gaze burned with frozen hatred, and her wings rose like storm walls. In her mouth formed a bright and treacherous sphere—the ultimate condensation of True Ice.

With a roar that split the sky, she launched the blast straight at Sapphire.

A silver-blue lightning bolt, dense as steel and swift as thought, cut through the sky like death coming in a straight line.

But Sapphire...

She didn't even move.

The warrior woman merely raised her eyes, a bored gleam in them, and lifted her hand dismissively—as if waving away a tantrum-throwing child.

"You're still... weak," she murmured. Her voice was calm, but sharp. "Unfocused. Dull. If you want to entertain me, you'll need more than blind rage."

She smiled. A disturbing, wild smile. Almost pitiful.

And then—from the center of her palm—the Burning Flame was born.

Red, alive, pulsating. It wasn't just fire. It was raw emotion. It was laughter, it was fury, it was the frenzy of war transformed into heat.

The burst of fire exploded forward like a divine spear, colliding with the Empress's icy breath.

The impact between the two worlds shook the sky.

At the point of collision, a sphere of oscillating light appeared—a bubble of conflicting energy, where fire and ice refused to yield. Red and blue lightning crackled like whips in all directions. The wind roared. The clouds were torn apart. The air was sucked out of the atmosphere in a magical vacuum.

Vergil and Sepphirothy shielded themselves from the glare with their forearms, the magical pressure pushing the Shadow Dragon back a few meters.

"She's just playing around... and I thought this dragon was an apocalyptic problem." Vergil muttered, his eyes half-closed as he watched the dancing chaos in front of him. An ironic smile played on the corner of his lips. "In the end, it looks more like a scared little animal."

Sepphirothy did not smile.

She was serious—her gaze fixed, her arms crossed, but her fingers clenching the fabric of her sleeve with involuntary tension. Her eyes followed Sapphire's every movement, like someone watching a dance on a knife's edge.

"No." Her voice was low, dense as steel. "She's not playing. She's testing."

Vergil glanced at her sideways. But she continued, firm:

"Sapphire is controlling the situation. Controlling her. The Empress is waking up — and waking up wrong. Still unstable, still incomplete. Sapphire is forcing her to evolve... slowly."

Vergil raised an eyebrow. "Slowly? Since when is she patient?"

"It's not patience," said Sepphirothy, her tone somber. "It's restraint."

In the arena of ice and fire forming below, Sapphire spun through the air like a living storm—her red hair fluttering like battle flags, her hands opening and closing with the precision of a surgeon working with dynamite.

And there was the Empress.

The ancient creature roared and struggled, but its attacks were erratic, its energy fluctuating like an engine forced to run with jammed gears. It was growing. Recovering. Taking shape... and hunger.

"If Sapphire crushed her now," Sepphirothy continued, her voice laden with ill-concealed concern, "it would be like crushing a nuclear warhead during the ignition process. The Empress's body is still rebuilding itself—fragile on the outside, unstable on the inside. And if she collapses..."

She paused. The silence that followed spoke louder than any words.

Vergil looked back at the battle, now more attentive. The icy mist, the suffocating heat of the flames, the contained explosions. Sapphire was clearly dominating — but there was a strange elegance to the attacks. She was pacing herself. Dancing on the edge.

"...she doesn't want to stop the bomb," Vergil concluded in a whisper. "She wants to keep the bomb growing, but without letting it explode."

"Exactly." Sepphirothy nodded. "She wants the Empress to be strong enough to withstand... everything that comes next. Because she knows that if this creature doesn't evolve quickly, it will be useless in the end. A dead dragon... or a catalyst for ruin."

"So our dear flaming goddess is... holding back," said Vergil, almost admiringly.

"For now," replied Sepphirothy, his tone icy. "But when she stops holding back... no one will be able to put out the fire."

And below, Sapphire smiled—that wild, passionate, voracious smile.

[Meanwhile... In a profane temple.]

Carved from the bones of forgotten dragons and sealed with ancient blood, the hall pulsed with crimson hues. At its center, floating above an altar of living obsidian, the Orb of the Scarlet Dragon Empress emanated a pulsing light, like a heart about to awaken.

Around the orb, dozens of hooded demons murmured ancient chants. Their voices reverberated like a forbidden prayer, echoing in tongues that belonged to no era. Rituals were underway—seals aligned in the air, runes floated like serpents of energy, the accumulated power was about to reach its climax.

Until...

CRACK!

A dull crack broke the arcane harmony.

The space between the seals tore like old paper, and a figure emerged from the void — walking calmly as if entering a tea room. The sound of his footsteps was the only thing that dared to exist in that shattered silence.

Amon.

Dark red coat, the smile of someone who knew he was in the wrong place... but loved it. His golden eyes sparkled as he stared at the Orb, and for a moment, he just... enjoyed it.

"Finally." He opened his arms as if reuniting with an old friend. "I was thinking I'd have to kill a hundred idiots before I found you."

The demons retreated. A guttural growl echoed through the shadows. Magic began to be conjured. Ethereal blades, dark spears, hellish claws appeared in response to the unauthorized presence.

But Amon was already smiling. That light expression... almost bored.

"Do you really think you're protecting something here? That all this has some higher purpose?" He sighed theatrically, his eyes half-open in disdain. "Honestly... what nonsense."

And then it all happened in the blink of an eye.

A wave of darkness and fire. A tear in reality. A dance of invisible blades.

When the magic ceased and the blood evaporated, all the bodies were already fallen—charred, shattered, or reduced to dust. The once-sacred hall was in absolute silence. Only Amon remained standing, walking to the altar as if to pick up a book from a shelf.

He reached out and touched the Orb of the Scarlet Dragon Empress.

The object glowed with fury—trying to resist, trying to incinerate, freeze, repel—but Amon only smiled, his eyes flashing with power.

"Calm down, calm down... you'll thank me later."

With a simple gesture, he raised the orb in the air and snapped his fingers. The remaining runes shattered with a sharp crack, like thin glass cracking under the pressure of the world.

The orb fell silent.

"Now that you're safe... I just need to find the owner of the plan." Amon said with a smile.