My Wives are Beautiful Demons
Chapter 411 - 411: She is a Dragon.

Sepphirothy did not respond immediately.

His eyes remained fixed on the temporal prison, now trembling under the weight of something that did not belong to this world—or any other. The concentric lines of the dome spun erratically, disintegrating runic symbols one by one, as if even the spells themselves were trying to escape from what had been imprisoned inside.

That flame... it wasn't just power. It was inevitability.

Vergil pressed harder on her shoulder, his voice laden with urgency and fear: "Mother, what is this technique? What has she done?!"

Finally, Sepphirothy replied, her voice hoarse, almost reverent. "It is something she stole from humanity."

Vergil blinked, confused. "Stole?"

She nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the prison where the impossible was happening.

"The first spark... the first fire that touched human soil. The spark that came from the gods. The flame that was taken, not given to humanity. That fire..." She took a deep breath, with regret. "Sapphire stole it from those who had stolen it first. And she molded it in her own image."

Inside the dome, the heat no longer followed the laws of physics. It did not rise. It did not radiate. It vibrated—as if it had consciousness.

"This technique... is not just destruction," Sepphirothy continued. "It is the Stolen Fire." She swallowed hard. "A flame that cannot be extinguished by natural means. It burns eternally, not just the body — but the being. The soul. The truth of the enemy."

Her eyes flashed with something close to fear. "And it chooses. Alone. It obeys no spells, no orders. It distinguishes allies from enemies based on one thing alone: intention."

Vergil could barely breathe. "Is it conscious...?"

"It's more than that," she murmured. "It's instinctive. It's pure will... primal. A fragment of the ancient rebellion. As long as there is something threatening its owner — the Stolen Fire never stops burning."

She paused. The air seemed denser. The ground shook.

"And when pushed to the limit... it can even summon."

Vergil frowned. "Summon what...?"

Sepphirothy closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if the weight of what she was about to say required more than strength—it required courage.

"That."

The word came out as a whisper, but it seemed to make time stand still around them.

She pointed.

Inside, at the center of the collapsing dome, Sapphire burned.

Her body was completely engulfed in living flames—but it did not consume her. The heat did not destroy her, it elevated her. Her hair, once red, was now a mane of living fire, dancing in waves of pure fury. From her back tore two colossal wings — not of feathers, nor of flesh — but made entirely of flames. Like the wings of an angel... set ablaze.

She floated above the ground, eyes closed, her face serene like that of a god about to judge the world.

And then she opened her eyes — two erupting suns.

Her hand rose slowly. Her fingers opened.

"Die." The word came out cold. Definitive. It was not a cry of rage.

It was a sentence.

The wings of fire expanded violently — and exploded.

Dozens. Hundreds.

From within the divine combustion, phoenixes began to emerge. Each one molded in pure fire, screaming in piercing high-pitched tones that were not meant for human ears. Majestic creatures with incandescent plumage, eyes like burning embers, and tails that dragged trails of light across reality.

The phoenixes flew in chaotic formation, but with absolute purpose — as if they all shared the same consciousness.

The same anger.

And they attacked.

Like living meteors, they collided with the Dragon Empress, who until then had remained untouched — wrapped in her titanic scales and ancient magic. But now, even she staggered. The first explosions opened cracks in her arcane barrier. The second wave burned her wings. The third... reached her flesh.

"She is calling the End," Sepphirothy murmured, his tone somewhere between astonishment and terror.

"These are not simple invocations... they are memories of the Stolen Fire. Living fragments of the destruction that shaped the first worlds."

Vergil took a step back, his heart beating like a war drum.

Inside the prison, Sapphire floated motionless, while her fire phoenixes ravaged the battlefield.

She did not look human.

She was no longer human.

The sky turned red. Natural light bent before that presence.

"She... is using divine power as a Demon," whispered Sepphirothy. "She does not control the first flame of Humanity... The flame of those disgusting gods..."

Suddenly, the impossible happened.

A cold mist—silent, dense, unnatural—began to form at the edge of the temporal dome. As if emerging from a crack between dimensions, it crept across the ground in absolute silence, nullifying sound, heat, and time itself around it.

All of Sapphire's fire faltered.

The living flames that formed her wings contracted in a single spasm. The phoenixes, still in the air, screamed in agony, breaking into red and gold fragments before they even touched the ice. And then, one by one, they were extinguished, like candles in a gale of death.

Sapphire gasped.

Her flaming mane flickered for an instant... and then vanished, leaving only hair as red as fresh blood. Her wings of fire crackled one last time—and collapsed into gray embers. The runic circle around her imploded, not with heat, but with the cold of nothingness.

The divine power that filled the air disappeared as if it had never existed.

Silence.

Vergil felt his throat go dry. His eyes sought confirmation from Sepphirothy, but she remained motionless, stunned. Her face, once filled with fear, was now one of utter disbelief.

"Everything I said..." she whispered, almost soundlessly. "Was it in vain?"

Inside the now collapsed dome, the scene was one of utter devastation—but the center of the destruction, the focus of it all... was now dominated by cold. A cold that did not freeze bodies. It froze existence.

Slowly, at the point where the Dragon Empress had been struck by the fire phoenixes, something moved.

The remains of the titanic draconic body began to retreat upon itself. The gigantic scales shrank, the monstrous limbs collapsed, the magical armor gave way in brittle fragments, like ice under pressure.

The creature of immeasurable power was diminishing.

Or... revealing its true form.

What remained of the Empress rose amid the icy mist. Her bare feet touched the barren ground, and when she stood fully upright, she was no longer a winged monster of epic proportions. She was a woman.

Tall, slender, with skin as pale as lunar alabaster. Her scales now covered strategic parts of her body like a second skin—living armor, but sculpted to perfection. Her wings, once colossal, had become smaller, delicate, and translucent, with membranes that looked like they were made of brittle crystal. Her silver hair, once braided for battle, now fell loosely like a cloak of mist.

Her eyes, however...

Vergil felt his heart stop for a moment.

Her eyes were empty. Not black. Not red. White. No irises. No soul. Like windows open to a bottomless abyss.

And when she looked at Sapphire, the air seemed to be sucked out of the world.

Sepphirothy gasped, almost in panic. "No... It can't be..."

Vergil grabbed her by the shoulders. "What's going on?! She... she survived that?!"

Sepphirothy stared at him with a look she had never shown before. Not fear. Not despair. Resignation.

"The Empress... is not a simple dragon, Vergil." She turned, pointing to the now static and cold form of the dragon woman.

"She is a Dragon. One who was sealed away in ages past for fear of her awakening. The reason why all races fear her. She was sealed away by her own allies during the war. And now..." Sepphirothy almost lost his voice. "...she has been completely reborn..."

The dragon woman took a step forward, leaving footprints of frost on the burning ground. Around her, reality seemed to hesitate. The sky, tinged with red before, now oscillated in shades between gray and absolute black, as if her presence nullified the concept of light.

Sapphire fell to her knees.

She gasped, pale. The power of the Stolen Fire had been consumed... or denied. For the first time, she was fragile. Human.

And the Empress spoke.

Her voice was a whisper that cut deeper than a scream. Each word seemed to echo within the bones.

"Did you inferior beings really think you could seal me away for so long...?" The mist around her intensified. The heat of the embers covering the ground was slowly swallowed, reversed, forgotten.

"...I must admit that I liked the idea of my dear Rival being reborn with me, but it seems that was not the case. I will kill you and go after her." Her eyes began to burn with ice, and she pointed her hand at Sapphire...

"That flame... I must admit, it's incredible that a mortal like you has usurped that thing from those useless gods." She spoke with disdain, "But that's all it is."

The Empress kept her hand raised, her elongated fingers wrapped in silver ice, ready to deliver the final blow. The mist around her converged on that single point—an absolute projectile of death and negation. Sapphire, kneeling, just raised her eyes, her lips parted in frustration. She knew she couldn't dodge it. She knew that, at that moment, she was just flesh and bone.

And then, just as the world fell silent to witness the end, a shadow appeared between them.

Vergil.

He stood in front of the attack, arms outstretched, eyes fixed on the Empress. His expression was firm, but there was something in his posture—a quiet boldness, almost insolent.

"For a superior being," he said in a low but perfectly audible voice, "wouldn't attacking inferiors be... a waste of time?"

The silence that followed was heavier than any scream.

The Empress stared at him. For a moment, the mist around her hesitated, as if destabilized by the absurdity of the phrase.

"You interrupt me," she replied, with surgical slowness, "to talk... philosophy?"

Vergil did not back down. Even with trembling knees and a heaving chest, he kept his voice steady.

"No. I interrupt you because you are acting like what you despise most. A tyrant." He took a step forward, the ice crackling under his boots. "You consider yourself above everyone else, eternal, invincible... But if you were really that superior, you wouldn't waste your time trying to prove it."

The Empress's white eyes flashed for a moment. Not with anger. With curiosity. "Continue, Mortal," she said, lowering her hand slightly.

"Looks like I'm going to have to use my silver tongue..." Vergil said, glancing at Sapphire... he was angry to see that woman like that...