My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 266: Relax, little one.

The dragon, prostrated before Vergil, trembled, its skeletal structure emitting dry cracks as its energy flickered, weak and unstable. It had lost all its former majesty, its aura of terror dissipating like ashes in the wind. Now, only submission remained—the absolute recognition of its defeat.

"P-please… Lord Monarch…" The creature's voice, once filled with fury and pride, was now nothing more than a pleading whisper. "Could you heal me…?"

Vergil stared at it with no emotion, his cold eyes reflecting only boredom.

'And here I thought this would be a challenge…' he mused, disappointed. 'Ashborne… were you always this pathetic?'

Of course, he had never had high expectations for Ashborne—the former King of Death was just another stepping stone in his path. But to leave behind a "guardian" this ridiculously weak? What a joke.

The dragon whimpered again, its decayed form writhing in a mass of shadows, remnants of necrotic flesh, and shattered bones. Its once overwhelming presence was now nothing more than a fragmented specter, awaiting the mercy of a man who had never shown pity.

Vergil let out a deep sigh, as if the scene before him was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, something unworthy of his attention. Without any hurry, he raised his hand, allowing a purple flame to dance upon his fingers—the same dark energy he had stolen from Ashborne, the profane essence that once belonged to the King of Death.

"Heal him," he commanded.

The magic responded immediately. The purple flames shot toward the dragon's body, seeping into its fractures and spreading like roots through its corrupted skeleton. The energy of death didn't just restore its bones—it reinforced them, rebuilding its form with even greater resilience.

Vergil watched in silence, but there was no benevolence in his actions—only cold interest.

"Now," he said, his voice as sharp as a blade. "Speak before I decide to erase your existence for good."

The dragon, trembling, began to speak immediately.

It writhed, its ribs groaning as its newly restored form still trembled from the brutality it had endured. Its glowing, purple-infused eyes lifted toward Vergil, carrying absolute fear.

"What do you wish to know… Lord Monarch?" Its voice, once filled with arrogance, was now submissive, cautious.

Vergil arched an eyebrow, a flicker of irritation passing through his eyes.

"Why do you keep calling me 'Monarch'?" he asked, his voice devoid of patience.

The dragon did not hesitate. "Because you are the Monarch."

Vergil sighed deeply, running a hand across his face as if trying to brush away a mild headache.

"Great," he muttered to himself. "Another useless title to carry…"

He wasted no more time on the matter. His sharp gaze pierced through the dragon as he pressed forward.

"Then tell me… Where exactly are we?"

The dragon moved its massive, skeletal head, as if reorganizing its thoughts before answering.

"This place is the Shadow Dimension…" Its voice echoed through the space around them. "A limbo between the Underworld and the Realm of the Dead. A domain where only those who bear the burden of Death may walk. Or rather…"

He tilted his head, his spectral expression growing more serious. "The King of the Dead, the Monarch, the Knight of Death."

Vergil cast a cold glance at the dragon, and the creature trembled involuntarily, its massive skeletal form shaking under the weight of the Demon King's overwhelming presence. Just that demonic gaze was enough to make it want to shrink and disappear.

"Tell me," Vergil commanded, his voice sharp as a drawn blade. "What exactly is all of this?"

The dragon lowered its head in submission, its posture demonstrating total respect—or perhaps pure fear.

"I do not know, Monarch," it answered humbly. "I am merely the one who guards this domain... a mere sentinel. But as you can see..." Its voice echoed darkly as it slowly raised its deteriorated body, its bones creaking under the strain. "I cannot even maintain my form."

It hesitated for a moment before continuing, as though every word carried immeasurable weight.

"The former Monarch was sealed... and with him, his powers. Without his presence, the energy that sustained us, the Shadow Beings, dissipated. We were left adrift, trapped between existence and oblivion."

Vergil narrowed his eyes, absorbing the dragon's words.

"So that's it..." he thought, sensing the residual energy that permeated the creature's weakened body. "Stella sealing Ashborne caused this instability... it makes sense that all of you became so weak."

He studied the black essence flickering around the dragon, a strange and dense energy, something completely different from any force he had ever encountered before.

"How much energy do you still have?" he asked, his tone direct and without pretense. "It's hard to measure when I don't know this force."

The dragon hesitated for a moment before answering, its posture showing some discomfort.

Vergil was right. The energy of death, this dark essence that permeated this world, was entirely unknown to him. Even when he faced Ashborne, he didn't recall feeling anything like this. In fact...

Vergil furrowed his brows slightly.

He didn't remember any of this energy. Absolutely nothing.

Vergil narrowed his eyes.

"Fifteen percent?" he repeated internally, pondering. "And yet this thing still managed to maintain an intimidating presence, even though it's not that strong. How much power would it have had at its peak?"

But that mattered little at the moment. There were more urgent questions to be answered.

"You said you're the guardian..." Vergil began, his voice cold and uninterested. "What exactly are you guarding?"

The dragon hesitated for a moment, as if contemplating whether it should reveal such information. Then, without a word, it slowly turned its skeletal head toward the back of the chamber.

Vergil followed its gaze, and for the first time, he noticed something that had gone unnoticed until now.

The purple flames bound to the walls, which had once burned softly, began to grow, increasing in intensity as if responding to his presence. Their flickering light illuminated a space that had previously been submerged in darkness.

And then he saw it.

At the back of the vast hall, where darkness had once reigned supreme, a solemn and imposing sight was revealed.

It was a throne room.

The obsidian floor reflected the ethereal hues of the flames, and massive columns of black stone rose around, supporting the distant ceiling. But it was what lay in the center of the hall that truly captured Vergil's attention.

There, on the throne of bones and shadows, lay a lifeless suit of armor.

Sitting in a rigid posture, as if silently awaiting something—or someone. The armor was intricately detailed, adorned with engravings that faintly pulsed with dark energy, its pauldrons sharp as blades and the helmet revealing only a black void where a face should be.

Even inert, the mere presence of the armor exuded an overwhelming authority.

Vergil observed in silence, his eyes analyzing every detail of the seated figure. Something about it seemed... familiar. As if a forgotten part of his mind recognized what stood before him, but refused to bring the memories to the surface.

He furrowed his brow slightly.

"Who is that?" he asked, not taking his gaze off the unmoving armor.

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The dragon remained silent for a moment before answering, its voice laden with respect and reverence.

"The true Monarch," the dragon declared, its voice echoing through the vast hall.

Vergil raised an eyebrow, boredom evident on his expression.

"The true one, huh?" he murmured, his eyes still fixed on the motionless armor on the throne. "You're talking about..."

"A Monarch is a spiritual body," the dragon interrupted, its voice reverberating with an ancient solemnity. "Ashborne died in body, but his soul... did not."

Vergil let out a sigh, crossing his arms.

"And?" he asked, clearly uninterested.

The dragon slightly tilted its head, as if its presence there was a mere detail compared to what truly mattered. Then, without hesitation, it declared:

"That... wear it." Its voice carried a commanding tone. "And you will inherit the power of the Knight of Death."

Vergil remained silent, his cold gaze evaluating the armor once again. Something about this felt... suspicious.

But behind the dragon's empty eyes, a malicious thought was forming.

"Go, fool... wear the armor and bring Ashborne back!"

Vergil wasted no time with hesitation or pointless questions. He simply advanced, his footsteps echoing through the vast throne room as the pressure around him intensified. The dragon watched in silence, its eyes glowing with malicious expectation.

When Vergil reached the throne, he stopped for a moment, eyeing the black armor as dark as the void itself. Its design was imposing, fine details carved into its surface as if every mark told the story of an ancient war. But he wasn't there to admire it.

With a swift motion, Vergil grabbed the helmet of the armor and ripped it off. The black metal screeched, the piece coming loose easily in his hands.

Empty.

Inside the helmet, there was nothing. No skull, no body, no remaining essence of the former Monarch. Just an empty space, waiting to be filled.

"Is that all?" Vergil murmured, looking at the armor with a bored expression.

Without wasting any more time, he began to put it on. The chestplate fit his body as if it had been custom-made. The gauntlets slid over his hands, the purple details faintly glowing as he adjusted them. The greaves wrapped around his legs perfectly, and finally, he placed the helmet on his head.

The moment the armor was fully donned, an overwhelming power filled the air.

Vergil stood still, feeling the energy of death itself intertwining with every fiber of his being. Something inside him stirred—not a presence, not an external consciousness, but a latent power that seemed to have waited patiently for someone worthy.

"You're quite a fool," Vergil murmured, his voice laced with disdain as he felt the armor fuse with his body, as if it had been made for him. The black metal pulsed with energy, adjusting perfectly to each of his movements.

"Did you really think your master was still alive inside me?" He asked, locking eyes with the dragon in a cold, calculating gaze.

From the beginning, Vergil had ensured that Ashborne was truly dead. No trace of consciousness, no fragment of will remained. The ego of the energy had been erased completely, reduced to nothing.

Death or not, that energy now amounted to nothing but brute force, a source of demonic power.

And Vergil... Vergil had the perfect body to dominate it.

He clenched and opened his hand, feeling the very essence of death coursing through his veins. A light, ironic smile appeared on his lips as he murmured to himself:

"How did he say it again...?"

He paused for a moment, as if trying to remember something distant. Then, he let out a low, sarcastic laugh.

"Oh, yes... 'I am death'?" He repeated mockingly before vanishing into the air.

In the next instant, he reappeared before the dragon, as fast as a blur of shadows. The creature's eyes widened in surprise, its body instinctively tensing to react.

"Itharine," Vergil said, his voice resonating with a tone both amused and dangerous. "That's a pretty name."

The dragon's eyes flashed with a moment of shock and something deeper—fear. Vergil wasn't just calling her by name. He was looking directly beyond the beast, at the truth hidden behind her colossal form.

"Itharine Daraekhar." He pronounced it perfectly, savoring each syllable as he watched her reaction. "You look quite cute."

The dragon shuddered, her instincts screaming to retreat. How did he know? How could he see through the illusion?

She growled, preparing to dodge when Vergil's hand rose. A strike? A magical prison? No...

He simply placed his hand on her head.

And petted her.

Silence reigned for a moment.

Itharine froze, her pupils dilating, unable to process what had just happened.

Vergil smiled. "Relax, little one."