My Wives Are Seven Beautiful Demonesses-Chapter 147 - No. Artemis’s Betrayal (2)

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[Location: New York, USA]

Ares exhaled through his nose.

"...You’re irritating," he said. "Do you know that?"

"I’ve been told."

A corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

For a heartbeat—just one—the pressure eased.

But—

Ares’ grin widened then—slow, predatory, satisfied.

"It would’ve been just like you said," he continued, crimson eyes boring into mine, "if you hadn’t devoured a piece of my divinity."

The world... stilled.

Not froze. Not shattered.

It listened.

The fog at Ares’ feet thickened again, no longer playful, no longer casual. This time it crawled with weight—compressed war, distilled conflict, the aftermath of a thousand battlefields condensed into breath and will.

My Observation Grid spasmed violently.

Not with futures.

With confirmation.

So he did notice.

Of course he did.

A god of war wouldn’t miss something like that.

I coughed, blood slick and metallic in my mouth, and forced a breath through cracked ribs. "That’s a strong accusation."

Ares chuckled softly. "Don’t insult me by playing dumb. You didn’t take much. A fragment. A residue. Barely noticeable to Olympus’ ledgers."

His gaze sharpened. "But to me? It’s like someone shaved a sliver off my blade."

Zeraphira stiffened mid-air, halberd trembling—not from fear, but from confusion.

"What is he talking about?" she demanded.

Carmilla’s eyes narrowed sharply, crimson pupils tightening. She looked at me—not accusing, not suspicious—but searching.

Ezravia’s envy mana flared erratically, reacting to something it couldn’t quite identify. Ravvy whimpered again, clutching my coat tighter, her gluttonous aura flickering anxiously.

Gabriel tilted her head, hovering helplessly. "D–Devoured...? Um... Mr. Ares, sir? Is that... like... metaphorical?"

Selene blinked twice. "Wait. Devoured? Like—like Kirby? Or like... JRPG secret mechanic?"

I ignored them.

I couldn’t afford not to.

"You’re talking about your avatar," I said slowly. "...that Minotaur," I finished hoarsely, forcing the words past the pressure in my chest. "Your avatar. My blade devoured a fragment of what you anchored into it."

Silence followed.

Not the fragile kind.

The heavy kind that only existed when truths too sharp to ignore were spoken aloud.

Ares stared at me.

Not with anger.

Not even with hostility.

With interest sharpened into something dangerous.

"Good," he said finally. "There it is, the confirmation~"

He stood up straight, leaving me gasping for air.

His back was like a spear; he tilted his head, looking at something at the very top of the Empire State Building.

CancelSend

Ares’ voice echoed upward—loud, brazen, deliberately disrespectful.

"FATHER, HEARD THAT? HE ADMITS IT!"

The sky did not answer.

At first.

No thunder.

No lightning.

No divine proclamation shaking Manhattan to its bones.

Just—

Silence.

Ares’ grin lingered... then tightened.

Not vanished.

Tightened.

The fog around his boots stirred restlessly, as if war itself had paused mid-breath.

"...Huh," Selene muttered, peeking around Ezravia’s shoulder. "That’s awkward. Usually, when people yell at sky-daddies, something explodes."

Gabriel clasped her hands together nervously. "M–Maybe Lord Zeus is busy...?"

Ares didn’t laugh this time.

He lowered his head slowly, but then a distinct thunder roared across the sky.

The thunder did not crack.

It rolled.

Low. Vast. Distant—but impossibly present, like the sky itself had drawn a breath and decided not to release it all at once.

Clouds above Manhattan churned, not forming storm fronts, not obeying meteorology. They twisted into slow, deliberate spirals, layers folding over one another like a massive eye beginning to open.

Streetlights flickered back on—then shattered simultaneously.

Glass rained down like crystal snow.

Gabriel yelped softly. "O–Oh dear—!"

Selene’s eyes lit up despite the tension. "Okay, that’s definitely a cutscene trigger."

Ares tilted his head back fully now, red hair lifting slightly as static crawled along the air. His grin returned—but this time it was tight, edged.

"Come on," he muttered. "Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me."

The thunder answered again.

Closer.

Not louder—heavier.

Every supernatural being present felt it immediately.

Not divine pressure.

Judgment.

The rolling thunder above Manhattan shifted pitch—not louder, not sharper—but final. The spiralling clouds slowed, layers locking into place as if the sky itself had just acknowledged a clause it could no longer ignore.

Ares straightened.

Fully.

For the first time since he arrived, the casual slouch was gone. The grin remained—but it was no longer playful. It was ceremonial. The grin of a god invoking precedent.

"I hereby invoke my right," Ares continued, voice now resonating with something deeper than sound, "as a god whose divinity has been consumed without consent, to pursue recompense under the Old Accords."

The words bit.

They didn’t echo.

They latched.

Something unseen locked into place above Manhattan, like a massive seal clicking shut.

The clouds froze mid-rotation.

Not dispersed.

Not parted.

Frozen—like a painted sky.

The thunder stopped rolling.

It hung.

And for the first time since this confrontation began, I felt something new thread through the chaos.

Not danger.

Process.

The world had stopped being a battlefield.

It had become a courtroom.

Zeraphira felt it instantly.

Her halberd lowered another inch, infernal fire dimming into a disciplined simmer. She didn’t relax—but the commander in her recognized a change in rules.

Carmilla’s blood authority recoiled slightly, not in fear, but in caution. Ancient bloodlines remembered the Old Accords. Vampires had survived precisely because they respected laws older than gods.

Ezravia sucked in a sharp breath, envy mana snapping back inward like a restrained beast. "Those accords..." she muttered. "They’re not supposed to be invoked on mortal soil."

Ares didn’t look at her.

"They aren’t," he agreed mildly. "Unless provoked."

His eyes never left mine.

Ravvy whimpered, fingers tightening in my coat. I could feel her gluttonous aura churning—not expanding, not lashing out—but hungry in a confused, frightened way. Like a child smelling food during an argument.

Eris stirred against my side.

Her golden eyes were still fixed on the sky.

Not afraid.

Not confused.

Watching.

Gabriel hovered helplessly, wings trembling. "M–Mr. Ares... um... excuse me... what exactly is ’recompense’?"

Selene leaned over, whispering loudly despite herself. "It’s the ’you touched my stuff, now paperwork happens’ clause."

Gabriel blinked. "O–Oh."

Ares rolled his neck once, then finally looked away from me—upward again.

"Under the Old Accords," he said clearly, formally, "a god whose essence has been devoured may claim one of three compensations."

The thunder pulsed once, like a gavel strike.

"Equivalent divinity," Ares continued. "A life of proportional weight."

Another pulse.

"Or arbitration by an impartial divine authority."

The clouds shifted.

Just slightly.

Zeraphira’s eyes narrowed. "Impartial?" she spat. "Olympus doesn’t know the meaning of the word."

Ares smiled thinly. "That’s why Olympus doesn’t arbitrate."

He raised his hand.

And pointed—not at me.

Not at Eris.

But sideways.

To the far edge of the street, where the fog still clung thickest, curling unnaturally against the shadows between two ruined buildings.

"Which is why," Ares said lightly, "the Athena is here."

The fog split.

Not parted gently.

It was cut—clean and precise, as if an invisible blade had passed through vapour.

A figure stepped forward.

Silver hair, bound in a high tail that shimmered faintly like moonlight on steel.

Eyes the colour of winter skies—cold, distant, unreadable.

A bow rested casually in her hand, carved from pale wood veined with faint starlight, its string humming softly with restrained power.

She wore no armour.

Only a short, practical tunic, boots dusted with ash, and a mantle that looked less like cloth and more like condensed night.

This—this is not Athena...

GROWL!

A low growl left Ares’ mouth as he glared at Artemis with teeth barely bared, a predator recognizing a familiar threat—but not the same as before.

Artemis’ silver hair shimmered under the locked clouds, the bow in her hand steady, almost lazy, but every line of her stance screamed intent. Her eyes—cold, unreadable, but not unfeeling—locked onto me for just a fraction of a heartbeat.

"You," Ares rasped, crimson light pulsing faintly along his arms, "don’t get to just waltz in under my theatre and—what?—claim innocence? You do realize what you’re walking into, right?"

Artemis tilted her head slightly. The wind—or something older than wind—whispered across her mantle, lifting the edges like it had a mind of its own.

"I know exactly what I’m walking into," she said quietly, voice carrying over the tension-thick air like a blade sliding across stone. "And I’m here to stop you from making a mistake you cannot walk back from."

Ares laughed—low, feral, a sound that shook the subtle framework of magic in the air. "Mistake? My dear goddess, I am war itself. I am inevitability, consequence, and outcome bundled into one. What mistake could I possibly make?"

"I can’t let you execute Dominic," Artemis said. She refused to look at me, as if she didn’t even know me.

"Oh, stop this game, Artemis. You think I forgot your liking of this brat here?" Ares’ grin sharpened, teeth flashing like red-hot blades. "You always were sentimental, weren’t you? Protecting something... someone... You barely know."

Artemis didn’t flinch. She simply adjusted the bow in her hands, the string pulsing faintly with silver light, as if it had a heartbeat of its own.

"I protect what’s just," she said evenly. "You’re not War right now. You’re... pride wrapped in muscle. You’ve lost sight of the balance."

Ares tilted his head, amused. "Balance?" His voice rolled like distant thunder. "Balance is what I break. Order is what I reshape. And Dominic? He’s a variable. A tempting one, yes—but ultimately... a calculation. Nothing more."

I felt the tension coil tighter around my chest. The Observation Grid flared, spitting sparks of possible futures that now twisted violently. Artemis wasn’t just stepping in—she was forcing another layer of rules onto a god who despised rules.

Zeraphira’s grip on her halberd tightened. "Dominic," she hissed, "say something. Do not let her interfere without instruction."

I shook my head slightly, muscles screaming from the earlier strikes. No. Artemis is clearly interfering here for my sake. For a god to interfere in an old accord’s rule is no different than betraying their own.

Artemis, just why are you risking yourself for me?

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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