My Wives Are Seven Beautiful Demonesses-Chapter 155 - No. Ares’ Plan For Revenge

[Location: Temple of Ares, Mount Olympus]

"Grayfia’s seal was not meant to suppress power," Apollo said. "It was meant to preserve."

Silence followed Apollo’s words.

Not the hollow quiet that came after rage burned itself out—but the heavy, coiled silence of a battlefield just before the signal horn was raised.

Ares did not speak.

He stood motionless amid fractured marble and screaming runes, his spear planted into the floor, crimson aura no longer exploding outward—but compressing. Folding inward. The wild fury that had torn at Olympus moments ago was gone.

In its place was something far worse.

Control.

"Preserve..." Ares repeated slowly.

The word tasted foul on his tongue.

Preserve implied value. Intention. Forethought.

It implied that the thing he had dismissed as a hollow carcass—a sealed, broken demon prince—had never been discarded at all.

Aphrodite watched him carefully now, every trace of teasing gone. Her divine senses brushed against the God of War’s presence, and what she felt made her lips tighten.

This was not a tantrum anymore.

This was recalibration.

"Insurance," Ares said again, voice low, scraping like steel dragged across bone. "So the Ice Witch froze him in time... waiting."

Apollo did not correct him.

"That implies," Ares continued, eyes burning, "that she believed he would be needed."

"Or unavoidable," Apollo replied calmly.

Ares’ gaze snapped to him.

"There is a difference," Apollo went on, unperturbed. "One suggests intent. The other suggests inevitability."

The divine runes along the temple walls dimmed further, as if Olympus itself leaned in to listen.

Aphrodite exhaled slowly.

"Well," she murmured, "this has officially stopped being amusing."

Ares ignored her.

"Tell me," he said to Apollo, voice eerily even, "what else Father saw."

Apollo met his gaze without flinching.

"He saw convergence vectors forming again," he said. "Weak ones. Fragmentary. But real."

Ares’ jaw tightened.

"From Hell?"

"Yes."

"And beyond?"

Apollo hesitated—just a fraction of a second.

"Yes."

That was enough.

Ares straightened fully, towering presence locking into place. The cracks in the temple ceased spreading. The spear in his hand stopped trembling. His divinity stabilised—not dimmed, but honed.

"Then Father is a fool," Ares said flatly.

Aphrodite’s eyes widened slightly. "Careful, War God."

"He always has been," Ares continued, unbothered. "Hoarding thunder while rot festers beneath Olympus. He thinks restraint is wisdom. He thinks waiting preserves control."

Apollo’s tone cooled. "You tread close to treason."

Ares laughed softly.

"No," he said. "I tread close to war."

The word resonated.

Even Aphrodite felt it—an echo of ancient battlefields, of gods clashing before law had hardened into structure.

"But do not mistake me," Ares went on. "I will not violate the Accords. I will not provoke Father’s judgment. Not openly."

Apollo narrowed his eyes. "Then what are you planning?"

Ares turned away, walking slowly toward the shattered edge of the temple, where Olympus overlooked the layered realms below. Mortal lands shimmered faintly beneath clouds. Beyond them, deeper still, Hell’s distant resonance pulsed like a buried heart.

"What I have always done," Ares said. "I will prepare the battlefield."

Aphrodite rose from her divan, interest sharpening into something keen. "Oh? And where, exactly, is this battlefield?"

Ares’ lips curved—not into a smile, but a predator’s baring of teeth.

"Not Olympus," he said. "Not yet."

Apollo’s gaze hardened. "You cannot touch the boy."

Ares nodded. "Correct."

"You cannot move against Grayfia Lucifuge," Apollo added.

Ares’ nod deepened. "Also correct."

"You cannot incite divine intervention," Apollo pressed. "Nor marshal avatars without sanction."

Ares turned back to face him.

"Yes," he said. "Correct. Correct. Correct."

Then his eyes gleamed.

"You seem to forget whose son or grandson he is~" From a frown to the playful smirk Ares had. "Who has enemies in almost every friction~"

Aphrodite’s expression shifted—not into surprise, but recognition.

"Ah," she murmured softly. "So that’s where you’re aiming."

Apollo’s eyes narrowed. "Ares. Be precise."

The God of War did not look at him immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the layered realms below Olympus, where mortal light blurred into infernal resonance.

"Dominic Nocturne von Morningstar," Ares said slowly, "is not dangerous because of who he is."

He turned.

"He is dangerous because of what his background is, Prince of Hell. Son of Lilith Morningstar. Grandson of THE Lucifer Morningstar."

"Who’s both dead already." Apollo deadpanned at Ares for a moment before he realised Ares’ plan. "...You plan to use their enemies to do your work—"

Ares’ smile sharpened.

"—like reminding the universe," he finished softly, "that the Morningstar name still exists."

Apollo went still.

For the first time since he had entered the temple, the God of Prophecy’s composure cracked—not visibly, not dramatically, but in the subtle tightening around his eyes that only another god would notice.

"That," Apollo said quietly, "would be an indirect violation."

Ares shrugged, armour plates shifting with a muted clang. "Only if I act."

Aphrodite’s gaze flicked between them, pink eyes gleaming. "Information is not action," she mused. "And rumours aren’t intervention."

"Exactly," Ares replied. "I don’t need to lift a spear. I only need to... let a whisper out."

Apollo’s voice hardened. "You would go against the old accords just to soothe your wounded pride?"

"Heh! Don’t play that act on, I know very well of own intentions," Ares scoffed.

Apollo did not answer immediately.

For several heartbeats, the Temple of Ares was filled only with the distant groan of strained marble and the faint, ever-present hum of divine law reasserting itself. The accusation Ares had just thrown was not loud, nor dramatic—but it was sharp. Sharper than any spear.

Finally, Apollo spoke.

"You tread into matters that are not yours," he said, voice low. "Leave Artemis out of this."

Ares laughed quietly.

"Oh, I intend to," he replied. "It’s you I’m speaking to."

Apollo’s eyes hardened, light within them tightening from gentle starlight into something colder, more exacting. "You mistake restraint for guilt."

"No," Ares said, turning fully now. "I mistake restraint for obsession carefully disguised as virtue."

Aphrodite inhaled softly, lips parting in interest. This was no longer about Dominic. This was old blood, old wounds—Olympian ones.

"You wanted her," Ares continued, unbothered. "You still do. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise."

Apollo’s jaw clenched. "Artemis swore the Oath of Maidenhood of her own will."

"And conveniently invoked it as protection against Father’s dynastic games," Ares shot back. "An oath that just so happens to keep you eternally at arm’s length."

Aphrodite tilted her head. "Oh my. We’re digging that deep now?"

Apollo ignored her.

"You think that has anything to do with this?" he asked Ares.

"Yes," Ares said simply. "Because now she has her eyes only for Dominic brat, all while leaving you thirsty for—"

—Apollo’s light flared.

Not blinding.

Not explosive.

But absolute.

Golden radiance poured from him in a tight, disciplined corona, the air around his form crystallising with divine law. The flames did not burn marble, did not crack pillars—but every rune in the temple screamed in resonance, as if recognising authority older than the God of War’s wrath.

"Enough." Apollo’s voice was calm—but it carried the finality of prophecy fulfilled rather than spoken. "I will not hear your delusions dressed as insight."

Ares did not retreat.

He did not flinch.

Instead, he grinned.

A slow, feral grin that belonged not to a god of honour—but to a veteran of endless slaughter.

"See?" Ares said softly. "You react."

Apollo’s eyes narrowed. "You provoke."

"And you confirm," Ares replied. "You always do."

The light around Apollo stabilised, flames folding inward as his composure reasserted itself. He exhaled once—measured, controlled.

"This conversation is finished," Apollo said. "You are angry. You are reckless. And you are wrong."

Aphrodite, who had been watching with sharpened attention, laughed quietly. Not mockingly—thoughtfully.

"Oh, don’t be like that," she said, rising fully now. "This is the most honest you’ve both been in centuries."

Neither god looked at her.

She shrugged lightly, unfazed. "Suit yourselves."

Apollo turned back to Ares. "Leave Artemis out of this, and I won’t report this to father."

Ares stared at Apollo for a long moment.

The threat was clear.

Not loud.Not dramatic.But absolute.

For all his bluster, for all his rage, Ares knew exactly what that sentence meant.

Leave Artemis out of this... and this remains a private conversation.

Olympian law did not care about pride. It cared about precedent. And Apollo—Prophet, Lightbearer, Keeper of Records—was uniquely positioned to turn whispers into immutable truth.

Ares slowly exhaled.

Then—unexpectedly—he laughed.

Not the cold laugh from earlier. Not the feral one either.

This one was... amused.

"Heh," he said, resting his spear against his shoulder. "You threaten war with war, quite stupid you are—but clever enough to be terrifying."

He straightened fully, crimson aura now simmering like molten metal in a forge rather than erupting in wildfire. Every fibre of his being exuded tension controlled into lethal anticipation. "You think you know what patience is. You think restraint is honour. You are wrong, Apollo. Patience... is preparation. Restraint... is a strategy. And I am not restrained—I am calculating."

Apollo’s eyes narrowed, a glimmer of starlight folding across the lines of his expression. "Calculating... or plotting revenge?"

Ares’ grin sharpened. "Call it what you will. I intend to remind every corner of the cosmos that the Morningstar name is not a ghost. That the Prince of Hell—no, the thing preserved by Grayfia Lucifuge—is not untouchable. And if anyone dares to mistake my patience for weakness, they will learn that I do not forgive mistakes easily."

Aphrodite tilted her head, the faintest trace of amusement flickering over her face. "You are not subtle, War God."

"I have no need to be subtle with you," Ares replied, voice low, yet brimming with a cold amusement of its own. "You are a witness, not a participant. And witnesses are useful only if they understand the stakes."

Apollo’s gaze flickered to the mortal lands below Olympus, then to the faint glow of Hell’s distant resonance. "You would unleash conflict indirectly. You would stir old alliances, old grievances... without stepping forward yourself."

Ares’ eyes glinted with ruthless clarity. "Precisely. I will not break the Accords. I will not violate Father’s law. I will simply... set the pieces into motion. A whisper here, a nudge there. Let the currents flow. And when the boy steps fully onto the stage, when the fragments converge... then the battlefield will be ready. Not just for him, but for everyone who dares to underestimate what they cannot see."

Apollo’s expression stiffened, fingers clenching slightly. "And what of Grayfia Lucifuge? You know her reputation. You know the weight she carries."

Ares chuckled, low and dark, a sound like distant thunder rolling across empty plains. "I do not intend to touch her. I do not intend to provoke her. That would be foolish. I do not fight the Queen of Annihilation... I fight around her. I manipulate shadows in her periphery, stir winds in her blind spots. Let the world believe the threat comes from everywhere except the one who stands in her immediate path."

"That’s why, let’s bring this brat to the world."

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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