My Wives Are Seven Beautiful Demonesses-Chapter 159 - No. Killing Death?

[Third Person’s POV]

[Location: Palace of Hades, Underworld]

Sigh~

"You really put a lot of effort into this speech for being the Satan of ’Sloth’," Hades sighs while emphasising Sloth much harder.

"...you’re already this pitiable for a god," Acedia continued lazily, finishing his thought as if Hades hadn’t interrupted him at all, "that explaining things properly felt like the least amount of effort I could get away with."

Hades stared at him.

Long.

Hard.

The kind of stare that had ended civilizations not through wrath, but through quiet administrative decisions.

"...I will pretend," Hades said slowly, "that you did not just finish that sentence."

Acedia shrugged. "Pretending is efficient."

"It is also how disasters incubate."

"Exactly my point."

Silence fell again—thick, deliberate, and heavy with implications neither of them particularly enjoyed.

Hades exhaled through his nose and pinched the bridge of it, massaging slowly as though trying to ease a headache that spanned epochs instead of hours.

"So," he said, dropping his hand, voice regaining its steady calm, "let me restate this in terms that do not make me want to throw you into Tartarus out of reflex."

Acedia perked up slightly. "Ooh. That’d require effort."

"Quiet."

Acedia obeyed. Mostly.

"You’re telling me," Hades continued, "that Azathoth is systematically removing what you call stabilisers—entities or systems that quietly bear excessive metaphysical load."

"Yes."

"And Lucifer Morningstar—Helel—was one of them."

"Yes."

"And the Underworld," Hades said, gaze darkening, "is another."

"Eventually."

Hades’ fingers tapped once against his arm.

Tap.

"And your solution," he said, "is to interlock realms so that no single Core bears the full weight alone."

"Yes."

"And if I refuse," Hades said evenly, "nothing happens."

"Immediately," Acedia corrected.

"...Except inevitability."

"Mm."

Hades let out a quiet, humourless laugh. "You Satans have a terrible sales pitch."

"We’re not selling," Acedia replied. "We’re informing."

"Very generously," Hades muttered.

Another silence followed.

Then Hades asked a question that made the palace itself hesitate.

"What would happen to me?"

The question lingered.

Not because it was unclear.

But because answering it required acknowledging something Hades had avoided for millennia.

Acedia Belphegor did not respond immediately.

For once, it wasn’t laziness.

It was restraint.

The palace seemed to sense it. The obsidian veins beneath the floor dimmed further, the ancient laws etched into stone holding their breath—not in fear, but in anticipation. Even the distant rivers slowed, their eternal flow adjusting ever so slightly, as though the Underworld itself leaned closer to hear the answer.

Acedia tilted his head.

"What would happen to you?" he repeated, voice flat.

Hades met his gaze.

"Yes," the God of the Dead said. "To me. Not to the realm. Not to the system. Not to the souls."

His eyes hardened.

"To Hades."

Acedia studied him for a long moment, half-lidded eyes unusually focused. Then he sighed—not his usual lazy sigh, but something closer to... resignation.

"...You don’t disappear," Acedia said at last. "That would defeat the entire purpose."

"Then speak plainly."

"You hate plain," Acedia replied. "It’s inefficient."

"I’m in a generous mood."

"That’s dangerous."

"Answer."

Acedia scratched the side of his neck, gaze drifting toward the palace ceiling, where constellations of the forgotten dead shimmered faintly—names long erased from memory, yet still functioning, still contributing to the quiet machinery of after.

"When realms interlock," he said slowly, "their custodians stop being singular anchors."

Hades said nothing.

"They become nodes," Acedia continued. "Important ones. Necessary ones. But not irreplaceable."

The word landed like a stone dropped into deep water.

Not loud.

But final.

Hades’ expression did not change.

The palace, however, reacted.

Somewhere far below, the foundations of the Underworld shifted—not cracking, not resisting—just... recalibrating. As if the concept of Hades being irreplaceable had been quietly removed from a hidden equation, and the system was adjusting around the absence.

"Irreplaceable," Hades repeated softly.

Acedia nodded. "Which means you stop being a single point of failure."

"And I stop being... what?" Hades asked.

Acedia glanced at him.

"Death."

The word hung there.

Heavy.

Wrong.

"Killing death?" Hades asked quietly.

"No," Acedia corrected. "Decentralising it."

Hades laughed.

This time, there was no humour in it at all.

"Do you have any idea," he said, voice low, "how many wars were fought over that exact idea?"

"Yeah," Acedia replied. "Most of them by people who wanted control, not stability."

"And you expect me to believe this is different?"

"I expect you to calculate," Acedia said. "Belief is optional."

Hades’ gaze sharpened.

"You’re asking me to relinquish singular authority over death."

"No," Acedia replied immediately. "You’re already doing that."

The words were simple.

But they struck harder than any threat.

Hades went still.

"What?"

"You don’t monopolise death," Acedia said, shrugging. "You manage one expression of it. A very clean one. Very efficient. But death exists elsewhere."

He gestured vaguely.

"Naraka handles consequence-driven dissolution. Duat preserves continuity through remembrance. Hel governs acceptance. Valhalla cycles conflict into transition."

His eyes returned to Hades.

"You don’t own death," he said. "Even in your own realm, you’re not absolute."

"..." Hades knew who he was talking about.

"If you refuse, I make the same offer to him—and knowing him, he will jump at the first chance to control his own narrative."

Hades’ jaw tightened.

"...Thanatos," he said quietly.

Acedia nodded. "Death-with-a-face tends to resent being filed under ’administrative function.’"

Silence followed.

Not the contemplative kind.

The dangerous kind—where old hierarchies were being mentally dismantled and reassembled in real time.

"You went to him already," Hades said.

"Not yet," Acedia replied. "But I don’t need to. He’s... predictable."

Hades exhaled slowly.

Thanatos was not a god in the traditional sense of the Olympian pantheon. He had no cult worth mentioning, no grand myths sung by poets desperate for patronage. He was quiet. Efficient. Professional.

And fundamentally resentful.

He was death as an act, while Hades was death as system.

"You’re threatening me," Hades said calmly.

"No," Acedia replied. "I’m pointing out redundancy paths."

"That’s worse."

Acedia shrugged. "Depends on whether you like being indispensable."

Hades turned away, walking slowly toward the edge of the throne hall. Each step caused subtle recalibrations in gravity and spatial priority, the palace responding instinctively to its master’s movement.

"You know," Hades said without turning back, "mortals think killing Death would mean immortality."

"They’re wrong," Acedia said. "Immortality without throughput is just congestion."

Hades snorted despite himself.

"You’re suggesting," he continued, "that Death can be... modular."

"Already is," Acedia replied. "You just didn’t design it that way. Reality did."

Hades stopped near one of the towering pillars etched with pre-language laws. He rested a hand against the stone, feeling the steady hum of souls being processed across epochs.

"This realm," he said quietly, "has never failed."

"I know."

"It has never stalled."

"I know."

"It has never once rejected a soul."

"I know," Acedia repeated. "That’s why it’s a target."

Hades closed his eyes.

For the first time in a very long while, the God of the Dead allowed himself to feel something dangerously close to anger—not explosive, not violent, but cold and precise.

"You’re telling me competence paints a target," he said.

"Yes."

"And visibility protects?"

"No," Acedia replied. "Visibility distracts."

Hades opened his eyes again.

"So Olympus survives because it’s loud," he murmured. "Because Zeus can’t go five minutes without throwing lightning at something or just sticking his dick into any hole in his immediate surroundings. Even freakin’ goats are not safe from his clutches."

Acedia blinked once.

Then, very slowly, he nodded.

"...Yeah," he said. "That about sums it up."

"But you seem to forget something very important: why does Zeus want you to guard the Underworld?" he continued.

"I know... Prophecy."

"And the one who ends Zeus’s reign is locked up in Tartarus

"And the one who ends Zeus’s reign is locked up in Tartarus," Acedia interrupted. "In other words, you’re a glorified guard dog," Acedia finished lazily.

The words did not echo.

They didn’t need to.

They sank straight into the bedrock of the Palace of Hades, slipping past marble, obsidian, law, and myth, embedding themselves in something far older and far quieter than pride.

"Careful now, before someone gets hurt," Acedia said, as—

The air screamed.

Not audibly—not with sound—but with priority.

The moment Hades moved, the Palace of Hades stopped being a place and reverted to what it truly was:

An execution engine disguised as architecture.

The bident hovered a hair’s breadth from Acedia Belphegor’s throat, its prongs forged from void-black metal veined with dull gold, humming with laws older than Zeus’ first betrayal. Death did not radiate from it.

Finality did.

Acedia froze.

Not because he was afraid.

Because moving would have required effort.

Hades stood there—no longer slouched, no longer casual. The Hawaiian shirt and sandals were gone, replaced by a long, dark robe that seemed less worn than assumed, as though reality itself had decided this was the correct configuration.

His presence was no longer absence.

It was jurisdiction.

The Palace reacted violently—not with destruction, but with obedience. Pillars straightened to mathematically perfect angles. The obsidian veins flared brighter, laws reasserting themselves with sudden clarity. Somewhere deep below, Tartarus’ seals tightened instinctively, chains humming as if sensing scrutiny.

Acedia swallowed.

Just once.

"Careful," Hades repeated softly, eyes pitch-dark now, voice stripped of humour entirely. "You’ve crossed from explanation into provocation."

The bident pressed closer.

Not enough to draw blood.

Enough to make the concept of blood nervous.

"You are a guest in my realm," Hades said. "And you are speaking very freely for someone standing inside a Core."

Acedia’s shoulders sagged further.

"...Yeah," he muttered. "Knew that’d do it."

"You do not get to call me a guard dog," Hades continued, voice perfectly level, "inside the axis that decides what ends."

The word ends carried weight.

Not threat.

Truth.

For a long moment, neither moved.

Then—

Acedia raised both hands slowly.

Not in surrender.

In concession.

"Alright," he said. "That one... was unnecessary."

Hades did not retract the bident.

"And yet," Hades said, "you said it."

Acedia tilted his head back slightly, eyes half-lidded but focused. "Because you needed to hear it."

"You think provocation clarifies judgment?"

"No," Acedia replied. "But it cuts through denial."

The bident trembled.

Not from weakness.

From restraint.

Hades stared at him—really stared now—not as a god assessing a threat, but as a system administrator auditing a failure point.

"You believe I am being used," Hades said.

"You are," Acedia replied without hesitation.

"By Zeus."

"Among others."

Hades’ grip tightened.

"And by prophecy."

Acedia nodded. "Especially that."

Silence fell again—but this time, it wasn’t contemplative.

It was volatile.

"You think," Hades said slowly, "that locking a future usurper in Tartarus makes me complicit."

"I think," Acedia replied carefully, "that it makes you indispensable to a system that benefits from never letting that future resolve."

Hades’ eyes flickered.

For a fraction of a second.

That was enough.

"You are very confident," Hades said, "for someone who has not yet been erased."

Acedia snorted. "If Azathoth hasn’t done it yet, you won’t either."

The bident lowered—just slightly.

"Bold assumption."

"Lazy math," Acedia corrected. "If you kill me, you lose a data point. If you don’t, you get options."

Hades exhaled slowly.

The bident vanished—not dismissed, but unneeded.

The Palace relaxed a fraction, like a blade easing away from a throat it had already decided not to cut.

"You Satans," Hades said, turning away, robe whispering against the obsidian floor, "are infuriating."

"We aim for efficiency," Acedia replied. "Infuriation is a side effect."

Hades walked back toward the throne, but did not sit.

He stood beside it instead.

A symbolic choice.

"You mentioned Thanatos," Hades said. "You think he would accept?"

"I think," Acedia replied, "that he’d accept immediately—if framed as liberation rather than merger."

Hades’ jaw tightened.

"And if I refuse?"

Acedia shrugged. "Then Death-with-a-face becomes Death-with-options."

"That destabilises hierarchy."

"Yes."

"That destabilises my realm."

"Eventually."

Hades turned sharply.

"Everything you say ends with ’eventually’."

"That’s how inevitability works."

Silence.

Then Hades asked, quietly:

"What happens if I agree?"

Acedia blinked.

Once.

Then twice.

"...You’re serious."

"I don’t ask hypothetical questions."

Acedia rubbed his face slowly.

"...Ugh. Fine. Full answer."

He straightened—not fully, but more than before.

"When the Underworld interlocks," he said, "its Core doesn’t weaken. It divides its burden."

"And I lose exclusivity."

"You lose isolation," Acedia corrected. "Big difference."

Hades’ eyes narrowed.

"And the souls?"

"Still come to you," Acedia replied. "Judgment remains yours. Memory processing remains intact. Rebirth cycles unaffected."

"And Azathoth?"

Acedia paused.

"That’s the point," he said. "Azathoth doesn’t target networks. It targets single points pretending to be eternal."

Hades was quiet for a long time.

Then—

"What about Tartarus?" he asked.

Acedia’s expression shifted.

Just slightly.

"That," he said, "is... complicated."

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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