My Wives are Beautiful Demons

Chapter 819: The Sin of Wrath

Satan was not born as ordinary demons were born. Before there were thrones in the Underworld, before the names of the Sins were transformed into titles, and before infernal kings learned to decorate their own crowns with the bones of their enemies, Wrath already existed.Not as a fleeting emotion, not as deadly rage, not as an explosion of violence in response to an offense.

Wrath, in the beginning, was a principle of opposition.

It was the absolute refusal to accept pain, injustice, loss, or humiliation without response.

When the first conscious creatures learned to hate, when the first wounded being wished to return to the world what it had suffered, a shadow formed in the lower layers of existence.

This shadow received many names, but the oldest of them was Satan.

Satan was the Sin of Original Wrath because he never needed to be taught to hate. He did not become wrathful through trauma, wounded pride, or ambition.

He simply existed as the violent negation of submission.

While Pride saw itself above creation and Greed wanted to possess everything it saw, Wrath wanted only one thing: a response.

Every offense needed to be returned, every wound needed to generate another wound, every loss needed to turn the world around it to ashes.

For ages, Satan was treated as a calamity within the Underworld itself.

He wasn’t the most intelligent, nor the most seductive, nor the most patient among the Sins, but he was the only one the others feared to provoke unnecessarily.

Because, when Wrath moved, there was no politics. There was no negotiation. There was no tomorrow.

And then Satan died. Or was destroyed. Or was erased.

Depending on who told the story, the ending was different, but the result remained the same. The Authority of Wrath disappeared from the cycle of the Seven Deadly Sins, leaving a void that was never truly filled.

Many tried to inherit it. Many proclaimed themselves successors.

All failed. Original Wrath did not accept just any bearer.

It wasn’t looking for someone explosive, brutal, or cruel. It was looking for something far rarer: someone capable of hating without losing their way.

Someone capable of transforming pain into a sentence. Someone who didn’t scream to prove their fury, because their very existence would be enough to make the world understand that the answer had arrived.

In that destroyed chamber, the remaining Sins began to understand why the Authority of Wrath was reacting.

It wasn’t because of the violence Vergil displayed, nor the absurd force with which he had crossed the Abyss.

It was because of the nature of what stirred within him. Vergil wasn’t furious because he wanted to win.

He wasn’t furious because he felt insulted. His anger stemmed from something simpler and far more dangerous: they touched what was his, they hurt his family, they kidnapped his wife and mother, they put at risk people who, for him, were not pawns in a cosmic game. They were the reason why there was still a limit between control and extermination. The Authority of Avarice still blazed around him like gold suffocated by death. He hadn’t managed to dominate him. He hadn’t managed to seduce him.

He had tried to offer possession, accumulation, dominion, a hunger for everything that could be taken, but he found within him a will that desired neither treasures, territories, nor thrones.

Vergil didn’t want to possess the world.

He only wanted to wrest from it whoever dared to cross the wrong line.

The golden energy tried to expand one last time, searching for meaning, searching for form, searching for a desire to cling to, and then Vergil turned it against its former mistress with a coldness that even made Itharine stand still.

Avarice felt her own Authority turn against her. It wasn’t an ordinary attack, nor a blade, nor an explosion.

It was worse, because the power that had nourished her for ages now rejected her. All the weight of what she had accumulated, all the greed she had used to build her existence, all the concept that underpinned her name, weighed heavily on her body and soul simultaneously.

She tried to scream, tried to raise barriers, tried to reclaim what she believed was rightfully hers, but the Authority no longer responded. Vergil had taken her, and now she obeyed him.

Avarice’s body fell among the rubble without any dignity. The woman who minutes before had tried to negotiate the fate of the Underworld now seemed like nothing more than an abandoned thing on the ground.

Vergil watched for a few seconds, without satisfaction, without triumph, without even a real change in his expression.

For him, there was no glory in destroying someone like her.

There was only completion.

Another consequence fulfilled.

Another Authority retrieved.

Another part of that ancient system being ripped from the Abyss.

Cerberus approached with its three heads bowed.

The miasma that formed its body moved like living smoke, and the countless red eyes within the creature remained open, fixed on what remained of Avarice.

One of the heads advanced first, sniffed the body, and retreated almost immediately, as if even a creature made of shadow and hunger rejected it.

The second head repeated the gesture and emitted a low, harsh sound, almost of disgust.

The third simply turned its face away, disinterested, making it clear that not even the miasma wanted to consume what was left of it.

Vergil saw this and, for the first time since entering the chamber, let out a low laugh.

There was no humor in it.

It was short, dry, and bitter, the kind of laugh that didn’t spring from amusement, but from utter contempt. He looked at Avarice as if he had finally found a fitting definition for his entire existence.

"Not even the meat is worth anything. In the end, you were just trash." The phrase echoed effortlessly across the hall, and none of the remaining Sins dared to react.

Gluttony, Envy, and Sloth remained paralyzed. It wasn’t strategic immobility, nor an attempt to conceal intent.

It was genuine fear.

Primitive fear.

The kind of fear that preceded language, pride, and titles. Those three weren’t just seeing a powerful demon before them. They weren’t seeing a demonic king, an angry warrior, or an invader from the Abyss.

The understanding forming within them was more terrifying than any blow. To their instincts, Vergil had become something that no longer fit within the common terms of the Underworld.

In their minds, the title arose even before anyone dared to pronounce it.

Demon God.

Celestial Demon.

A living contradiction, an existence that carried death, sin, sacred power, infernal power, and a rage that began to touch the very fabric of reality. No cult had given him that name.

No prophet had announced his arrival in that way.

No throne had recognized him as such.

But in that hall, before the death of the Sins, those names seemed inevitable.

And the most frightening part was that Vergil didn’t see himself that way. He wasn’t there to assume a title.

He wasn’t there to found an era.

He wasn’t there to prove superiority over old concepts. Vergil was just a worried husband.

A belated son.

A man who had discovered that his wife and mother had been kidnapped descended alone into the Abyss and decided that everything related to this mistake would cease to exist.

It was this simplicity that made the scene so monstrous. He didn’t need a grand motivation. The right wound was enough.

Sloth was the first to completely lose his composure.

His eyes, once heavy and indifferent, were now wide, following Vergil’s every little movement as if any gesture could be the beginning of his own end.

Envy tried to keep a controlled expression, but his fingers trembled.

Gluttony breathed slowly, trying to calculate if there was still any way to break through, but each calculation ended at the same point: Itharine blocked the exit, Cerberus blocked the hall, and Vergil blocked the future.

Vergil turned slowly to the three of them. The gold of Avarice vanished beneath his spiritual skin, compressed alongside Lust, both buried under the Authority of Death and the ever-growing Wrath.

The air around him seemed denser now, as if each second made it harder to remain alive within. He didn’t raise his voice when he spoke, but everyone heard him with absolute clarity.

"Three remain."

Gluttony clenched its teeth, but didn’t advance. Envy took a half-step back, even trying not to show it.

Sloth seemed poised to fall.

The Abyss continued to tremble around them, not because of external attacks, but because that entire place seemed to recognize that an ancient order was being undone at the very heart of its own depths.

The Seven Deadly Sins, entities that had traversed eras, wars, and civilizations, were now merely survivors awaiting their turn.

Vergil began to walk again, and Cerberus followed him.

There was no hurry.

There was no hesitation.

Each step was heavy, controlled, and inevitable. The remaining Sins understood, in that instant, that there would be no formal judgment, no chance for explanation, and no mercy granted for belated repentance.

Their time had ended the moment Sapphire and Sepphirothy were touched.

"Choose the order," said Vergil, looking at them expressionlessly. "Or stand still. It’s all the same to me." Vergil spoke as the spectral black flames of death lingered in the air.

"I will kill you one by one, until I am satisfied. And when I’m done killing, I will revive the five and kill you again. And again. And again. You’re in hell anyway. Isn’t that a great punishment?" Vergil spoke, his voice lifeless.

His face was completely different now; his white hair had vanished, replaced by lifeless black hair. His eyes had turned purple from the powers of death, and his rage made his miasma tremble.

"You’d better not cry about what I’m about to do to you," Vergil said.