My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 333: Last Day in Prison (Part.I)

The sky remained the same. A ceiling of eternally gray clouds, saturated with sulfur and electricity that never discharged.

It was as if Hell itself held its breath, waiting for something that had finally awakened. The smell of burnt iron, sulfur, and old flesh still permeated every corner of Pavilion 9, but there was something new in the air.

Something dense. Invisible, but undeniable. The kind of thing that made even the most insane demons shut up, swallow hard, and look over their shoulders before spitting on the floor. The kind of thing that smelled of power.

The silence was new. And frightening.

The prison corridors, which had previously vibrated with animalistic screams, hysterical laughter, blasphemies in dead languages, and bets on who would devour whom until the next round of torture, now felt like the corridors of a cathedral. A blood-stained, unholy cathedral where something very wrong had just happened.

And in the center of it all… walked Vergil.

The same orange uniform, crumpled. The same rubber sandals, dirty with infernal mud and dried blood. The same apathetic expression, as if every inch of the place was nothing more than a big, badly told cosmic joke. But the way the eyes followed him was different.

The looks that had previously come with defiance and mockery now came with nervous reverence. With fear disguised as respect—the kind one has for storms, sharks, and unstable deities.

Demons that had previously stared at him, spitting on the ground and showing their teeth, now looked away, lowered their heads, and muttered desperate prayers to their torturing deities.

Others, more instinctive, hurriedly moved away, parting their space like the Red Sea before a demonic Moses—or, more precisely, before the one they were now beginning to call "The King of Hell who walks among the damned."

The brute from the day before—now humorously nicknamed by the others as "The Seat"—was in the medical ward, tied up with arcane chains, eyes wide open, sweating pure ectoplasm.

He mumbled incoherently about darkness, pressure, and a voice too soft for what had been done to him. The other, whose head had been...repositioned, was in a coma. Demonic doctors reported that he whispered disjointed words like "hot," "so disgusting," and "he smiled... he smiled before." No one laughed. Not here.

Vergil had not gained fame. He had transcended. From an ignored and underestimated prisoner, he had become a living legend in one night. The embodiment of what happens when absolute coldness mixes with a power that should not be contained.]

Passing through the Refectory...

The dining hall of Pavilion 9 was a hell unto itself—a microcosm within the macrocosm. It was where creatures fed, fought, killed for better portions, and gambled for organs in dice games that used corrupted souls as tokens. It was a pandemonium of sounds, smells, and constant threats. Even today.

When Vergil crossed the threshold of the cafeteria, the chaos died down.

The sound of trays stopped. The roars fell silent. The grotesque laughter was swallowed like poison. The eyes, which were always looking for something to provoke, lowered or looked away as if looking at that man would invite death itself for an informal chat.

Vergil walked with the same calmness as always. Straight posture, firm steps, empty gaze — as if he were crossing a field of flowers, and not one of the most dangerous points in Hell. He reached the counter. The cook, a creature with claws for eyes and teeth for hands, who loved to make sadistic jokes about the prisoners' meals, simply pushed the best tray, without making a sound. No joke. No provocation. Just silent servitude.

With the food in hand, Vergil walked to the central table — the one that was always the cause of fights, bloodshed and territorial disputes — and sat there. Alone. Not for lack of company. But because no one dared to occupy the same space as him.

Around him, whispers arose, very low, like desperate prayers:

"He spoke to the Shadow itself…"

"They say the prison runes realigned when he lost his patience."

"What is he, after all?"

"I don't know. But I know that not even Lucifer smiles like that."

After the cafeteria, he went back to the Maximum Security Wing, where he was the only one.

Even among the guards—insensitive creatures, trained to resist threats, torture, and temptation—Vergil's name was already pronounced with caution. Reverence. Maybe superstition.

They no longer approached his cell.

Meals were left at the door, in a hurry. No eye contact. No words. Just a quick gesture and the hope of leaving there with one's soul intact.

One of the guards, a veteran of a thousand wars between planes, whispered to a newcomer, his eyes lost:

"He is no longer a prisoner. He is a throne that has decided to sit there... out of sheer boredom."

… And so, a few hours passed…

Vergil's cell was simple. There was no luxury, no special enchantment, no symbolic throne. It was just stone, bars, and a bed too thin for any comfort. But inside, the air was different. Colder. Denser. As if space obeyed another kind of gravity — an invisible curvature around a presence that should not be there.

He was sitting, as always, legs crossed, eyes closed. Meditating, perhaps. Or just pretending to meditate to avoid stupid conversations. The breakfast tray — meat of dubious origin and something that might once have been coffee — was untouched in the corner.

Then, the footsteps approached.

Not shuffling. Not hurried. But calculated, as if whoever came knew that every inch between him and Vergil was a spiritual minefield. When the cell door opened, it was not with a bang. There was no explosion of power or sound of runes breaking. Just a low, respectful click.

A guard in dark armor, his face covered by a mask where a single rune pulsed red, stood at the entrance. There was something rigid in his posture. Not the fear of the weak—but the respect of those who know what lies before them.

"Come, Lord Lucifer… you have been released." Vergil opened his eyes. Purple. Icy. Like two blades waiting for a reason.

He didn't say anything right away. He just stood. Unhurriedly. Unceremoniously. As if all of this was inevitable.

The guard hesitated. It wasn't the first time he had done this job—escort creatures released by superior orders. But he had never used that title for anyone. "Lord Lucifer" was not something one said lightly… speaking Lucifer was almost forbidden in Hell, and this man had adopted his name without any lightness. It wasn't a reverence—it was almost a blasphemy. And yet, it was the only way they could find to acknowledge him now.

"And why this kindness? Relax," Vergil asked, finally, his voice relaxed, low and amused.

"Amon sent for you personally. He said that 'a king should not be kept in cages made for beasts.' And that 'it's time to talk.'"

Vergil arched an eyebrow. Nothing more. He didn't seem surprised—just bored.

"Of course." He walked through the door, not looking at the guard. "Let's see what the old king has to say to the new one."

"Vamos ver o que o velho rei tem a dizer para o novo."