Chapter 568: Who goes with Vergil?
The obsidian hall was already stifling. The torches burned with increasingly agitated blue flames, reflecting the tension of those present. Amon drummed his fingers against the table, each tap resounding like thunder, while Paimon had already lost her patience and paced back and forth.
“Hours,” Amon growled, his teeth clenched. “Hours, and still nothing.”
“That’s typical of him,” Phenex muttered, refilling his wine glass with lazy disdain. “Unfortunately, I can’t just kill him… I wish I could…”
“You want to be killed?” Stella slammed her palm against the table. “Threaten my husband again and I’ll turn your immortality into nothing but ash.”
“Then he’ll come back again.” Astaroth smiled slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “Stop throwing that little whirlwind of sweets; you’re not even strong enough to kill someone immortal.”
Sapphire huffed, crossing her arms.
“Just shut up before I kill all three of you. And I can do that,” Sapphire said, looking down like a goddess at the three demons.
It was at that moment that the ground shook.
Red runes lit up in the center of the room, circling and expanding in intricate patterns. The temperature suddenly dropped, and even the most powerful among them felt the pressure of the energy welling up from within.
A magic circle opened, swirling in spirals of black flames and crimson lightning.
And then, he appeared.
Vergil emerged calmly from the portal, as if he’d just walked through a door. His black suit was impeccable, his tie loosened, his silver hair deliberately messy—and that lazy smile on his face. He raised a hand, adjusting his cuff, before even looking at the others.
“What a lively gathering.” His voice cut through the air like sharp silk. “I almost regret missing the beginning… but I had two girls to look after.”
Of course, he’d said that to make Sapphire, Ada, Stella, and even Paimon jealous. They all looked at him as if they were going to kill him at any moment.
Paimon nearly exploded.
“ALMOST?!” she screamed, her eyes flashing. “You should have been here since dawn, you bastard!”
Vergil just laughed, a low, malice-filled sound.
“Dawn? I was… busy.” He cracked his neck, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. “Believe me, it was a memorable night.”
Amon stood up from his chair with a bang, the flames reflecting in his golden eyes.
“Just shut up and sit down, kid.”
Vergil finally raised his intense blue eyes and fixed them on Amon. The pressure in his gaze made even the torches flicker. But the smile on his lips remained.
“Kid?” He tilted his head, as if considering. “Please, that kid will steal your place in a few years.”
Cabernet laughed softly, almost a whisper, but full of venom.
“You dream big. But I admire your courage.”
Sepphirothy, motionless until then, opened one eye, staring at Vergil with that icy, distant gaze.
“Son, this isn’t the time for this,” he said, not accusingly, just as a statement. “We have two spots open for the celestial tournament.”
Vergil arched an eyebrow, walking slowly to the table, carrying with him an aura that oscillated between calm and menace.
“Two spots, huh?” He stopped behind his empty chair, running his hand along the back before sitting down. “Then I suppose you’ve already placed your bets. Who will be the poor little guy accompanying me?”
Silence. His gaze was arrogant, almost insolent.
Paimon was the first to speak, still furious:
“Stop being arrogant. Who said you’re going to fight?”
Everyone looked at Paimon…
“Ah… well, yeah… theoretically…” she muttered.
Vergil settled into his chair with the insolent calm of a king who already felt like he owned the hall. He snapped his fingers, crossed his legs, and smiled as if there was nothing at stake but his own personal amusement.
“I’ll participate,” he said, his deep voice echoing through the hall, drawing heavy sighs from some. “Nothing better than gaining a little more combat experience… and crushing some gods in the process.”
He swirled his empty glass on the table, uncaring, as if he’d already made his final decision.
“But…” Vergil tilted his head, letting his gaze roam slowly over everyone present, “…since we only have two spaces, I want to know who will be my date for this divine ball.”
Sepphirothy was the one to break the silence, her calm yet firm voice cutting through the air.
“The rule is simple,” she said, like a patient teacher facing students who don’t understand a thing. “The companion must be under a hundred years old. And, of course, a demon.”
Vergil arched a brow thoughtfully and rubbed his chin with a deliberately annoying slowness.
“Under a hundred years old, huh? That’s quite restrictive.” A wry smile played across his lips. “So… who among Katharina, Ada, and Roxanne is the strongest?”
The air in the hall changed instantly.
Cabernet, who had been watching silently until then, clenched her fists so tightly that her black nails dug into the table, leaving deep marks. Her crimson gaze glowed like embers.
“Interesting…” she said, her voice low but filled with venom. “You name three names, but you forget my daughter?”
Vergil turned his head slowly, staring at Cabernet with a lazy, cruel smile.
“Runeas?” He clicked his tongue, as if savoring the name. “Don’t get me wrong… but I thought she had no interest whatsoever, especially when she had that sealed dragon helping her. Now she has no desire to fight.”
A murmur of shock ran through the table. Even Amon raised an eyebrow, curious to see the explosion that was sure to follow.
Cabernet slammed his palm against the table, the impact echoing like thunder.
“Watch your tongue, brat.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Vergil didn’t back away an inch. Instead, he leaned forward, his blue eyes blazing like blades.
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” His voice lowered, laden with sweet menace. “I don’t choose allies because they’re the children of someone important. I choose those who can fight side by side with me without turning to dust in the first minute.”
Sapphire laughed, a cold sound that cut through the tension.
“He’s right, Cabernet,” she said, resting her chin on her hand and looking at Vergil with an enigmatic smile. “On the battlefield, she’s not much use with that curse of destruction.”
Cabernet growled but didn’t respond.
Vergil leaned back again, satisfied with having added fuel to the fire.
“Then I repeat,” he said calmly. “Between Katharina, Ada, and Roxanne… who is the strongest candidate to fight at my side?”
The hall fell silent for a moment, as if the very stone of the room wanted to hear what would come next. Amon rose slowly, the blue flame of his presence dancing in his irises as he leaned against the edge of the table. There was a different glow about him—not just the usual impatience, but something like restrained pride.
“You mention obvious names,” he began, his deep voice heavy with weight. “Katharina, Ada, Roxanne… all capable. But if I’m going to have someone who truly changes the course of a fight against gods, I have someone else in mind.”
Vergil tilted his head, interested as a hunter catching a new scent. “Oh, really?” he said, with that crooked smile that always hinted at trouble. “Who is this ‘she’ that would make you, Amon, talk like that? Don’t tell me she’s another one of those little princesses who sleeps between battles and orgies.”
Amon didn’t smile. His face became serious, almost stern. “Ingrid Asmoday.”
The name hit the table like a hammer. Some faces froze, others leaned forward. Even Paimon, who usually seethed with indignation, was speechless for a second.
“Ingrid Asmoday?” Sepphirothy repeated, her voice neutral but heavy. “The blood of Asmoday?”
Amon nodded. “Yes. Not the original—Asmoday has been dead for ages—but a promise forged in the furnace of the underworld. Ingrid is a child of sparks and wounds. I trained her after the bloodline suffered the blow. She grew quickly, and now she’s… she’s digging the abyss, literally. She’s at the edge of what we call the underworld, pushing against barriers no one else has dared touch.”
Cabernet clenched his fists, his anger barely contained. “You speak as if she were a toy, Amon. Touch the abyss?” What the hell have you been doing down there?
“I trained her for this,” Amon replied with almost cruel calm. “To withstand pressure where not even the elders want to set foot. Ingrid learned to wring earth and will from the very bones of the world. She has wounds that heal with hunger. If anyone can stand by my side and not turn to dust against a god, it’s her.”
Paimon finally found his voice, sharp with disbelief. “Less than a hundred years old?” he asked. “Are you sure she qualifies? I don’t want to send someone to their death over bureaucratic rules.”
Amon smiled, but it was a hard smile. “Ingrid is seventy-six years old, Paimon. Young enough for the rules. And with the tenacity of a storm. She’s a demon, a daughter of Declave blood, forged by war. But”—and here his voice hardened—”I don’t know if she wants to fight by the conventions of our games.”
Vergil chuckled. “Ah, so the problem now is her will?” His blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “Nothing like testing a soldier’s autonomy.”
Astaroth, always interested in politics and hidden motives, leaned forward. “How is she? You say she’s near the abyss. Do you mean she’s isolated? If she’s as… special as you painted her, it won’t be easy to convince her to come here.”
Amon looked at the table, at each face—smug, calculating, curious, furious—and slammed his palm on the tabletop. The sound made the flames flicker.
“I’ll go find her,” he announced. “Not here, not now. Ingrid isn’t the type to respond to invitations. If I’m going to bring her, I’ll go to the abyss myself and see if she’ll accept this show of the gods.”
Vergil’s eyebrows arched—the perfect mix of annoyance and excitement. “Are you sure you shouldn’t send me an invitation by pigeon? I like to see you sweat a little, Amon.”
Amon looked at him with a coldness that would make iron tremble. “You don’t understand. She’s not a trophy to be displayed. Ingrid is a hammer. If she agrees to come, she won’t come by order; she’ll come by choice. And that will make her a thousand times more dangerous.”