My Wives are Beautiful Demons

In one of the most isolated and unreachable corners of the world, Vergil sat at the edge of one of the tallest buildings in New York.

The wind lashed his silver hair, but he remained indifferent to the urban sprawl beneath his feet. Far from everything and everyone — the dramas, the conflicts, the desires — he finally found the stillness he needed to deal with a darker matter. A matter that carried the weight of his new title.

He slowly raised one hand, as if summoning an old companion.

"Itharine."The shadow behind him twisted, crackling like living flesh mixed with smoke and darkness.

From it emerged a feminine figure, sinuous and ethereal — a woman with features that defied biological logic.

Itharine bowed deeply. Her skin was gray, almost metallic. Her ears, long and pointed, resembled those of an ancient elf, but twisted by some necromantic touch. The sclera of her eyes was pitch-black, accentuating the violet glow of her irises — eyes that did not see, but judged.

And from her entire body, a black smoke as dark as the abyss poured out, flowing like water under reversed gravity.

"My lord," she murmured with absolute reverence, her hair cascading like a veil almost to the floor.

Vergil did not look at her immediately. He only smiled slightly.

"You've grown stronger."

"Yes, my lord," she answered softly. "Thanks to the shadow you cast, I grow."

And indeed, she did grow. For Itharine was more than a living shadow. She was the First Commander of the Army of Death, the embodiment of the new ability Vergil had acquired upon becoming the Horseman of Death.

When Vergil took on the title of Death — one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse — he inherited more than just raw power.

He inherited dominion over the very essence of death. But unlike absolute entities such as Thanatos, who sever the soul definitively, the Horseman of Death brings death to the battlefield — he molds it, manipulates it, converts it…

He does not destroy.He converts.

Through a strange necromantic process linked to his soul, Vergil can transform certain dead into soldiers of the unliving — beings who retain part of their consciousness, grow stronger in his presence, and serve him with unwavering loyalty.

However, this power is not absolute.

He cannot simply kill indiscriminately to recruit new warriors. Each soul requires a bond — something that connects the dead to the necromantic structure of the Horseman. A seal, a pact, or a residual mark of magic.

Itharine, for instance, could be reanimated because her soul had long been part of the ancestral seal of the Horseman of Death. She had been marked centuries ago for this purpose and had been waiting — unconsciously — for the moment her true master would summon her from the shadows.

Vergil does not control the dead. He claims those destined for his cause.

"The body of that werewolf," Vergil said at last, rising in a smooth, deliberate motion, as if his presence moved in sync with the thin air at such heights.

Itharine smiled darkly, extending her hand. From her own shadow, something was drawn — as if ripped from the very fabric of the world.

"Here, my lord."The werewolf's body — still marked by runes from the past battle — dropped to the ground between them with a dull thud. The flesh still fresh, the blood clotted... but the soul, perhaps, not too far gone.

Vergil looked down at the corpse, and for the first time that night, his eyes glimmered with a trace of anticipation.

Another soldier.Another soul for his legion.

Vergil observed the body before him like a craftsman contemplating the raw material of his next masterpiece. He did not see mere dead flesh — he saw potential. A servant. A comrade in war. A fragment of the Apocalypse about to take form.

His eyes slowly darkened until no trace of pupils or irises remained—just two unfathomable wells of liquid shadow, as deep as death itself.

He extended his hand.

From his fingers, a violet, abyssal energy slithered forth, like a living shadow sent out to hunt. It crept across the ground toward the corpse, a river of darkness stained with purple lightning, crackling, pulsing with ancient hunger.

When it reached the body, the energy enveloped it like a cocoon. Bones cracked. Flesh tensed. The chest jerked upward in a violent spasm.

"We need to talk, Alex…" Vergil whispered, his voice echoing as if spoken in two dimensions—one in the world of the living, and the other deep within the land of the dead.

But what followed...was not what he expected.

The body convulsed wildly—beastly, inhuman. Fingernails tore off. Teeth fell out, replaced by fangs. Muscles warped, eyes exploded into amber light, and then—

With a grotesque, thunderous howl, the corpse rose. But not as a man.

A wolf.

A black wolf, cloaked in fur as dark as scorched ash, with violet veins glowing beneath the skin like magma beneath volcanic rock. Its eyes were glowing amber slits, burning with fury and pain. Its paws struck the rooftop with heavy thuds, and necromantic smoke still poured from its jaws and claws.

This was not Alex. Not entirely.

It was what remained of his essence—rebuilt into something primal, instinctive, savage.

A spirit of rage and canine loyalty, trapped between death and rebirth.

Vergil narrowed his eyes. He didn't speak. He simply observed… until Itharine, still kneeling, lifted her head with a faint smile tugging at her lips.

"I welcome my lord," she murmured.

Vergil's eyes remained fixed on the creature. It breathed heavily, dark vapor spilling from its nostrils like a living furnace. Every muscle twitched with death's residual energy—contained, yet still raw.

The silence between them weighed like a tombstone.

Then, Vergil stepped forward.

"Do you remember… who you were before?"

The wolf slowly raised its head. Its posture was regal, yet submissive. This was no mere beast. It was a servant… aware.

Its voice didn't come from its mouth, but from the surrounding shadows, carried by distorted echoes and a guttural tone that reverberated in the soul itself.

"Yes, my lord." A pause. The cold wind swept over the rooftop, but the wolf did not move. "I remember the life before… the choices, the desires, the weaknesses."

Vergil remained still, though his pitch-black eyes burned with predatory curiosity. "And how do you feel about that?"

The wolf lowered its head, pressing it against the concrete like a knight kneeling before the throne of his king.

"Disgust. The memories that do not involve serving you fill me with revulsion. They are the remnants of a weak soul. A mind that faltered, that hesitated before true strength."

He raised his head again. His eyes burned like embers beneath the darkness.

"Now I understand... I was brought back to fulfill the only purpose worthy of existence: to serve Death. To serve you, my lord."

Itharine smiled with pride, like someone watching a younger sibling walk the same dark path.

Vergil observed him for a few more seconds, his expression unreadable.

Then, he raised his hand—and the wolf immediately knelt, as if that gesture were a divine command.

"Rise, then. You are no longer Alex."

The shadow around the wolf thickened, as though the world itself acknowledged the change.

"From this day forward..." Vergil declared in a low voice, heavy with power, as a supernatural breeze danced around them—like living veils of darkness. Ash drifted across the rooftop, swirling in rhythmic spirals, as if the world itself bowed to the baptism about to take place.

"...You shall be known as Fenrhaem." In that instant, the wolf lifted its head and howled.

But it was no ordinary howl.

It was a tear through the firmament.

A cry that vibrated through the bones of the world, echoing like a prophecy in a hundred forgotten tongues.

The sound rolled over New York in waves, stirring the crows on rooftops, making shadows recoil in alleys, and sending chills through those sensitive to the supernatural—though they knew not why.

A new piece had entered the Apocalypse's board.And it was not a quiet one.

Vergil then smirked, the absolute violet glow in his eyes now brighter—like twin torches blazing in the abyss.

"Now, Fenrhaem..." His voice cut like a blade. Soft, yet carrying the promise of inevitable death. "Remember everything about Spectre and his generals." He stepped forward, his presence eclipsing even the skyline.

"Memories, scents, voices, scars. I want every fragment. Every weakness."

The wolf lowered its head in reverence, the black vapor from its body thickening with rising anticipation.

"Yes, my lord... all of it shall be yours."

Vergil then turned, facing the storm-laden night sky, as if the gods themselves were watching. His long coat danced in the chaotic wind, like an extension of his living shadow.

"Let's make some noise, Fenrhaem...""One even Death won't dare ignore."

The city lights flickered—then, as if the world held its breath, Vergil and his wolf vanished into the shadows.

The prelude to war had begun...

"I haven't forgotten what you did to Viviane..." Vergil whispered.