My Wives are Beautiful Demons

"Hey, bitch, get up." Sapphire said, "Isn't this what you wanted?" She growled, "COME ON, YOU BITCH."

"HAHAHA" Morrigan laughed. Not a laugh of scorn, nor of despair. It was a pure, raw, almost savage laugh. A laugh from someone who bled, felt, fell... and got up.

Slowly, she rose amid the dust and blood, cracking her bruised shoulders and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her tousled hair covered part of her face, but her golden eyes shone like those of a hungry wolf.

"Hah... that's right. That's combat."

Sapphire did not respond. She simply took two steps forward, her spear still glowing with internal embers, as if every fiber of the weapon vibrated in unison with her breathing. Her body was covered in cuts, her muscles tense, her chest rising and falling at a controlled pace. But her eyes said it all: absolute focus. No hesitation.

Morrigan understood immediately. Both were about to start something that would transcend grudges or provocations. It was just war, naked, honest, between two masters of the same craft.

The first move came like a gust of wind. Morrigan thrust the black tip of her spear in a straight, precise line, aiming for Sapphire's right shoulder. Sapphire spun her spear in defense, deflecting the tip with a metallic clang, and counterattacked with a downward strike. Morrigan dodged, leaning her torso backward in a movement that required absurd balance.

The sound of spears clashing filled the air, like muffled thunder. Neither of them was using magical powers now. There were no bursts, explosions, or supernatural screams. Just steel against steel. Technique against technique. Sapphire slid to the side, using her own body spin to deceive Morrigan's guard, attempting a side thrust. Morrigan rotated her hips, defending with the lower part of the shaft and retreating half a step to maintain distance.

They were testing each other's limits. Each attack was a question, each defense an answer. The pace began to intensify, the thrusts becoming faster, the movements more compact.

Sapphire advanced with a sequence of three quick strikes—one to the abdomen, one to the neck, and the third to the knees. Morrigan blocked the first two, and she avoided the third by jumping slightly. In midair, she swung her spear horizontally, trying to hit Sapphire from the side. Sapphire crouched, feeling the wind cut through her hair. In response, she pulled Morrigan's leg on the return, trying to unbalance her. The goddess fell with one knee on the ground, but spun her entire body with the spear extended, forcing her way through. Sapphire retreated half a meter, but kept her guard up.

Both were sweating. The ground around them was furrowed with footprints, spear scratches, and blood flowing freely from open cuts. And yet, neither stopped.

Morrigan spun up and lunged with insane speed. The tip of the spear grazed Sapphire's cheek, but she didn't retreat. Instead, she advanced—closing the gap—and rammed her shoulder into her opponent's chest. Morrigan staggered, but smiled.

"You learned from that woman, huh?"

Sapphire didn't answer. She just thrust with the back of her spear, trying to surprise her. Morrigan slapped the handle of the weapon with her palm, deflecting the blow, and swung the spear like a baton against the side of Sapphire's body.

The blow landed squarely. A sharp sound, followed by a grunt. Sapphire staggered back two steps, but kept her eyes fixed on Morrigan.

The goddess had no time to smile. Sapphire lunged forward like lightning, crouching low, and swung her spear in an offensive spiral. Morrigan defended the first spin, but the second hit her thigh. She staggered, and the third rotation was already coming her way. Morrigan rolled to the side, getting up in the middle of the movement. Now both were visibly bleeding.

Neither seemed willing to stop.

They ran toward each other. Their spears met in midair, the impact reverberating through their arms. It was a sharp, firm sound. Both women's feet were planted firmly on the ground, their eyes flashing. The shafts flexed under the pressure. Sapphire pulled, trying to disarm Morrigan with a spin. Morrigan stepped back and released her left hand from the weapon, punching Sapphire with a hook to the abdomen. Sapphire groaned but used the momentum to spin around Morrigan and hit her with the shaft on her back.

Both stepped back, panting.

The next moves were too fast for ordinary eyes to follow. Thrusts at impossible angles, millimeter-perfect defenses, hip, shoulder, and wrist movements—the entire art of the spear being danced by two masters.

Morrigan began to use her body more. She advanced, thrust, and used her knee, foot, and shoulders, trying to overwhelm Sapphire's defense. Sapphire, more technical, responded with fluid counterattacks, each defense turning into a new thrust. The ground became a stage punctuated by blows, spins, and the metallic sound of friction.

There was a moment when the two thrust at each other at the same time. The spears crossed in the air, passing side by side, and both received a cut. Sapphire on her collarbone. Morrigan on the side of her neck. They retreated, blood dripping, eyes shining.

There were no more taunts. No laughter. Only respect. And determination.

Sapphire began to breathe more deeply, lengthening the movement of her weapon. Morrigan narrowed the base, making her attacks shorter, more dangerous in confined spaces. With each advance, there was an exchange. Neither of them completely dominated. It was as if they had both trained their entire lives for this single duel.

Sapphire spun the spear over her head and came down with an oblique blow. Morrigan defended by crossing her weapon in the air and used the impact to pull her opponent closer. Stuck together, they stared at each other. Morrigan clenched her jaw and thrust with the handle. Sapphire turned her face away, dodging. She used the base of the spear as a lever, trying to unbalance the goddess. Both of their legs locked, a physical shock that almost made them fall.

With a mutual push, they separated once again. Both of their breathing was almost inaudible, so heavy that it seemed to swallow the silence of the world around them.

And then Morrigan laughed again. This time, without disdain. Only joy. Pure, sincere joy.

"You... are good. Very good."

Sapphire nodded, panting. "You've improved a lot..."

Without further words, they launched themselves into the final clash.

The final dance of spears was so fast that only the dust told its story. Agile steps, spins close to the ground, thrusts with the tip, with the base, with the body. The spears scratched the air like brushes in a furious painting. Each impact was a note in a violent and beautiful rhythm.

In a decisive move, Sapphire feigned a blow to the leg. Morrigan lowered her guard, but it was a feint. The real thrust came at the shoulder. The tip touched the flesh. Morrigan retreated, but left her side open — Sapphire spun and pointed the base of the spear at her neck. Morrigan had no way to defend herself.

They froze.

Sapphire with the spear firmly under Morrigan's chin. Morrigan with her weapon raised, ready to slice her opponent's chest. One second. Two. Three.

Then they both lowered their weapons.

The silence that followed was almost sacred. There was no audience, only the echoes of their breathing. And a mutual certainty: neither had won. Both had survived. And that, in itself, was victory.

Morrigan nodded slowly, bleeding but steadfast. "When you want to do this again... you know where to find me."

Sapphire wiped the blood from her spear and spun it lightly, resting it on her shoulder. "Next time... there will be an audience."

They walked away in silence, leaving the field marked by the fight — but sacred by honor. Neither had won. Neither had lost. They were equals. And they knew it.

"After seeing that... I can say I'm terrible with spears..." Vergil muttered, still trying to process what he had just witnessed. His eyes were fixed on the field ahead, where the sound of the last attacks still seemed to echo in the stones and suspended dust.

Morrigan, with a discreet cut on her lip and her face marked by soot and sweat, raised an eyebrow and glanced slowly in his direction. Her chest was still rising and falling unevenly, but the amused gleam in her eyes was unmistakable.

"That guy..." she said, pointing her spear at Vergil without even turning completely, "what is he, anyway?"

Sapphire, still fixing her tousled hair while wiping the tip of her spear against her torn pants leg, shrugged casually, as if answering a question about the weather.

"Oh, him? My husband."

Morrigan was silent for a second, frowning slightly. Then she snorted—and let out a short, hoarse laugh, shaking her head.

"Of course he is."