Champion Of Lust: Gods Conquer's Harem Paradise!

He exhaled, slow and low, the sigh heavier than time itself. The crimson gleam of the Fate Nemesis Eye dulled and spiraled inward, vanishing beneath mortal irises as his gaze dimmed into something deceptively human. The moment he blinked, space itself folded inward like collapsing lungs—and he stepped.

Not walked.

Stepped.

Reality tore apart in silence and stitched him back into his bedroom like a thought being remembered by the universe.

His arrival sent faint cracks slithering through the air itself—like glass breaking inside a dream. His clothes changed mid-transition. A white shirt coalesced onto his frame, its fabric spinning into existence thread by thread, tailored by intent, not hands. The long sleeves fluttered, then tucked into sleek black pants that tightened over his sculpted legs.

The top buttons dangled undone, letting his chest breathe—no longer just the body of a Champion, but a living scripture written by Lust itself. Or more precisely, Lust Corruption—the fractured, dangerous reflection of the Goddess's domain.

Chaotic. Addictive. Eternal.

He wasn't just attractive. He was cruelly divine.

His muscles carried no softness—only pure, sculpted torment forged from ancient hunger and immortal desire.

Shoulders carved like celestial marble flexed with untamed potential. His abs—each one seemingly cast from starlight and sin—shifted beneath the open shirt like tectonic plates of flesh. His jawline could've been an executioner's weapon.

Every inch of him screamed domination, seduction, and annihilation, rolled into a presence that would make lesser gods kneel without understanding why.

The black leather shoes kissed the marble beneath him, and the floor shuddered. Not creaked—shuddered. As if reality recognized what walked upon it.

Light bent unnaturally around his form. The hallway ahead—illuminated moments ago—dimmed into a quiet twilight as he passed, before snapping back into full brilliance behind him, like even photons couldn't decide whether to obey him or fear him. Shadows clung to him then scattered in terrified silence.

Pyris wasn't walking down a hallway. He was bending light and darkness around his stride like they were arguments he no longer had time to entertain.

The air thickened. Not with heat, not with scent, but with meaning. Cosmic static hissed at the edges of perception. Every step he took dragged threads of reality with it, distorting the hallway like a painting melting in slow motion. Marble cracked microscopically under the pressure of his divine pulse.

Walls subtly arched away from him, as though trying to give space to something that should not exist within their finite geometry.

His aura wasn't just presence—it was pressure that rewrote the concept of perfection. It coiled around his body like a serpent made of stardust and bloodlust, bleeding invisible heat that warped emotions into obsession. Eyes would fail to register his flaws, because flaws simply couldn't exist near him anymore. He was the final argument against mediocrity.

And the universe was listening.

Behind him, the hallway didn't recover. Light stayed wrong. Angles bent. Darkness lingered too long in places it shouldn't. As if the space had memory now—memory of being who wasn't even a god, had no business being that beautiful, that powerful, that dangerous.

Pyris didn't care.

He stepped forward again.

And again—

—and space wobbled.

Not just visually. Foundationally. The framework of the room pulsed like it had a heartbeat. Not his. His mere presence had given the room a heartbeat.

He was done playing mortal.

He was Lust, corrupted by power, perfected through pain, made whole through sin—and now the world would feel it with every goddamn step.

He turned, almost absentmindedly, toward the tall mirror across the wall.

It cracked.

Not shattered—just a single, thin line like a silent scream ran down the center as his gaze met itself. His reflection stood there, but it wasn't… stable. The image rippled, shimmered, tried to focus. His body was there—the broad shoulders, the open shirt, the chiseled chest, the black slacks hugging perfection—but the edges kept warping like oil on fire. His hair drifted slightly, even though the air in the hallway was still.

His eyes didn't quite match—one looking back with his usual icy calm, the other flickering with something cosmic and chaotic, like a universe trying to force itself into mortal form.

The mirror didn't know what to do with him.

One second it showed beauty. The next—madness. The third—nothing at all.

As if it was cycling through the truth but couldn't settle on a lie pretty enough to hold it.

Pyris stared.

The reflection winced.

Just for a second. A blink. Like even his mirror-self felt the weight of what he was becoming… and didn't agree.

But he didn't flinch.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt, smirked faintly, and walked away—leaving behind a mirror too scared to reflect him properly, and a silence too thick to break.

And behind the glass, long after he left…

The crack slowly spread.

Each element Pyris commanded would no longer simply obey him—they could begin to worship him. Fire won't just curl at his fingertips, not as a tool, but as a lover seeking touch.

Water will tremble before bending, its nature no longer fluid, but devoted. Wind might freeze mid-gust until he allowed it breath. Earth could shift beneath him, reshaping in silent reverence before his will was even spoken.

Light would bend instinctively to his aura, while darkness could cling to his frame like silk spun from the bones of forgotten voids. He had not just mastered the elements—but touched their laws, rewrote their limits, and made them remember who they were always meant to serve.

And then came the voice that never failed to pull a grin from the depths of his composure.

"Well, well, isn't someone feeling flashy today!"

Alexandra's voice slid in like a smirk wearing heels.

He'd already sensed her presence before the sound reached his ears. Three footsteps, perfectly timed, each wrapped in their own flavor of grandeur.

Alexandra led the trio, her aura sharp with amusement and a flirtatious chill. She'd changed again, of course—now in a dark golden dress that shimmered like twilight gold against her sunlit hair. It hugged her curves like it had a soul of its own and dipped low enough to show she knew her power.

The necromancer's usual darkness wasn't absent—it was refined, dressed for war and worship.

Beside her, Alera stepped with a goddess's calm and a temptress's gait. Her white dress poured over her form like melted pearl, clinging to every curve with reverence. Cleavage deep, unapologetic. Hips swaying like she was dragging gravity with her. That white hair of hers flowed freely behind, glowing under the hallway lights like threads of divine moonlight.

She didn't walk so much as float, and every glance she gave felt like a kiss layered with judgment.

And then there was Aurelia—radiance dressed in gown, trailing behind them with her usual restrained pride, her death-cold gaze taking in Pyris like she was deciding whether to praise him or bite him.

The hallway had never looked so dangerous… or so blessed.