Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

"He definitely fucked someone last night…" Liraeth muttered, her voice laced with suspicion, eyes narrowing as they followed Sylvaris's slow, almost swaggerless walk down the hallway. His posture was tired, shoulders loose, steps dragging, and yet there was that stupid little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—the kind of grin a man wears only after draining himself into a woman so thoroughly that sleep had to beg for a turn. It wasn't hard to read the signs. And Liraeth read them all.

"Yeah… look at him," Faylira added, her voice low but spiked with irritation. "Dead tired, barely holding himself together, but still smiling like he won the fucking lottery. Which bitch was it this time? One of the maids?" Her nine tails swayed behind her, slow and irritated, the tips flicking with the promise of trouble, half anger, half amusement. "Tsk… what an asshole. Didn't even bother washing off the scent—sniff sniff—I can still smell her on him. Just a faint trace clinging to his neck. The bastard didn't even shower…"

Behind them, Lilith and Miren stood quietly, eyes flicking between the two self-proclaimed queens of the harem who always took the lead in matters like these. Neither spoke. Neither needed to. The mood had already been set.

"Good morning… —yawn—" Sylvaris muttered as he strolled into view like a man returning from war with trophies still clinging to his skin, his belt hanging loosely, barely buckled, shirt wrinkled and half-untucked. He looked like sin wearing a smile. But the moment his eyes landed on the girls gathered at the end of the hallway, something shifted. Their gazes hit him like blades dipped in honey, sweet and sharp, and an involuntary chill ran down his spine. Why the fuck do I feel like prey right now…?

"Sylvaris~~" Faylira called out in that melodic voice of hers, too sweet, too innocent.

She ran to him before he could dodge, her arms latching onto his, her nine tails curling around his waist like possessive vines. She buried her face into his shoulder, her nose twitching, sniffing slowly up his neck like a predator catching the scent of another's claim. He tensed immediately, breath catching, mind snapping awake faster than any spell could've managed. Shit… busted?

He kept the smirk, though barely.

Stay calm… control the mood… don't let it escalate… if I just keep cool, they'll back off—

But what Sylvaris didn't know—what he had yet to learn—was that no amount of charm could save a man from the vengeance of suspicious women. Especially not when they smelled another woman's pleasure clinging to his skin.

"I'll remember that smell," Faylira whispered against his ear, voice low and sweet like poisoned honey, her breath warm against his skin, "and I'll sniff out exactly which woman you fucked tonight, my dear Syl-va-ris~~"

That was his cue.

"I need to train in sword before the Hero Trial—bye!" he blurted, already twisting free from her grip before the last syllable left her lips.

His steps were quick, too quick, boots slapping against the marble floor as he vanished down the hallway without so much as a glance back. He could still feel her eyes on his back, feel the smirks, the judgment, the promises of future punishment. And the worst part?

He didn't even have Aureve to help him recover from the interrogation—she had already disappeared before he woke up, no trace left behind except the warmth she gave him and the weight of the memory she shared. And now, the others were circling. They knew something was off. They felt it. Smelled it.

He needed space... and now.

I need to think. I need to figure this out before one of them snaps…

Nyxaria's words still echoed in his mind like a curse: love them... or lose control.

It wasn't just about pleasure anymore. It wasn't about domination. It was survival.

He had to start seeing them as more than just bodies. He had to understand them, bond with them, love them, one by one, because only then would his power grow… and more importantly, only then would he keep it.

Otherwise, the system wouldn't be his for long.

And Sylvaris didn't like the idea of being owned. Not by anyone. Not even by the women in his bed.

-------

The late morning sun poured over the Elyndor estate's backyard, casting golden light across the marble terrace and the training field that stretched out beyond it. The garden trees rustled softly in the breeze, the sound blending with the sharp clang of metal meeting metal. Sylvaris stood at the center of the yard, his shirt tossed aside, sweat glistening on his skin, muscles coiled with each precise movement. Every slash of his white sword carved the air with elegance, glowing faintly with threads of holy magic, leaving trails of faint light behind like he was cutting through the remnants of a dream.

On the side, seated beneath the shade of a sprawling willow tree, were his women, and his sisters. The line between the two groups had long blurred, not because of titles, but because they all watched him with the same look, something between hunger and awe.

Liraeth sat cross-legged, chin resting on her hand, her violet eyes gleaming with quiet fascination, the hem of her corset-top tugged just slightly as she leaned forward. Beside her, Faylira crouched on her heels, her tails swaying lazily, ears twitching each time Sylvaris exhaled sharply or grunted with force. She'd said nothing since they sat down, but her eyes were locked on him like a predator watching prey. Lilith, reserved as ever, simply observed with half-lidded eyes, but even she shifted subtly when his sword arced in a powerful downward slash that cracked against the training dummy, splitting it clean through.

Miren leaned into Lilith slightly, whispering something that made her snort—though neither took their eyes off Sylvaris.

His sisters, too, had gathered to watch. Seralyne stood tall, arms crossed, trying to look disinterested but failing spectacularly with how often her eyes wandered across his abs. Velmyra and Ardyssa sat together, one clapping softly every time he executed a difficult maneuver, the other biting her lip with a faint blush on her cheeks. Lurevia, the most composed of them all, simply stood with her hands folded in front of her, a warm but quiet smile on her face, saying nothing—watching everything.

The women didn't speak often, not now, not while he was training like this. There was something about the way he moved—a predator dancing with steel, every motion fluid yet deadly—that drew them into a collective silence, like they were witnessing something sacred.

And then… an uninvited guest arrived.

Aureve stepped into the sunlight without a word, her figure framed by the doorway like a painting come to life. Her robe clung to her in all the right places, hair still slightly damp from a bath, her aura softer now, warmer, and yet unmistakably regal. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. She simply took a place beside the others, her presence so natural it made several of them tense.

Especially Faylira.

Her nose twitched once.

Then again.

And her expression darkened ever so slightly, a knowing glint flashing in her green eyes.

"That scent… I knew it. You sneaky little bitch…" she muttered under her breath, tails stiffening.

But she didn't say it out loud... She only smiled.