Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

Okay, I could sit here and keep talking about how chaotic the harem had become, but let's be honest—we need to get to the point of this mess. Blame the author for rushing me.

Sylvaris spent the next twenty minutes navigating the aftermath until the storm finally began to settle. The tension, the glances, the sighs—eventually, the women reached a silent, unspoken agreement: this had to be kept a secret within the house. At least until Sylvaris completed the Hero Trials. If word spread now, if emotions spiraled any further, the chaos would be impossible to contain. And chaos... was the last thing they needed right now.

The rest of the day passed quietly, lacking the kind of "action" Sylvaris had so shamelessly hoped to gain from the whole confession fiasco. His cock, still valiantly pulsing with unspent ambition, was left to sulk alone in a room filled with four stunning women—each of whom had apparently reached the same verdict:

No pussy for idiots.

They had decided, with silent judgment and perfect coordination, to punish him for being a reckless fool. No one touched him. No one so much as brushed against his lap. They teased him with proximity, sure—but denied him everything else.

Women are scary... he thought, lying there stiff and bitter, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers. His mind spiraled in loops about how he was a man—a man, damn it—and how it was unfair, unhealthy even, to be left hanging like this.

Things were turning just a little too sour for his taste.

---

The morning carried an air of thick anticipation. It wasn't suffocating—no—but it lingered heavy in the atmosphere, a taste on the tongue that something big was about to unfold. The long-awaited Hero Trial was beginning, and those early to rise were already lining up at the spectator booths, desperate to be the first to witness the greatest show this kingdom had seen in years.

And the main hero of this grand event was still in bed, snoring his damn ass off.

"Sylvaris! Wake up! We're late!" Liraeth jolted upright, blinking through half-lidded eyes at the giant clock mounted across the room—a towering relic that resembled an oversized grandfather clock.

The time read 12:56.

Four minutes...

Four minutes until the trial began. And somehow, no one had bothered to wake them.

Well… there was a reason for that.

It was Arathor's direct order. No one was to disturb his son. Everyone in the house had been told to leave. Every single servant. Every aide. Gone.

What was that man thinking? Only the gods knew. And I'd tell you more, but if I keep invoking them, I'm probably going to get cursed to death. So let's move on.

"Huh?" Mister Sleepyhead finally stirred, rubbing his eyes like a clueless child fresh from a nap.

He looked at Liraeth, face creased in innocent confusion, completely unaware of the catastrophe looming over him.

There was no way they let him sleep through this… right?

Well, think again, dear Sylvaris.

Because your ass is about to get beaten by the King himself.

Hahaha...

He looked at the clock, and his heart dropped.

Sure, he didn't care that much—"better late than never" had always been his motto.

Maybe that's why he died a virgin in his past life? Hahaha...

Alright, alright, Author... I'll stick to narrating. No need to get pushy. Jeez, can you believe this guy, dear readers? The narrator deserves justice too, you know.

Ahem... Moving on.

The city had transformed into a living lung, pulsing with energy, breathing in the anticipation of the moment. The massive gate—easily twenty meters tall—shimmered with ethereal light, its spiral centerpiece spinning so fast it made some spectators dizzy just from glancing at it. Every booth was packed.

Every noble, soldier, and merchant sat on edge. And the spot meant for the hero was still empty.

Confusion rippled through the crowd, anxiety spreading like smoke on the wind. Murmurs rose. Some people fidgeted. Some whispered nervously.

And yet, one man stood smiling brightly—like he knew he was the reason behind it all.

"Where is Sylvaris?!" the king roared, his voice cracking like thunder through the square.

He hated being made to wait. Everyone knew that.

But strangely, as long as it was Sylvaris... his anger always seemed to burn just a little less brightly. Which only added fuel to the fire of those who whispered behind his back—those who believed he'd bend backward for that creepy, arrogant hero if he asked nicely enough.

An hour passed. Then another.

Sylvaris could have easily made it to the trial grounds within the first hour, no question. But no—he decided to test everyone's patience instead, just to see how far he could push it.

And when he finally arrived—three hours late—he strode up onto the stage with the confidence of a man who'd done absolutely nothing wrong.

The crowd fell into stunned silence as he raised his hand, smiling like royalty addressing loyal peasants.

"Thank you all for coming to support me!" he declared, voice ringing out with practiced charm and absurd sincerity. "I must apologize for being late—truly, I am. It just so happened that, on the way here, I encountered a poor maiden in need of help. She had sprained her ankle, and I wouldn't be much of a gentleman if I left her there in pain, lying all alone on the side of the road, scared and helpless... right?"

He paused, scanning the crowd with wide, innocent eyes, before clapping once, theatrically.

"So, let's give a round of applause for the brave young maiden, who is now safe in her parents' home and healing from her injury! Once again, I'm terribly sorry for the delay."

He raised both hands like a champion returning from war.

"Let the trials begin!"

Somehow, his voice carried so much power, so much bullshit charm, that a wave of applause actually followed.

People bought it. They really bought it.

"Hahaha! What are you talking about, noble hero? Saving those in need is your destiny, isn't it, everyone?"

The king's booming voice echoed through the plaza as he rose from his grand seat, striding toward Sylvaris with exaggerated warmth. He clapped a heavy hand on the hero's shoulder, grinning like a proud uncle who'd just watched his nephew lie his way out of a public scandal.

The crowd erupted.

Chants of "Sylvaris! Sylvaris!" rang through the air, his name lighting up the capital like a sacred hymn.

And as he stood there, basking in the cheers of a kingdom drunk on theatrics, Sylvaris could only sigh inwardly.

This kingdom is made of idiots, Sylvaris thought, plastering a charismatic grin across his face as the crowd howled his name like he'd just descended from the heavens on golden wings instead of showing up three hours late with a fake story and a barely-tucked erection.

He gave them a shallow bow, letting his messy black hair fall forward just enough to look effortlessly dramatic, then rose with a practiced flick of his chin. A wave here. A nod there. He played the crowd like a bard with a cursed lute—every note a lie, every gesture calculated to charm.

Behind him, the enormous trial gate began to hum with a low, vibrating power. The towering structure—twenty meters tall and carved from obsidian and mana-infused silver—came alive with spiraling light. Ancient glyphs ignited along its surface, spinning faster and faster around the central spiral that formed the entrance to the realm beyond. It wasn't just decoration; it was a mouth. A living portal with teeth. And it was hungry.

The cheers began to quiet. Murmurs passed through the stands. People leaned forward. The air tightened.

Sylvaris's smile faded slightly.

He turned, facing the gate as the last of the crowd's clamor dissolved into anxious silence. His golden eyes narrowed, locking onto the portal's center, where the spiral now spun with the speed of a cyclone. The pressure in the air grew unbearable, as though invisible hands were pressing down on every shoulder in the arena.

This was no simple ritual. The Hero Trial was a baptism in madness. A crucible where men were broken, shaped, or erased entirely.

He stepped forward, boots clicking against the polished white stone of the arena floor, each stride echoing across the vast courtyard. His black coat swayed behind him, the silver dragons on his belt catching the ambient light. There was no hesitation in his steps—only intent. Control.

The king stepped back, watching proudly like a farmer admiring his prized bull before sending it into the slaughterhouse.

And yet, if he knew what I really am… would he still look at me like that? Would any of them?

A smile ghosted across his lips.

Of course not.

The light from the portal exploded outward, bathing the entire arena in a shimmering pulse of violet and blue. The crowd gasped as a series of stone platforms began rising from the ground within the trial gate—each one glowing with its own symbol, its own test. Fire, ice, shadow, wind, lightning, light, time… They rotated like puzzle pieces inside the maw of the portal, and then—one by one—they began to click into place.

The trials had chosen their order.

And Sylvaris? He didn't flinch. He didn't brace. He simply stared, eyes glowing faintly beneath the veil of his dark hair, his expression unreadable.

This isn't just a trial. This is a stage. And I'm not here to be judged.

He stepped toward the edge of the gate, magic rippling across his skin as the barrier read his presence, adjusted to him, recognized him.

"I wonder," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Liraeth—who stood at the edge of the crowd—to hear, "how many of their challenges I'll break before this ends."

And with that, the light swallowed him whole.