Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

"SHRRRRAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUMMMM!!!"

The roar tore through the realm like the wrath of creation itself—a monstrous cry of clashing elements erupting all at once: the hiss of molten fire meeting the shriek of frost, the deafening wail of hurricane winds shredding the sky to ribbons, and the grinding quake of mountains splitting under divine pressure—all fused together into a single sound that wasn't sound at all but something deeper, something raw, something primal, like the universe itself crying out in fury. It swallowed thought, crushed breath, shattered peace, and turned the world into a storm of elemental madness where even gods might falter.

Sylvaris stood at the center of it, the chaos crashing against him from all sides—flames licking at his skin, ice digging into his flesh, winds screaming through his ears, stone rising up beneath his boots as if the ground itself wanted him crushed and buried—and yet all he did was smile. Not because he didn't feel it, but because he did. The pressure, the violence, the untamed fury of nature trying to test him—it was all real; but what amused him most wasn't the power of the elements; it was the illusion of their strength, the false terror they projected for the weak. It looked intimidating and sounded terrifying, with every flash and tremor enough to make the spectators outside hold their breath and feel the weight of an impossible battle sinking into their bones. But to Sylvaris? To the man who had tasted divinity and smiled at it?

This was nothing more than a slightly noisy morning stroll in the forest.

"I can feel the elements around me," he murmured, half to himself, voice calm and laced with interest rather than tension, "and somehow, I can pinpoint exactly where they're pouring from… how interesting." His eyes narrowed slightly, not with strain, but with precision, with the gaze of a man already planning the most efficient path through a storm sent by the gods themselves.

"Let's start with wind. Without it, fire and water will clash, consume each other in their desperation, and die by their own hands." And as he spoke, his sword responded, as if it heard him, as if it shared his intent. From the hilt to the tip, a brilliant white light flared to life, not chaotic, but controlled—clean, cutting, pure—a blinding thread of power that ran like the spine of an awakening dragon, crackling with restrained violence. The brilliance poured outward, so sharp and intense it didn't overpower the world around him but dimmed it, subtly, like even the surrounding light knew it could not compete.

The change was almost unnoticeable at first, but those watching from the outer realm, high in the spectator seats, began to feel it—the storm that had been devouring Sylvaris, the whirlwind of elemental madness that sought to swallow him whole, now began to recoil, retreating not with fear, but with reverence, as if something greater had entered the battlefield, something ancient, something wrong for a mortal to wield. A pressure began to pulse outward from him, not loud, not aggressive, but undeniable—a force that made even the chaotic will of fire, wind, ice, and earth hesitate, uncertain if they were still in control.

His women sat together in the honored seats, positioned beside the Elyndor family, their bodies still and tense, hands clutching at their chests, eyes fixed on the battlefield below where the chaos had swallowed their man whole. Most of them trusted his strength—they had seen the confidence in his gaze, the way his presence never bent—but few had truly witnessed what he was capable of when the blade was drawn and the storm began.

Only Liraeth knew a glimpse of what lay beneath his smirk and arrogance, having watched him slay the wolves that once threatened her life with a single, terrifying ease… but even that now felt like a whisper compared to what he was facing. This was no longer the strength of a predator. These were not beasts born of blood and bone. What surrounded him now—what clawed at him from every direction—were creatures that moved above man, above nature, entities forged from raw elemental fury that only gods should command.

"Sylvaris… please be alright… we're waiting here for you," she whispered, barely audible, her voice trembling as she leaned forward, eyes locked on the swirling chaos that veiled him from view. Her heart pounded so fiercely it hurt, the rhythm of fear and something softer, deeper—something dangerously close to love, a feeling she had promised herself never to feel again in this cursed life.

But there she was, her fingers twisting into her dress, her lips parted in silent prayer, not for glory or victory, but for the return of the one man who had turned her world upside down. Her prince. Her chaos. Her Sylvaris. And all she wanted… was to see him rise again, proud and alive, riding back from battle not on a horse, but on his own storm.

And as if he could feel it—feel their voices, their worry, their love pressing through the fabric of the realm—Sylvaris's body suddenly surged with a power far greater than anything he had drawn upon before, not from his sword, not from his bloodline, not even from the darkness buried deep within his soul, but from somewhere else entirely, somewhere distant and unfamiliar, untouched and forgotten—his heart.

It roared to life with a savage rhythm, one that didn't follow logic or technique, just pure, primal force, a wild pounding that echoed louder than the howling winds or the roaring flames around him, so fierce it shook the air like war drums calling down gods. What is this feeling? he thought, slightly startled, his brows furrowing as he gripped his sword tighter, the elemental storm around him faltering for just a moment as something entirely different took hold.

Something warm is spreading through me… what the hell is this? It wasn't pain, it wasn't bloodlust—it was heat, but not the kind that burned, it was alive, comforting and maddening all at once, like fire wrapped in silk, crawling through his veins and curling in his chest. Is my heart... burning? And my belly—what the fuck? It's fluttering like… butterflies? His lips parted in disbelief, eyes narrowing, the edges of his arrogance crumbling for a single breath. What the actual hell is this shit? He'd faced monsters, gods, and death itself, but this—this was the first time he felt like the battlefield wasn't outside of him, but tearing loose from within.

Yes… a man who had never known love, who had only ever felt hunger, ambition, and rage, now found himself swept into something entirely foreign, something irrational, something dangerously real. It made no sense—he was in the heart of battle, surrounded by chaos, with elemental fury roaring at him from all sides—and yet, his mind refused to stay on the storm. It drifted, spiraled, obsessed, not over strategy or survival, but over Liraeth—her body, her lips, her eyes, the way her voice curled in the air like a soft wind just for him, the silver shimmer of her hair, the fierce way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention, and the unbearable thought that she was out there now, waiting for him, hoping for him, maybe even fearing for him.

And in that moment, something inside him screamed—louder than the wind, louder than the fire, louder than the gods—that he needed to return to her, that he needed to tear this entire realm apart if that's what it took to get back to her side. That was love. And Sylvaris, the arrogant bastard born from pride and steel, had never tasted it until now.

And as that truth rooted itself in his heart, the harem god system inside him began to rage with life, responding like a beast awoken after a thousand years of slumber, a torrent of crimson energy erupting from deep within his core, wrapping around his sword like a pair of twin serpents, coiling and dancing with the white divine brilliance he had already summoned. The two energies clashed, then merged, love and lust, divinity and hunger, man and god—and the world around him broke.

The very air cracked like shattered glass, lines of destruction webbing outward in every direction, spreading through the sky, the ground, the elemental storm, as if reality itself could no longer contain the force surging through his body. And in the heart of that destruction, Sylvaris raised his sword—and let it speak. A beam of pure annihilation, glowing with crimson and white, tore through the realm like the judgment of a vengeful god, surging straight toward the shadowy entity hiding in the distance, giving it no time to breathe, no chance to resist. Because Sylvaris wasn't fighting for survival anymore. He was fighting to return to her.

"Wait for me, Liraeth… I'm breaking the world just to hold you again," the words slipped from his lips unbidden, soft yet unshakable, spoken not for glory, not for show, but as a promise that pierced through realms and storms alike—and somehow, impossibly, they reached her. A whisper across dimensions, a heartbeat carried on the winds of chaos, and in that single moment, the heart of a young maiden, if not already lost, was now bound forever to him—claimed not by force or fate, but by the madness of love that could shatter worlds.