Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

People watched in silence, the kind of silence that clung to the air like smoke after a funeral pyre, their eyes fixed on the figure plummeting from the heavens—their hero, their savior-to-be, the man whispered about in taverns and temples as the champion who might one day change the fate of the world.

Sylvaris crashed into the ground with a hollow, brutal finality, the sound echoing across the battlefield like a falling star striking the heart of creation, and when the dust cleared, his body lay still. He didn't rise. He didn't twitch. And none among the onlookers dared to breathe. A few, seated in shadowed corners, allowed hidden smirks to curl their lips, pleased by the thought that arrogance had finally claimed its price. But the vast majority wore nothing but fear—true fear—and worry that coiled deep in their chests like vines wrapping around their lungs.

Even the man who had wished for this moment more than anyone else—Arathor, his own father—found his composure breaking. His eyes trembled as they fixed on his fallen son, his fists clenched tightly on the throne's edge, white-knuckled and uncertain, like a man standing at the edge of two cliffs, unable to choose which one to leap from.

Because part of him wanted to rush forward, to tear down the barriers, to fall beside his son and check if he still breathed, to shout and shake him back to life—but another part, darker, older, and colder, whispered that this was what needed to happen, that this was for the best, that Sylvaris had always been a threat too wild to keep alive. And which of those feelings was stronger? Even Arathor didn't know. He sat there like a ragdoll caught in a storm, his emotions tossed from side to side, slamming into him like waves with no rhythm, no mercy, no end. And deep down, he feared that whatever answer came next… would define the man he truly was.

His women sat frozen, eyes wide, breath caught in their throats, as if the moment Sylvaris hit the earth their souls had been slammed down with him. At least four of them—Liraeth, Faylira, Miren, and Aureve—watched with pure terror in their eyes, their expressions twisted not just with fear, but with desperation, raw and ugly, like they would give anything just to see him move, to see a flicker of breath, a twitch of defiance in the ruin of that battlefield. Their hearts pounded so loudly it felt like the whole arena could hear them. They wanted to leap from their seats, to run to him, to fall beside him and tear the world apart if that's what it took to bring him back. But they stayed still. Because they had to. Because the trial was not yet over.

Lilith, meanwhile, sat back with arms folded, her posture composed, her expression unreadable. She wasn't heartless—far from it. She felt something twist inside her chest too, though she'd never say it aloud. But in her mind, Sylvaris wasn't the kind of man to die like this. Not here. Not in front of the world. Not in the trials of heroes. Worst case, she thought, that meddling goddess will crawl down and heal him out of pride. She didn't pray. She simply waited.

But it was Aureve who couldn't hide it—her hands trembling slightly in her lap, her lips pressed too tightly together, her eyes red and damp with unshed tears, flicking back and forth as if willing the scene below to reverse itself. And someone noticed.

From the side, one of the Elyndor sons, Lucerian, leaned in, his gaze sharp and questioning. "Why are you so startled, Mother?" he asked softly, his voice laced with innocent confusion, but there was a tightening in his brow, a flicker of suspicion behind his eyes. She had never shown such care before—not for him, not for Sylvaris. And today… today she wore something strange, her robes more decorative than usual, her posture too tense, her reactions too personal. She didn't answer right away. She couldn't. Because even now, as the question echoed in her ears, her gaze remained fixed on the crater—on the man who should not have meant anything… and yet meant everything.

"Ah? I just… he's part of the family… you know…" Aureve's voice barely made it past her lips, trembling, weak, unconvincing even to herself, and she didn't dare meet her son's gaze. Her hands twitched on her lap, fingers curling slightly, as if they longed to reach out—to touch him, to wake him—as if sheer will alone could lift Sylvaris from the crater where he lay still, unmoving, and far too quiet.

But it wasn't just them anymore. It wasn't just the women who loved him, or the nobles who feared him, or the father who couldn't decide whether he wanted him dead or alive. It was the city. The entire capital sat on the edge of its breath, staring down at the crater with eyes wide and hearts pounding, because above Sylvaris's body, the remnants of the trial had not finished their purpose. The elements had not given up. A spiral of jagged ice and roaring earth was gathering above him, swirling like a divine executioner's blade, forming into a storm of final judgment—one that would end everything if it landed.

And then—

"GET UP, SYLVARIS!!!"

The voice cracked the silence like a lightning bolt, desperate and raw, and it spread like wildfire through the crowd. Others followed—more and more—until the city itself became a roaring ocean of voices, crashing against the heavens with a force no spell could match.

"RISE AGAIN!"

"SYLVARIS!"

"SYLVARIS!"

From commoners with cracked hands and tear-stained cheeks, to high nobles in golden robes, to his women with their hearts hanging by threads, to even members of the royal family who once looked down on him, and yes—even the king himself—they all shouted. They screamed, not because they thought he could hear them, but because they needed him to, because they could no longer bear to watch the silence stretch on, because they needed hope to rise before despair drowned them all.

And just as the spiral descended, just as the death meant for gods closed in above him, his eyes opened.

Not slowly. Not weakly.

They shot open—blazing gold like suns reborn.

And then his body moved.