Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

The pressure leaking from Sylvaris's body no longer felt like something a human should possess, no, it wasn't just foreign, it was wrong, the kind of power that made the air buckle, the kind that told even the most ancient instincts to run.

Layer by layer, his skin began to peel, not in pain, but in rebirth: first flaking away in dull, papery patches, then revealing something bright, almost luminous beneath, a crimson so deep it glowed like living flame.

For a moment, he looked inhuman, radiant in ruin, until the skin faded back to a normal tone, the transformation subtle but irreversible. It was as if he had shed his mortal shell and left something primal underneath, something that breathed power instead of air. The monster that had been approaching with the confidence of death incarnate now slowed its steps, claws flexing with caution. It could feel it too.

Something inside Sylvaris wasn't just waking. It was returning. Something old. Something hungry. Deep within his core, the impossible was happening, yet it was not a breakthrough, not a level-up, but the rebirth of something that should've stayed buried. The same power that once made the Elyndors flinch when he was still a child. The one they had sworn would never be allowed to rise again.

And when Arathor saw it, when the image bled across the mana screen before him, his heart dropped straight to the floor. He… no… no, it can't be... That power wasn't supposed to exist anymore. It had been sealed and extracted... How the hell is it awakening again?! His thoughts spiraled, crashing through years of suppressed memory, fear clawing up his spine like frostbite. If Sylvaris lost control—if that thing inside him fully awoke and he walked out of that trial alive—then none of them would be spared. Not Arathor. Not the Elyndors. Not the king. If he broke free, this world would burn before it could even beg for mercy.

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"Hey… you… you trash…" Sylvaris's voice scraped through the silence like metal dragged over stone, ragged and low, carrying a resonance that wasn't fully human anymore—there was steel in it, and fire too, like his throat had been reforged in the middle of death itself. "Come closer… I've got something to tell you…" The words weren't shouted. They didn't need to be. They slithered through the air like a command written into the bones of the world, and the monster, who just moments ago had been ready to tear him apart without thought, froze mid-step. Its claws twitched, head tilting slightly, something ancient stirring inside its instincts, whispering that it shouldn't move forward, that it shouldn't look him in the eyes.

And yet its body fought itself, trembled, staggered, as if Sylvaris's words weren't just sound, but law. Something had shifted, something had changed—and the creature could feel it in every nerve. This wasn't prey anymore. This was the one thing it had never been designed to face. A command had been spoken. And deep down, the monster's body already knew—it had to obey.

The creature let out a guttural growl, low at first, then rising into something savage and distorted, a sound of denial, of primal rage struggling to push back against the invisible force shackling its will. Its limbs trembled violently, muscles coiling as if to lunge, but its body wouldn't obey, locked in place by something it couldn't see, couldn't understand, but felt something older than fear itself.

Saliva dripped from its fangs, steam hissing from the cracks along its hide as it dug its claws into the ground, trying to anchor itself, trying to reject the pull in Sylvaris's voice. The growl deepened, layered with frustration, pain, resistance—but no matter how hard it struggled, its legs began to move, slow and shaking, not forward with power, but toward him with a reluctance that screamed of domination. It didn't want to submit. But it was already doing it.

Sylvaris smiled beneath the weight of the power coursing through him, his lips bloodied, his body battered, yet something inside him burned, not with demonic hatred, but with something older, something wilder, something feral, a fire that did not seek destruction for pleasure, but dominance by right. It felt as if every beast in existence bowed to him in instinct, as if he was the forgotten emperor of monsters, the king of all things primal, and when his mother saw the jagged forms beginning to rise from his back, twisting, growing, shaping into something unnatural, her breath caught in her throat.

"My boy…" she whispered, and for a single, shattering moment, her eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with a glint, a thin slit, reptilian and ancient, flickering like a ghost of a truth long buried. The power in her own core stirred in answer, that dark, vile energy she had sealed away for years now aching to rise again. She could no longer hide it. Not from him. Not from anyone. Sylvaris was no longer a child, he was grown, and grown meant no one could extract his core now.

They would try to kill him instead. And she knew that far too well, because once, long ago, her own bloodline had ruled not kingdoms, but terror. Her people were not demons, not truly, but they had been called such by those who feared them. They were dragonkin, the dark emperors of the old world, the sovereigns of beast and flame, a race that had vanished in shadow.

And now, as her son began to take shape into what he had once resembled as a baby, many would mistake him for a demon. But they would be wrong. That monstrous infant form was only a glimpse—because when one of her blood grew, truly grew, they awakened the true shape of their legacy. And even with his core once torn from his chest, even with his soul fractured, Sylvaris now stood again—his sword blazing with light, his body crackling with raw energy, a pair of vast, dragonoid wings bursting from his back, horns curling up from his skull like obsidian crowns, his aura roaring with life. One eye turned pitch black, bottomless, void-like.

The other remained golden, human, resolute. Darkness and holiness—two mortal enemies—began to coexist within him, balanced not by peace, but by right. And behind him, the mark of the Harem God System ignited into a brilliant crimson halo, blinding those who dared to look directly at it, radiating lust, power, and divine claim. It was a moment of awakening that shattered more than just the battlefield—it cracked belief itself. Because the hero they had all looked to, the man they wanted to march behind and crown as the slayer of the demon lord, the savior of the human world... was no longer fully human.

The power radiating from Sylvaris no longer felt like something that could be measured or contained—it had evolved into a force that twisted the very laws of existence around him. It wasn't just mana, nor divinity, nor bloodline alone—it was all three fused into a single, living storm.

Shadows writhed around his body like loyal serpents, yet light clung to him just as fiercely, golden rays blooming from his skin as if holiness itself refused to abandon him. The ground beneath him cracked with every breath he took, unable to bear the weight of a being who held both judgment and sin in equal hands.

His wings stretched wide, each membrane shimmering with scales that looked carved from black obsidian and burnished gold, veins of crimson light pulsing underneath, like molten lava running through ancient dragonbone. His horns glowed faintly, not with magic, but with authority, and every heartbeat sent out waves of pressure so dense they silenced the wind itself. And when he finally moved—just one step forward—the realm could no longer hold him.

The world split in half, one side swallowed in endless black, the other bathed in radiant gold, a perfect divide carved not by blade, but by his mere presence. All across the kingdom, the mana screens watching the trial shattered into sparks, unable to process what they were seeing. All but one. High above, in a realm untouched by mortal flame, the goddess of heroes remained alone, kneeling at the edge of her divine platform, eyes wide, lips parted, her breath caught somewhere between terror and awe—because in that moment, she understood. She was no longer watching a hero.

She was witnessing the birth of something greater. Something untouchable. Something sovereign.

"A human and demonborn… a dragonkin that no longer was supposed to exist…" the words slipped from her lips in disbelief, barely a whisper, yet filled with the weight of a thousand forbidden truths.

"Such a combination is unheard of. Impossible. Humans and demons can't even produce offspring… not without divine intervention—so how?" Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from the realization clawing its way into her mind. "No… no, this makes sense now. That's why the goddesses blessed him… why the system chose him… why everything bends around him. It's not because he's a hero…" Her voice cracked as her thoughts spiraled into something greater, something terrifying.

"He might be the one… the one who can free us from this prison…" Her eyes widened, a glint of hope turning to horror. "He's no hero… he… he's a prisonbreaker." The final word left her mouth like a curse, and then her lips shut tight, sealed by the gravity of what she'd just spoken. Because even as the words faded into the ether, something far above—beyond the stars, beyond the heavens, beyond the system—stirred. Not in welcome. Not in awe.

But in rejection.

As if the universe itself had finally noticed what had awakened... and would no longer allow it to live.