Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

His rage didn't just echo; it fed him. Every heartbeat soaked in fury drew more strength to his limbs, more pressure into his core, more impossible energy that coiled around his body like a second skin.

He should have collapsed by now—his flesh was broken, his blood scattered across the earth—but instead, he stood taller; his spine straightened, his stance deepened, and his body trembled not from pain but from the sheer force crawling into him from somewhere far beyond this realm. It wasn't the system. It wasn't the goddesses. This power came from somewhere else; ancient, silent, watching. As if the world itself—or something buried far beneath it—had heard his cry and chosen to answer.

It seeped in slowly at first, leaking through the shattered cracks in the sky above, drifting like smoke, unseen by all but him. It wasn't warm, nor was it cold. It simply was: a presence, steady and vast, neither merciful nor cruel. It wrapped around his fury like a serpent finding its kin; no words, no promises, no cost whispered. Just a hand, invisible and immense, reaching out across space and memory. Not to save him. Not to help him win. But to see what he would become if he took it—and refused to let go.

And then it came: another power, ancient and absolute, seeping into the battlefield like ink into water, silent yet suffocating. It did not come for Sylvaris. Not at first. No, it wrapped around the monster, the already overwhelming abomination that had shaken the trial realm with every breath, and it empowered it further, cloaking it in something older than darkness, something that did not belong to this world or any other. The moment that force descended, the skies above screamed in silence.

This was not just power; this was judgment, the kind that made goddesses tremble. In her divine realm, Valoria—the goddess of heroes—felt it lock onto Sylvaris like a predator claiming its next kill, and her face turned ashen. She stepped back, her breath caught, her entire being recoiling from the weight of what she had just sensed. No... not that. Anything but that. She knew what it was; knew the whisper of its presence from ancient warnings carved into celestial stone. It had come not to test Sylvaris, nor to observe, but to end him with absolute finality. And she, though divine and proud, could do nothing. To interfere would be to invite its gaze.

And if it looked at her, even for a moment, it would unmake her without pause.

"He will either die, or come out of this clash as the hero they want him to be. Or perhaps..." her voice lowered, trembling with something heavier than doubt, "they'll brand him an enemy of the church." Her gaze darkened. "Maybe it's better if he dies here... but if that happens, none of us will ever see freedom again." She bit her lip, and from the soft break in her flesh, golden blood welled up, slow and luminous. It was not the blood of mortals; no, this was something divine, so pure and intoxicating that if a mortal so much as tasted it, they would call it the nectar of gods. A single drop could lift a man beyond the bounds of mortality, make him feel like his soul had touched the heavens. But there was a price—one cruel and irreversible. If a mortal tasted the blood of a goddess, they would not become divine.

They would become a demon.

BOOM—The realm trembled as two impossible forces collided again and again; explosions of pressure tore through the sky, and shockwaves split the earth as Sylvaris's blade clashed with the monster's claws. His body was soaked in blood, torn and broken in too many places to count, but he moved still, faster than pain, relentless in his pursuit of something he could barely reach. The monster, for all its overwhelming power, had only suffered minor wounds—faint cuts, small burns, nothing fatal. Sylvaris struck again, and again, his blade dancing in his hand like it belonged to a god, his movements a symphony of violence and desperation, but the force behind the beast seemed endless, divine in scale, and unless something—anything—answered him, there would be no breaking through. There would be no victory.

"Maybe death is not as bad as I think," Valoria whispered, watching it all unfold from her throne of light. "At least that way, I'll be free... and my sisters might still have a chance." Her words were soft, but her eyes blazed like sacred gems, locked on the figure below—on the man fighting with everything, a man who carried the weight of a world that had long abandoned him.

In her eyes, he wasn't a hero. He wasn't a villain. Not even an anti-hero. He was just a man who wanted to live, to breathe, to laugh and take what the world never gave him. And if the people feared him for that, if they called him evil for refusing to kneel, then perhaps it was they who had failed. She could already see it in his movements, in his raw, unyielding resolve—he would one day turn against this world. Maybe he would become a force of destruction. Maybe he would shatter the divine balance, tear the gods from their thrones, and drown heaven in blood. But even so... even so, she did not fear him.

At least then, the cycle would end. At least then, they would fall.

Her body began to glow; white and gold light enveloped her form, pure and defiant. The foreign power that had seeped into her realm—the force that had wrapped around the monster and threatened Sylvaris—began to freeze. It hesitated. And then, as Valoria reached out and cast it away with the last of her strength, it was pushed out of the realm. But just before it vanished, a retaliatory strike descended. A divine punishment. A golden thunderbolt fell from the heavens like a divine executioner's blade, piercing straight through her chest, burning her insides from within and shaking her entire realm to its core.

"I'm dying," she whispered. Her voice was soft, but her eyes never left Sylvaris.

And below, in the battlefield soaked in chaos, Sylvaris felt it. His instincts flared, and he knew—the power that had protected the monster was gone. His eyes ignited, blazing with new light. With everything he had left, he let his aura surge. Darkness, light, and divine lust spiraled around him, merging into one final, all-consuming force. He poured it all into his sword, every drop of mana, every ounce of fury, and with a cry that split the air, he released it.

The world lit up.

Three colors flashed across the sky—white, black, and crimson—twisting into a divine bolt of lightning that screamed through the heavens and crashed into the monster. The explosion that followed devoured everything; there was no resistance. Flesh, bone, and blood tore apart in an instant as the beast was shattered into oblivion, its howl lost in the roar of god-killing power.