Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

The day was unusual, to say the least. The pouring rain showed no signs of stopping, and the water was beginning to flood the forest floor in slow, steady waves. Sylvaris remained exactly where he had been left—slumped beneath a tree, half-submerged in rising cold water, staring blankly ahead as if the world had gone silent. His body was motionless, his breathing shallow, and if he stayed there any longer, the current would swallow him whole. Drowning by laziness—now that would be a fitting end.

"Ahhh... shit... what a pain in the ass this is..." he muttered, voice hoarse and dry, barely louder than the rain around him. "Can't even rest for a few days without this place trying to drown me... really now." He sighed, rubbing the water from his eyes with the back of his hand. "Well, shit... off we go then."

His voice came out weak and bored, drained by the weight of everything he had endured. His legs were numb from sitting too long in the cold, and when he finally shifted, the ache in his muscles felt like knives dragging through his skin. Still, he pushed himself upright with the grace of a half-dead cat, groaning softly as he allowed the gentle pull of the current to carry him forward, drifting like discarded wreckage.

Talk about lazy...

Hi, it's me—your beloved narrator!!! Didn't miss me? Tsk, figures... you heartless heathens. Anyway, our dear Sylvaris has been sitting here like a wet noodle for days now, staring into the distance like some tragic prince with a god complex. His determination comes and goes—like his mood, or the women who fall for him—and honestly... What a sad, fascinating little creature. But whatever. Let's not dwell too long on his melodramatic sulking. This is, after all, the start of Volume Two—yes, another entry in the great, dumb, ridiculous saga that is his existence.

And lucky you, I—the one and only, the best damn narrator in the universe—am still here to guide you through it all. The author can't get rid of me. He's basically my pen-bound slave at this point. HA!

...Ouch! Don't hit me with the pen, you ass! That hurts—fine, fine...

Here it is. The start of Volume Two.

Let the madness continue!

Sylvaris had been drifting with the current for who knows how long now—long enough for the rain to finally stop its relentless downpour, which had lasted the entire day and night. How did he survive that? No one really knows. I suppose fools simply can't die. Ahem.

Eventually, the current gave up on him and left him stranded somewhere deep through the woods and fields, spit out like discarded trash along a narrow dirt road. The sun was out now, scorching and merciless, beating down on him like he was a helpless noodle about to be tossed into one of those quick-prepare ramen cups. Steam might as well have started rising from his skin.

Then came the noise. A faint sound at first, tickling the edge of his hearing—metal, leather, and something else. He turned his head slowly, and the rustling clatter of wooden wheels reached him, followed by the steady, rhythmic thunder of hooves. Horses. Not the lazy kind. These were strong, wild, trained for power, the kind of beasts that knew they owned the road beneath them. The sound approached, louder with every passing second, and Sylvaris remained there, sprawled near the edge of the path, half-dried, half-dead, and entirely not ready for whatever came next.

A wagon came into view, emerging slowly from the bend in the road, and Sylvaris's eyes narrowed as he took it in. The horses pulling the first wagon were nothing like the ones he was used to—massive beasts, at least twice the size of any normal steed, their bodies wrapped in ornate, heavy armor that shimmered beneath the burning sun. They moved with mechanical precision, their hooves pounding the earth like war drums. The convoy stretched far behind them—at least ten wagons in total, moving in an organized line like a mobile fortress on wheels.

And then he saw the cages.

Some of the wagons weren't built to carry goods or supplies—they were meant to carry people. Women, stripped bare, their bodies covered in bruises, dried blood, and the slow-healing cuts of deliberate cruelty. They lay pressed together in silence, lifeless, their eyes hollow, their dignity carved out of them long ago. Over each chest, seared into the flesh just below the collarbone, was a brand—a small, sharp marking burned into their skin: EM.

Most likely slave traders. Not my business... Sylvaris thought to himself as he stood in the shade of the trees, eyes half-lidded, voice inside his mind as indifferent as ever. He wasn't the type to throw himself into the lives of others, especially not strangers. If those women were captured, then it was their own fault—weakness came at a cost.

They should have fought harder, protected themselves better. That was how the world worked. The strong devoured the weak. Mercy was a luxury reserved for fools. With that, he turned to leave, ready to disappear back into the forest without so much as a second glance.

But then his eyes met hers.

One of the women in the cages. Her eyes—bright blue, endless, deeper than oceans and colder than the skies above the highest peaks. Her hair matched, a shade of pure glacial blue that shimmered even beneath layers of dirt and blood, and her face... it was carved from silence and moonlight, hauntingly beautiful.

But it wasn't her beauty that struck him—it was something deeper. Something that didn't come from his eyes at all, but from within. A pull from his very soul screamed at him, warned him: her! She was the one. If he let her pass, if he didn't act now, something in him would tear. The pain would be unbearable. Irreversible.

His body moved before his mind could stop it.

He stepped forward, slipping from the trees like a shadow, eyes locked on the caravan, now following its trail from the forest's edge, hidden, silent, but burning inside with a hunger he didn't understand.

His steps were neither rushed nor lazy; he followed like a shadow, always just out of sight, his presence a whisper against the trees. There was no desperation in his movement, even if something inside him burned with the need to reach her. No, Sylvaris knew better than to draw attention. If he rushed, if he broke from the forest now, it would raise suspicion—and suspicion got people killed.

The sun was already tilting low, brushing the tops of the trees with dying light, and he could feel it in the wind: the convoy would stop soon. No caravan traveled at night unless it had a death wish. And when they did finally settle, that would be his moment. He would make his offer, civil, simple, with coin in hand if needed.

But if they didn't want to talk money... then he'd speak another language: Blood...

Time passed excruciatingly slow in his eyes.

Why am I following them? This makes no sense... What the hell is wrong with me? The thoughts spiraled endlessly, looping over themselves like a knot he couldn't untangle. But... I can't help it. There's something inside me that wants her. Needs her. He didn't know if it was lust or something deeper—something more primal, more instinctual, more fated. It wasn't just sexual, and yet it burned hotter than any desire he'd ever known. And that's what unsettled him most.

This has never happened to me before...

By the time he caught up to the caravan, the sun had already dipped halfway below the horizon, bleeding gold and orange across the sky like an open wound. The camp lay quiet now, tents set, fires flickering low. Only the occasional sharp crack of a whip broke the stillness, followed by muffled screams.

The women were punished like animals for failing to obey the slavers' rules, fed like pigs but treated like property. Yet strangely, the men guarding them didn't leer or touch, didn't indulge in the flesh they hauled across the land.

Whether out of twisted professionalism or fear of whoever they were delivering these women to, they kept their distance. It made sense—each of these women was a rare gem, a beauty worth more than entire kingdoms. And the buyer waiting at the end of this road was likely no ordinary client.

Sylvaris stepped out from the trees, silent and slow.

Instantly, the guards snapped to attention. Weapons drawn. Bows aimed. Blades gleaming. All eyes turned on him in the blink of an eye.

"Whoa now," he said, calm as ever, lifting both hands in the air. "I'm not here to cause problems. I'm here to buy."

For a moment, silence reigned. Then a carriage door creaked open—one far more ornate than the others, decorated in gold trim and velvet curtains—and out stepped a man. Or what was left of one.

He was massive. Not muscular. Bloated. A walking monument to excess, his flesh spilling over his embroidered clothes like melted butter over rotten meat. He waddled forward, his very existence offensive to gravity. Gods only knew how he hadn't yet collapsed under his own weight.

"Fancy doing business with you, young man," the beast crooned, his voice syrupy and wet. "But are you sure you can afford the kind of beauties I offer?"

Then he smiled.

Sylvaris would remember that smile for the rest of his life—not because it was charming, but because it was wrong. The kind of smile that made your skin crawl. Wide. Too wide. Teeth too white. Too forced. Like a pig trying to grin before the butcher's blade falls. There was nothing human behind those eyes. No empathy... No soul...

This man wasn't just a merchant... He was the devil dressed in velvet.