Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

She came into view the moment Sylvaris stepped down from the slave tamer's carriage.

He didn't spare a single glance at the merchant. Never asked his name. Never cared to. The only thing that mattered now... was her.

He hadn't known why he felt the pull. Why his eyes had locked onto her among dozens. But now, as she stepped forward, cloaked in the soft shimmer of a flawless blue dress, silk so fine it clung to her like water, sculpted to her curves like it was born with her, his breath caught.

His heart skipped.

She was beautiful. But more than that, she was perfect. Like an empress carved from frost and starlight. Cold, untouchable, regal. A woman who didn't belong in chains.

"Amazing, isn't she?" the merchant beamed, rushing to the girl's side like a man presenting treasure to a king.

His hands roamed over her body—greedy, possessive, but careful. He didn't dare touch anything too intimate. Not with Sylvaris watching. Not unless he wanted to lose those fingers.

Her wrists were still bound in delicate-looking cuffs, a final humiliation that clashed with the majesty of her presence.

Then, from his pocket, the merchant pulled out a key.

It shimmered like crystal—transparent and flawless—but Sylvaris could feel the weight of it just by looking. It wasn't fragile. No. This thing could twist through steel without so much as a scratch. It radiated something absolute.

"Here!" the merchant said, tossing the key through the air.

Sylvaris caught it without even looking.

"She's all yours now. If you want, you can place a slave imprint—right here." He pressed his pudgy finger against the center of her chest, just above the swell of her D-cup breasts, where the silk dipped to reveal a sliver of bare skin.

Sylvaris didn't even glance at the spot.

"I'll think about it," he said calmly. "Depends on how she behaves."

His gaze never left hers.

And neither did hers.

They stared at one another in silence, something unspoken threading between them—curiosity, caution... maybe something deeper, like an invisible current pulling them closer.

There was no fear in her eyes. No trembling lip or pleading whimper. She looked like a woman who had never cried, never begged, never broken.

And Sylvaris liked that. He liked it a lot in fact.

"Name?" Sylvaris asked casually. There was no command in his voice—just a simple question, calm and quiet.

She said nothing.

She only looked at him. Right into his eyes.

"Talk when your master is speaking to you, you bitch!" the merchant snapped, raising a hand to strike—

SHING.

Sylvaris's blade flashed. One moment, it was nowhere. The next, it rested cold and unshaking against the merchant's fat, sweaty neck.

"I believe she's no longer yours to discipline," Sylvaris said, voice like ice. "Touch her, and it'll be the last time you see your hand attached to your wrist."

The fat man's wrist froze in midair.

Slowly, he pulled it back, eyes locked on Sylvaris—not just with fury, but with something else beneath the surface. Killing intent, yes. But also… respect. He hated being humiliated, despised being made to look weak.

But he loved strong men.

The kind of men you knew to hire when your back was against the wall.

He rubbed his wrist, chuckling, the fat on his cheeks trembling like jelly.

"You're right, young master... she's no longer my merchandise," he said, voice light but tight. "So make sure you teach your slave well. One way or another."

They exchanged a few more brief words, business-like, clipped.

Then Sylvaris turned and walked away.

The girl followed him without a word. She didn't run. She didn't resist. She simply walked behind him, quiet as snowfall, her silk dress flowing like a shadow's whisper.

"Sir, should we follow them? Kill the man, take the woman back?" one of the mercenaries asked once Sylvaris was out of earshot.

The fat man didn't even turn his head.

"No need," he said, voice low but certain. "I like him. He's got big balls. Doesn't fear death. And besides..." he trailed off, glancing toward the path Sylvaris had taken. "None of you would stand a chance against him anyway."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "From the way he moves... I'd say he's at least level 40. Maybe higher."

A cold breath swept through the group.

Level 40 and above—that was no joke. In this region, that meant Rank B adventurers or stronger. Some of the deadliest mercenaries in Narethys barely scraped that level. They were proud of their strength here. Proud of their warriors.

But now and then, someone from beyond their borders would appear. Someone overwhelmingly strong. Someone who shattered the scale. And when that occurred, power balances shifted rapidly—and often in blood.

They had to be careful who they pissed off in this land. Or they'd be paying for it with their lives.

Meanwhile, the duo made their way east, leaving the slave caravan far behind. Sylvaris didn't glance back—not once. He didn't need to.

He could feel her presence behind him. Every step light, measured, unafraid.

If she didn't want to talk, fine. For now. He could wait. But he would get what he wanted from her—sooner or later. He always did. He was, after all, a Harem God Seed, chosen by fate and bound by fire. And within him rested skills, powers that could make any woman kneel, should he will it.

Then, finally—she spoke.

"Master..."

The silence shattered like glass.

Her voice was music.

Not just beautiful, but crafted. Like she'd been carved from divine jade, her every syllable a melody meant for temples and heavens.

"Call me Sylvaris," he said, his tone even. "That's enough for me. And no, I will not brand you as a slave. That's not why I bought you."

His voice held a strange calm. A stillness that hadn't always been there.

Sylvaris, the storm. The firebrand. The arrogant demon-kissed prodigy... now spoke with the quiet weight of a man who had seen too much. Something inside him had shifted—ever since that last battle, the one that should have killed him. His anger had cooled. His mind had sharpened.

Even he wasn't sure who he was becoming anymore. But one thing remained certain. He always got what he wanted.