Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. The guard trapped beneath Sylvaris's iron grip was beginning to twitch, his arm going numb, the bones in his wrist bending unnaturally. His breathing turned ragged, shallow gasps spilling from his lips like a man slowly drowning under pressure he had no chance to resist.

"Release this man this instant, or you will suffer the wrath of the Holy Church—whether you are the hero or not!"

The voice came sharp and commanding. And then, as if the gates themselves heard her words, the air shimmered and the massive golden arch of Velithar's entrance rippled like disturbed water. From that ripple stepped out a young woman—no more than nineteen, maybe even eighteen at most—draped in the pristine white robes of a nun. Her hands were clasped in solemn prayer, but her arrival was anything but holy.

Her outfit did little to mask temptation. Only a sliver of skin was shown—just her tanned, mouth-watering thighs—and yet that glimpse alone could bend the will of lesser men. None dared even think of lusting after her. Not the guards. Not the crowd. No one.

No one but Sylvaris.

His gaze swept over her like a painter studying a masterpiece. He drank in every inch of her, his eyes locking on her curves with a hunger that only deepened the longer he looked. She was built like a goddess sculpted from flesh—firm, yet delicate in all the right places. Her skin looked warm to the touch, her body tight and tempting, with thighs thick enough to crush skulls and hips wide enough to cradle new life. A body screaming fertility. A body begging to be defiled. Her lips were plush and ripe, a sinful red that made his cock twitch just imagining them wrapped around him. Her hair was gold—like fallen sunlight—and her eyes, those glowing pink orbs, radiated the allure of a succubus disguised as a saint.

On a scale of one to ten, she shattered the scale. Twelve? Fifteen? Maybe more.

What a treasure trove... So sacred... So untouchable to mortals… but not to me, Sylvaris thought, a wicked smile crawling across his face.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed the only flaw—her chest. Modest at best, maybe a B or a C cup. A shame, truly. A small thorn on an otherwise flawless rose. Sylvaris was a spoiled beast, too spoiled by the Author... After all—Faylira, Liraeth—they were stacked like heaven made titflesh a divine requirement. But even this disappointment didn't faze him; Nyasha was the perfect example. Sometimes, a fat ass is all a man needs, he mused, licking his lips internally. And hers was sculpted like a fucking weapon. And this woman was the perfect new toy to add to his collection.

He wanted her already.

"And you are?" Sylvaris asked, his smirk dark and dripping with intent.

Her face didn't flinch. In fact, she made no effort to hide the way she looked at him—like he was filth caked onto the bottom of her holy sandals. Disgust curled her lip. The audacity. Even for a nun.

The fuck? Sylvaris blinked, stunned for a moment. That expression? That open contempt? That's new.

It ignited something vicious inside him. Desire bloomed like wildfire. No woman had ever looked at him like that—like he wasn't worth a second glance. He felt the primal heat in his chest grow. His body tightened. You'll grab the sheets and scream when I fuck you. Just wait.

"I am the Head Nun of the Holy Church, Lilith Amarae," she declared, her voice sharp, clear, and laced with judgment. "At your service, young hero. But I must ask again—release that guard. This is no way for a respected hero to act. You should be using your power against the demon lord's forces, not turning it against your own people. This conduct is unacceptable. And know this—if you persist, the Holy Church will demand penance. You, and your… friends."

That last word dripped from her lips like poison.

Her eyes scanned Liraeth and Faylira with scorn, their scantily clad bodies drawing a visible sneer to her face. She didn't even hide it—pure, holy revulsion.

Cheap sluts, she thought. How dare the chosen hero defile himself with such indecency?

In her mind, she was already raging. This will not do. This man must be disciplined, corrected. I will mold him myself if I must. By force or faith, I will cleanse him of this filth. I swear it on the Goddess.

"The church is overstepping their boundaries." Sylvaris's voice rumbled low, almost casual. "While we didn't do anything wrong, you're the ones poking at me. Testing my patience. Tell me—am I wrong?"

His eyes scanned the crowd, sharp as a predator's. His grip on the guard hadn't loosened in the slightest, the man still trembling under his iron grasp. "Everyone saw this bastard throw the first punch, didn't they?"

The other guards froze in place, sweat dripping down their necks. The onlookers held their breath. This wasn't just some scuffle anymore—it was a line in the sand. Pick a side, or die in the middle.

If they sided with the church and angered the hero? They'd be gambling with the wrath of an entire kingdom—worse yet, with his. But if they sided with the hero? Worst case, they'd get a slap on the wrist from some priest, maybe be forced to chant prayers for a week.

Their choice was already made.

"Yes!" someone finally screamed from the crowd. "That arrogant guard attacked the hero and his party for no damn reason! It was personal! Not protocol!"

"Damn right!" another voice echoed. "If anyone deserves discipline, it's him! What kind of guards protect the people with hearts that rotten? If they treat heroes this way, what chance do we regular folk have?"

"Yeah! We saw it, right? We all saw it!"

The crowd erupted. Voices surged like a crashing wave, all shouting in unison, rallying behind Sylvaris as if he were already their king. Even the guards who had stayed silent now stepped forward, offering hasty support to save their own necks.

The head guard swallowed thickly and stepped up, his eyes locked on the furious nun in front of him. "Y-Your Holiness… please forgive this unfortunate misunderstanding." His voice cracked with fear. "This man acted without orders. The hero did nothing wrong. We'll handle the punishment. We ask that the Holy Church let this matter… pass."

But his eyes kept twitching to Sylvaris. It wasn't the church that truly terrified him. It was that thing behind Sylvaris's gaze—a storm, a beast barely leashed. He had no doubt that if this young man grew into the power he clearly aimed for, he'd burn this city to ashes without hesitation. And gods help them all—he wanted him to.

Lilith's face darkened. Her pride stung, her plans crumbling under the roar of the crowd. She'd expected to dominate this encounter, to leash the so-called hero like a scolded pet. But now?

Now she was the one with her back against the wall.

Her nails dug into her palms through the gloves of her holy attire. But her mind was already racing, molding a new tactic from the rubble of the failed one. She couldn't overpower him—not yet. But she could still influence him.

Her lips curved into a deceptively soft smile.

"Fine…" Her voice oozed false grace, masking the venom beneath. "Come in, honorable hero. The city welcomes you with open arms. But…" she lingered, her pink eyes narrowing like a predator sizing up prey. "You are still summoned by the Holy Church. We will await you tomorrow… for a friendly little chat."