Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

Sylvaris lay there on the bed, utterly exposed, his body still hard from their teasing. The maids hesitated for a brief moment, their hands trembling, before forcing themselves to act professional, though their gazes lingered longer than propriety allowed. They pulled soft, dark pajama pants up his muscular legs, their fingers brushing against his thighs with hesitant, almost reverent touches. One of them, despite herself, accidentally grazed his semi-hard cock, and Sylvaris felt it twitch violently at the contact.

He clenched his jaw but said nothing, determined to keep his respect for Klaus intact, even when he caught one of the maids biting her lip, her brown eyes glued shamelessly to his pride and joy, her chest rising and falling faster with every shallow breath. If she had been given permission, she would have already thrown herself onto him, devouring and riding him without a shred of shame until nightfall, or perhaps even until the next morning.

You better be grateful, old man, he thought dryly, smirking faintly to himself.

Finally dressed, if barely, Sylvaris stood and stretched lazily, his movements unhurried and powerful. The girls clung shyly to his sides, their cheeks burning crimson, their eyes darting everywhere but meeting no one's gaze.

Downstairs, Klaus waited behind the polished counter of the tailor shop, pipe smoke curling lazily above his head as he rocked back and forth in his chair. The moment he caught sight of them, he barked out a sharp, amused laugh.

"What's the matter, big bad hero? Afraid of a few soft little hands?"

Sylvaris shot him a deadpan look. "Keep laughing, old man. One day, you're going to pay for this."

Klaus only grinned wider, his teeth flashing behind his bushy beard. "Good. Life's boring without a little chaos."

Sylvaris smirked slightly, already plotting ten different ways to make the old man regret today's humiliation, but for now, he said nothing and simply accepted it.

Klaus tapped a thick roll of parchment against the counter, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

"Here's the drafts for your clothes. Traveling outfits, strong, light, flexible. System-imbued, of course. Added a small blessing of durability. Shouldn't tear so easily during fights..." He winked wickedly. "...or during other activities."

Both girls flushed deep red, Faylira hiding her face against Sylvaris's shoulder while Liraeth coughed softly, her ears burning.

Klaus chuckled, his shoulders shaking slightly with mirth, and leaned back into his chair with a long, satisfied puff of his pipe. "After today, you'll need to meet with the leader of the holy church. Thanks to your... enthusiastic activities last night, rumors are flying across the city. Some say you're a hero blessed by the fertility gods. Others think you're a lost heir of some ancient beast god." He puffed his pipe lazily. "Either way... people are curious. And curiosity, as you know, can be dangerous."

Sylvaris only shrugged, wrapping an arm around each girl's waist without hesitation. "Let's go. We have to try these clothes on first."

"The maids will finish all the bonus sewing in the back room. Tell them if you want any enhancements based on your skills," Klaus said as he waved them off with a flick of his hand, tapping his empty pipe thoughtfully before reaching for a pouch of elven tobacco. He began cleaning the bowl slowly, humming under his breath, already losing himself in his own little world.

Time passed slowly, measured only by the distant sounds of sewing needles and murmured instructions. After nearly an hour, the heavy double doors of the fitting room swung open, and Sylvaris stepped through like a force of nature, carved into white and gold.

The fur mantle draped across his broad shoulders shimmered under the torchlight, each thick strand gleaming like winter's first untouched snow. His white shirt clung perfectly to the ridges of his chest and abs, with several buttons undone, offering sinful glimpses of flawless skin that seemed sculpted by the gods themselves. Black pants hugged the powerful lines of his legs, the fabric straining lightly over thighs built for dominance and destruction, while knee-high black boots struck the polished floor with a slow, heavy rhythm that seemed to echo in the stunned silence around him.

At his hip, a white sword hilt gleamed like a shard of divine judgment, secured by a black leather belt stitched with silver dragons, each thread whispering of ancient power and deadly grace. Golden eyes burned beneath the shadow of his messy black hair, a wild, arrogant beauty crowned by chaos and fire.

He wasn't beautiful in the way of a delicate prince. He was a wolf dressed in angel's robes, a killer hidden within purity, a god walking among mortals, and every woman in the room felt it, a tremor running down their spines, an ache blooming low in their bodies. One could be as pretty as a goddess... and still crush the world beneath their hands.

Liraeth stood silently by Sylvaris's side, yet no eye could ignore her presence.

The violet corset top hugged her chest tightly, lifting the heavy swell of her E-cup breasts until they bounced softly with every shallow breath. Fine silver threading traced her curves like spells etched into flesh, glinting under the shifting light, weaving her body into something more magical than mortal.

Beneath the corset, a thin silver undershirt clung to her pale skin, enough to tease without satisfying, a promise glimpsed but never given.

Her purple eyes gleamed from under a soft hood, framed by a cascade of long silver hair, braided loosely on one side and flowing like molten moonlight down her back. A short cloak pinned with Sylvaris's crest fastened over her shoulders, marking her proudly as his — no longer a distant, untouchable elf, but a sorceress bound by will and choice to her master.

Her high-slit skirt flashed powerful thighs with every step, and the rune-etched thigh boots she wore marked her movements with silent, deadly elegance.

She was not merely beautiful. She was a living spell, soft yet unbreakable, tamed but never truly conquered, a breathing testament to Sylvaris's overwhelming strength.

Faylira's entrance was softer, quieter — but the moment she stepped forward, the air itself seemed to still.

Her green and white battle dress swirled around her slim waist and hips, the split skirt flaring with each graceful step, revealing tight fighter's shorts and the coiled strength hidden within her lithe legs. The leather corset armor wrapped around her torso, cinching her waist and lifting her F-cup breasts with an almost unintentional allure — as if she was too innocent to notice the blood she set on fire.

Behind her, nine white fox tails tipped in shimmering emerald green danced like silk banners, catching the light with every breath she took. White fox ears, dusted with green at the tips, flicked atop her head, every tiny movement loaded with unconscious seduction.

Her emerald eyes caught the torchlight and gleamed, reflecting a depth of innocence so profound it could make even a seasoned warrior hesitate — yet beneath that, a hunter's patience glowed, waiting for her perfect moment to strike.

Her fingerless gloves exposed deadly nails, ready and lethal, while armored boots grounded her figure in the posture of a born predator — not just a soft fox-girl to be adored, but a savage beauty who could tear steel and bone apart in a single heartbeat.

Faylira was no fragile doll. She was a miracle of flesh and spirit, stitched from blood and dreams, kissed by battle and shaped by desire.

And Sylvaris had claimed her as his own.

Last night, the city heard their moans. Today, it would hear their legend.