Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

There were a total of five thugs in the narrow alley. Four of them were still trapped inside Liraeth's time prison, though it wasn't nearly as powerful as the one she had used on Sylvaris before. This one was more like a basic containment skill — it drained far less mana but was perfect for trash like this.

As for the fifth man lying unconscious on the ground... well, he had been treated to Faylira's raw fury. Her fists and claws had rained down on him without mercy, one brutal kick even landing squarely on his balls, almost crushing them completely.

The reason for all this? Simple.

Faylira and Liraeth were exotic girls — rare and valuable — and their price on the black markets was high. In big cities like this, women like them went missing all the time, stolen off the streets and sold into slavery without anyone ever catching the culprits.

But today, these bastards had run into an iron wall. Two powerful girls who didn't lose to Sylvaris in strength — and who didn't forgive scum like them.

"What is going on here? What is the meaning of this disturbance?!"

A harsh voice barked from the alley entrance before Sylvaris could move to deliver his own brutal judgment.

The crowd parted, and a squad of city guards pushed through, weapons raised high, faces set in grim lines.

Their eyes immediately locked onto Sylvaris — the man standing there with a sword already drawn, facing a pile of prisoners frozen in magical chains, with one body seemingly already dead at his feet.

"Halt your steps! Put that weapon down!" the guard captain shouted, voice cutting through the rising tension like a blade.

The crowd leaned in closer, whispers starting to ripple through them like wildfire.

"The guards are here, Sylvaris. We can leave them to the guards now. Let's go," Liraeth whispered, pulling gently at his arm.

But to her surprise, Sylvaris's steps did not halt.

He moved forward, slow and deliberate, his white sword gleaming under the broken shafts of sunlight that barely reached into the alley.

"What do you think you're doing?! We said stop!"

The guards rushed toward him, their weapons raised high.

And then Sylvaris's cold golden eyes landed on them.

In an instant, their steps faltered. Their bodies locked stiff. Their palms slicked with cold sweat.

He hadn't used a single skill — no magic, no abilities — just the weight of his killing intent alone froze them all in place.

They could feel it.

One more step... and they would die.

But they were guards. They had a duty. They had orders.

Yet standing before them now was no normal man.

They stood in front of a reaper — a force of nature — a god who had decided to deliver judgment with his own hands.

"These idiots attacked my women," Sylvaris said, his voice low and sharp enough to carve flesh."They tried to kidnap them. Where were you then, guards? How come you only show up now, swinging your swords, pretending to be justice?"

He took another step forward. The light of his blade shimmered across the faces of the trembling men.

"It's too late. I, Sylvaris Elyndor, will bring my own judgment on them. And who among you dares to stop me?"

His voice rolled through the alley like thunder, shaking the very ground.

"This is how I treat those who dare to lay a hand on what is mine," he continued, eyes burning with merciless light. "Let this be a message to all — if you have itchy fingers, prepare to lose more than your hands."

Behind him, Faylira and Liraeth's hearts skipped a beat.

To them, his words were not threats.They were declarations.Proclamations of love.A promise to the world that he would face heaven and earth alike for their sake.

And somewhere beyond the frozen crowd, a woman watched from the shadows.

Her fingers brushed lightly over her own hip as she stared at the man causing such chaos — her breath quickening, runes faintly swirling around her as hidden arcane energies awakened inside her skin.

"So you're here…" she murmured under her breath, her voice low, almost trembling with something deeper than mere curiosity. "I wonder... if you will think of me the same way someday..."

The words faded into the noise of the gathering crowd as she turned and slipped away — disappearing before Sylvaris could sense her presence.

But fate had already begun to weave their strings together.

And soon, very soon, he would cross paths with her again.

The crowd and the guards sucked in cold air as the blade flashed.

Crimson blood sprayed into the air, catching the sunlight like falling rubies, and before anyone could react, the sword moved again — a smooth, ruthless arc toward the thug lying helpless on the ground.

Five thugs.

Five dead.

There was no hesitation in Sylvaris's blade.No mercy.No apology.

The name Sylvaris Elyndor was already known across cities and kingdoms — the great hero prodigy, the one destined to save the world — yet here he stood, his white sword dripping with blood, acting like a savage who had never heard of "law" or "order."

Some in the crowd admired him instantly.

It took courage to go against the system, to defy the rigid peace and bring true justice upon the scum of the world.

But others, watching with pale faces, condemned him as reckless, unstable — a bloodthirsty danger to the very people he was supposed to protect.

Yet none of them understood.

Sylvaris had not killed to deliver justice.

He killed because he was possessive.Because he could not — and would not — tolerate anyone daring to lay a single finger on what was his.Even if his women could defend themselves, even if they were never truly in danger — the mere attempt was enough to seal their fate.

For Sylvaris Elyndor, love was blood and wrath stitched into one.

"You—" one of the guards stammered, his voice cracking as he stepped forward — but the words choked in his throat.

Five heads rolled lazily across the cobbled ground, painting wet trails through the dust.

The guards stood frozen, paralyzed.

Do they arrest him?Do they try to stop the hero the world had placed its hopes on?Do they dare point their blades at the storm?

The tension hung so thick in the alley it seemed to choke the very air.

Sylvaris stood at the center of it all, his golden eyes cold and unrepentant, his body relaxed but ready, his bloodstained sword still dripping steadily onto the stones.

He would not be arrested.

He would not bow.

Even if he had to carve his way through every man here — even if he had to tear the city apart stone by stone — Sylvaris Elyndor would not kneel to anyone.