Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

Without wasting any time, Sylvaris made his way toward the nearest inn.

He didn't bother hiding himself. He didn't care if people stared. He walked openly and proudly with two beautiful women clinging to his sides, his presence splitting the street like a hot blade through butter.

Whispers erupted all around him.

"Who the hell is that arrogant prick?"

"Is that... the hero?"

The inn itself reeked of alcohol, stale sweat, greasy food, and the unmistakable filth of too many bodies passing through without care. It wasn't the kind of place nobles visited. It was the kind of place drunk men dragged women to for a rough, forgettable night.

Yet Sylvaris didn't flinch.

He pushed through the creaking door, the eyes of the entire filthy room locking onto him and the two stunning women at his side.

The air turned tense immediately.

"We need a room," Sylvaris said, his voice low and commanding. "The biggest one you have. And now." He didn't waste time haggling or pretending to be polite. He simply dropped a small, heavy bag of gold onto the scarred wooden counter with a dull thud.

The old innkeeper — a grizzled, one-eyed man with a jagged scar running across his blind socket — raised his lone eyebrow slightly.

He wasn't young, and he wasn't weak. The old bastard had seen more blood spilled in back alleys and on battlefields than most men twice his age.

He could tell: The scent of fresh blood still clung faintly to Sylvaris, thick and unmistakable. And so, the innkeeper didn't ask a single question.

"Room fifteen," he said shortly, tossing a rusty iron key across the counter. Liraeth caught it easily, the key cold and rough against her fingers.

The old man shot a warning glare at the men seated nearby, mostly drunks and mercenaries who had started openly ogling the two women.

They quickly dropped their gazes, as if they were innocent.

The old innkeeper knew instinctively — one wrong move, one wrong word — and this young man would paint the floorboards red. One didn't have to be a demon to act like one. When it came to protecting their women, men were often far worse than beasts.

"Thank you," Sylvaris said simply, and then he turned, moving up the rickety wooden stairs, each step groaning under his slow, deliberate weight.

The room they entered was exactly what he expected — a pit of filth. The air was stale and sour, thick with the smell of old socks, spilled ale, and long-dried cum. It was filthy, disgusting, a thousand shades of unsanitary. But Sylvaris didn't care.

In this medieval world, sanitation wasn't a concept that existed, except among the wealthiest elites, and even then, their standards would barely match the cheapest Earth motels he remembered.

Now he truly understood the gulf between worlds.

He set the girls down carefully, then leaned his back against the rough wall, arms crossed casually over his chest.

"Will you be okay...?" Liraeth asked after a long moment, her voice trembling slightly.

Her silver lashes fluttered as she lowered her head, the weight of guilt crushing her shoulders. "After all... You killed five people without listening to the guards... Did we cause problems for you?"

Beside her, Faylira mirrored the same worried expression, her fox ears drooping slightly with the heaviness of her guilt. Even if Sylvaris had already told them they weren't to blame, even if they had defended themselves bravely, the sight of him cutting down men without hesitation, facing the world without blinking, left a deep, twisting feeling in their hearts.

They couldn't shake it off. They felt responsible for dragging him into this storm.

"Come here," Sylvaris said softly, reaching out his hands to them.

They obeyed without hesitation, delicate fingers sliding into his rough palms. Their hips swayed gently as they moved closer, and when they sat beside him, their soft, fragrant hair brushed against his skin, making something deep inside him stir.

He wrapped them both into his arms, pulling them into a fierce, protective embrace.

"I was worried about the two of you," he murmured, his voice low, heavy with the emotion he refused to hide anymore. "If something happened to you... I would never be able to forgive myself."

His hands moved slowly, caressing their slender backs.

"All that matters to me... is that you're safe. Whatever happens after... it doesn't matter even one bit. I'll take care of it. I'll be alright. And so will you."

They leaned into him, their heads resting against his broad shoulders, breathing in his warmth, his strength, his presence.

Sylvaris kissed each of them softly atop their heads, his lips lingering longer than necessary, as if silently swearing he would never let anything tear them away from him.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, Lilith knelt alone in front of the great statue of the God — a towering figure carved from pure marble, simple in design, yet carrying an overwhelming presence of divine judgment.

The heavy doors behind her creaked open.

Several old priests entered, their aged forms wrapped in voluminous white and gold robes, the sigils of the Holy Church gleaming over their chests.

Their steps were slow, deliberate, their power undeniable — the full weight of the Church marching toward her.

"Sister Lilith," one of them spoke coldly, his voice like a hammer striking iron. "We have heard the reports... You stepped beyond your authority! You questioned the Hero without permission! And you also defied sacred law!"

In his gnarled hand he carried a heavy wooden staff, striking it once against the marble floor with a deafening crack, like a judge's gavel calling for execution.

Lilith did not move. She did not speak.

She remained kneeling before the god, her hands folded in prayer, her head bowed low, ignoring their presence completely.

"As arrogant as always," the old priest sneered, his patience crumbling. "Very well."

He raised his staff once more.

"From this day forth, Lilith Amarae is stripped of her sacred duties. You are hereby sentenced to serve Sylvaris Elyndor as his personal priestess. You are banished from the Church until the day you earn his approval! You will accompany him to the capital city and deliver the Church's stance to the King himself... Should you fail in this task... You will be forever exiled. You will be hunted down, and you will be deemed a heretic. Am I clear?"

The declaration echoed through the sacred hall.

Yet still, Lilith said nothing. She simply rose to her feet, her pink eyes cold and unreadable as she walked past them — silent, holy, and unstoppable.

The old priests watched her go with bitterness burning in their throats.

Good riddance, they thought. With that bitch gone, the young nuns would finally be theirs again. This place would return to the hidden brothel it was always meant to be.

Lilith's steps echoed down the marble corridors, out into the chill of the night. Her holy aura blazed like silver fire, lighting the darkened streets.

After a long walk, she stopped before the battered, filthy inn where Sylvaris now stayed — her pink eyes reflecting the swirling lights of the sleeping city.

"What an interesting twist of fate..." she murmured. And the faintest ghost of a smile curved her lips.