Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

"H-Hello," Faylira said softly.

For someone as arrogant and playful as her — a proud fox who normally flaunted every step and flick of her tails — this shift was nothing short of a miracle. Today, there was no teasing, no smirks, no sly remarks.

Today, she stood still. Her hands clutched her tails like a shy girl clinging to a curtain, half-hiding her face behind the silken fur. She was meeting her lover's family, and even a warrior like her wasn't immune to that kind of pressure.

There were very few women in the world who wouldn't feel nervous right now.

Beside her, Liraeth was burning so brightly with emotion, one might think she was a blood mage about to cast something catastrophic. Her purple eyes sparkled with some unreadable mix of intensity and pride.

Lilith, as always, remained cold. Indifferent. Her expression unreadable, almost bored, as if meeting the sisters of the man who had ruined her throat just this morning was no more significant than picking out a new pair of gloves.

And then there was Miren.

Poor, awkward Miren.

She didn't know where to look. Her gaze darted everywhere — one moment fixed forward, the next flicking between Sylvaris's sisters, then the women in the group, then back to Sylvaris himself. Her hands fidgeted by her sides, and her breath came in soft, uneven exhales.

This was her first real moment with the group. She hadn't even had time to bond with Sylvaris, not truly. And now… meeting his family? It felt like something more. In her heart, it almost felt like he was proposing. Like being welcomed into this inner circle of his meant more than words could say.

"Pleased to meet you, great sisters. We are Sylvaris's sisters by blood and by heart," Seralyne said with a smile that sparkled like mischief wrapped in class. "If you ever need anything, our house will forever welcome his lovers — at least... we assume all of you are, right?"

She finished with a graceful curtsy — legs crossed just so, dress lifted at the sides like a noble maiden trained from birth. Her knees dipped in perfect greeting, refined and elegant, a gesture born of high-class etiquette from the elite families of Solandis.

The other three sisters followed without missing a beat, each one bowing with their own flair — four radiant girls of noble blood acknowledging the women who had claimed their brother's heart and body.

Liraeth froze for a breath.

"Ah—we, umm... yes... I... I'm Liraeth, pleased to meet you..." she managed, her voice soft as silk unraveling. Her eyes darted downward as she returned the curtsy, hers even more precise, more refined. She moved like someone born in moonlit palaces, someone raised to dance with words and gestures rather than blades.

After all, she was the elite of the elves. A scion of a high-blooded line.

And if her family ever found out where she was right now, what she was doing, who she was sleeping with — war would erupt like a blood moon. Two ancient supernations would rise, one of man and one of elves, and she would be forced to choose a side.

But it seemed she already had. She stood beside Sylvaris. And bowed her head in the name of his family.

Lilith stepped forward next, her expression unreadable. She didn't bow. She didn't curtsy. She simply placed a hand over her chest — the gesture small, but carried with quiet dignity.

"Lilith Amarae," she said evenly, her voice cold but respectful. "I am... his." That was all. No trembling. No flustered blushing. No warmth. Yet somehow, her words carried more finality than any formal bow could.

The air thickened for a moment.

Her black nun's robes shifted in the breeze, but her pink eyes didn't waver. She didn't say she was his lover. She didn't say what he'd done to her. But the way she said it — the hollow certainty, the resignation carved deep into her voice — made it clear.

She belonged to him now. Whether by force, fate, or something darker.

Then came Faylira. Poor, fidgety Faylira. She tried. She really tried. Her nine fox tails fluffed out nervously, twitching in panic as she watched the sisters perform their elegant gestures. She stepped forward, cleared her throat — and nearly tripped over her own foot.

"H-hi! I'm Faylira!" she blurted, tail swishing like crazy behind her. "I mean… yes, I'm also—uh—his! But not his-his, like a wife or anything! I mean, not yet! Or maybe—I don't know—look, I just—!"

Sylvaris groaned under his breath. The four sisters giggled. It was infectious — the kind of gentle laughter that didn't mock, just… welcomed. Seralyne even clapped once, delighted by the display.

Faylira finally gave up and just bowed awkwardly, almost smacking her face with her own hair. Her ears drooped low. Her cheeks glowed red. But her smile? Honest. Adorable.

And finally, Miren. She looked like she wanted to disappear.

This wasn't just a greeting to her. This was... everything. She was still new. Still unsure. She hadn't kissed Sylvaris, hadn't touched him like the others, at least, not yet. And now she was being introduced to his family like she belonged?

She didn't know where to put her hands. But after a deep breath, she stepped forward and did something none of them expected.

She knelt.

A simple, sincere kneel — not noble, not magical, not graceful — just a quiet offering of respect. Her head bowed low, her shoulders trembling slightly.

"Thank you for accepting me," she whispered. "Even if I haven't earned it yet." The courtyard went quiet for a moment.

Sylvaris blinked. The sisters looked at one another, and for the first time, even Velmyra's icy expression softened.

Meanwhile, Sylvaris's father, Arathor, strolled out of the manor with his eight wives trailing behind, including Elvanya, Sylvaris's biological mother. The group stopped cold.

There he was. Sylvaris. Surrounded by four stunning women, flanked by his doting sisters, basking in their affection like some divine gigolo.

Eight sets of eyes slowly turned to Arathor.

"How did my son end up just like you...?" Elvanya muttered, staring daggers at her husband.

She didn't know whether to cry, laugh, or pray he'd at least turn evil — anything but a womanizer like his damn father.