Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

"I don't care what you think. Do I look like a fucking demon to you?" Arathor snapped, his voice booming like thunder barely held back by skin. His fingers curled into a fist, trembling, massive, and dangerous.

He was just about to strike Sylvaris's mother. Once again. Then, without a word, Aureve stepped forward. His second wife. The one who always lingered at the edge of storms.

She caught his wrist.

"Darling, calm down," she said softly — too softly — her voice the only shield between wrath and disaster. "Sister didn't mean anything by it... right, Elvanya?"

Her eyes screamed louder than her words.

Say something. Apologize. Save yourself. Before it's too late.

Because Arathor had a temper that no crown could contain. He'd burned generals for lesser slights. And every time that fury rose, it came with the same excuse:

Sylvaris.

He blamed that boy for everything. For the weight in his chest. For the cracks in his legacy. For the feeling that one day… his blood would betray him. That his son would snap and slaughter everything in existence. He hated Sylvaris for it.

But gods help him… He loved him too. And that contradiction was the curse. Because no matter how many times he tried, no matter how high his hand rose, it never came down. Not fully.

And as long as he still loved that boy, Arathor Elyndor knew one truth:

His life would never be normal. Not with that son still walking the earth.

"Aureve. With me." Arathor's voice rang sharp and final.

"The rest of you — scram. I don't care what you do. Piss off and stay the hell out of my sight." His fury was coiled tight, not from anything they did — but from what he couldn't do.

He wanted to greet his son. To say something. Anything. But the words wouldn't come. The shame, the pride, the hate tangled in his throat like barbed wire — so instead, he snapped, lashing out at those closest just to bleed off heat.

Not far away, Sylvaris stood in the courtyard, half-listening as his women chatted and laughed with his sisters. Their voices rose like soft petals on the breeze — light, innocent, blissfully unaware.

But he wasn't laughing. He turned, eyes narrowing, and caught sight of them.

His father. The eight wives. The twisted pantheon of his childhood. They stood outside the manor now, cloaked in silence, staring at him.

Most of them looked away. A few met his gaze — cold, distant, practiced. But not all. Some eyes flickered. Some held guilt. Others... conflict.

And Arathor, that bastard, didn't flinch.

He stared at Sylvaris like a king watches a rising rival — one he helped shape, one he might one day have to kill.

Sylvaris's hand drifted to his sword hilt. Just a touch. Not a threat. Not yet. But a promise. If that man ever struck his mother, or any of his step-mothers again… he'd cross the line.

And Sylvaris would make damn sure he never crossed back.

"I'm sorry," Sylvaris said quietly, stepping away from the group. "I need to say hello to the old man." His tone was calm, but there was a storm behind his golden eyes.

Liraeth instinctively reached for him — but his sisters stopped her.

Gently. Wordlessly. Their hands on hers were soft, but their expressions were not — Sad. Knowing.

They would explain. They would tell his women that Sylvaris was not welcomed here. Not by most. Not by the ones who should have loved him.

He was feared. Hated. Cast aside. And no one ever told him why. It was an adult secret.

From a distance, Elvanya watched him approach.

"My boy..." she whispered.

There was love in her voice — real, aching love — but also terror. The kind that mothers have when they believe the world will devour their sons before they ever learn how to fight back.

She didn't want him to suffer anymore.

She wanted it to end.

And in her heart, twisted by fear, poisoned by prophecy, she thought it might be better if he just… died. Before the darkness inside him rose again. Before he became the enemy of the world.

What she didn't know?

That was exactly what Sylvaris wanted.

She turned away. Didn't say a word. Didn't meet his eyes. And the other wives followed her, each casting their own shade of hatred as they passed him — like ghosts of a family he was never part of.

He stood there for a moment. Silent. Then exhaled sharply. And walked toward the manor. He had a bad feeling.

Sylvaris moved through the halls quickly, past marble pillars and golden sconces, until he reached the far corridor — the one they never spoke about.

The private study... His father's den of silence and violence.

He approached the door. Carefully peeked inside. And saw it.

There she was, Aureve, kneeling on the ground, blood trailing from the corner of her mouth. One cheek cradled in her hand, already swelling. Her eyes wide.

And Arathor, standing over her, knuckles red, chest heaving. Ready to strike again.

But then, the cold voice broke the moment.

"Aren't you getting a little too aggressive lately, old man?" Sylvaris drawled from the doorway, one hand resting on his sword hilt. "How about I send you to the grave, so you can finally lay all your little worries to rest?"

Arathor stiffened.

"Or maybe you're ready to finally kill me, like you've always wanted to. But what's the point of lashing out at poor Auntie over there?"

He nodded at Aureve, still crouched, frozen.

"She didn't do anything wrong. Unless, of course… she bruised your ego. Or worse — maybe she reminded you that you're not even man enough to get hard anymore."

The words struck harder than any blade. Vile. Merciless. Beautiful.

Aureve gasped, her breath catching in her throat.

Not in fear. But in shock. In something else. Something darker. Her stepson stood there, lean, deadly, divine, like a devil-knight carved from shadow and wrath. And somehow, her heart pounded. She couldn't understand why.

But she didn't look away.

"Sylvaris..." Arathor growled, voice low and rumbling like an earthquake about to break. But his son didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't care.

He just leaned against the frame, eyes locked on his father's, ready to draw steel if that bastard so much as twitched.

And Aureve realized something in that silence. She had never seen a man fight for her before. Not like this. Not like him.