Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

The tension hung thick in the air — a storm waiting to break. Father and son stood face to face, eyes locked, each daring the other to make the first move. The urge to rip the other's throat out burned behind both their stares.

"Aren't you getting a little too arrogant?" Arathor said, voice cold and low.

He didn't flinch. He'd seen this before — not once, not twice. Every time he hit Sylvaris's mother, the boy would come charging in, ready to throw his life away in some childish duel to the death. And every time, he lost. Spared. Too young. Too weak. And today? In Arathor's heart, there were no exceptions.

"There's so much arrogance in me, you can't even imagine," Sylvaris said, his voice sharp as the edge of a blade. "But Father… a man who raises his hand against women? That's less than scum. Didn't you teach me that when I was a boy? What changed? Got too old? Can't pretend anymore?"

With a cold whisper of steel, his sword left its sheath.

A strange, pale glow shimmered across the blade — unnatural, cold, and bone-deep wrong. It pulsed with quiet menace, and for the first time, something twisted in Arathor's chest. A flicker of unease.

That sword... something about it was different. More dangerous. And Sylvaris — he wasn't the same brat who lost every time. Even in just a week's absence, Arathor could feel it. His son had changed. Not in body. In aura. In kill intent. That blade had tasted blood.

He had heard about the ambush. Cursed the thugs under his breath for failing to kill a single junior. But at the same time… some part of him had been relieved. Maybe the boy would grow stronger. Maybe he'd overcome the darkness slithering through his bloodline.

But now he had returned. Surrounded by women. Bathed in praise. Standing proud with that eerie light dancing across his blade — a light that whispered death.

And a new fear crept into Arathor's mind.

What if he breeds? What if that cursed bloodline spreads? What if his son creates not heroes… but monsters? An army born from darkness. A generation of demons that would raze the world.

Arathor's fists clenched. He had no idea how his own lineage, the line of heroes, had ever produced a child with blood this black.

And now, that child was looking at him like the real monster… was him.

Aureve watched from the side, the weight of the tension crashing onto her like a tidal wave. She had feared Sylvaris, hated him even — or so she told herself. But now… now she wasn't sure. Was this truly the demon they all spoke of in whispers? The boy they believed would one day turn into a world-ending monster? The son cursed with a bloodline too dark to exist?

No. It didn't feel right.

Not anymore.

She remembered the day he came home with the head of that massive bear — barely older than a child back then. He hadn't boasted. Hadn't looked violent. He'd simply giggled. Like a little boy proud of his trophy. Where, in that moment, had they seen the end of the world?

When had they decided to damn him?

And now, as she stood here, watching him step between her and Arathor's wrath — for her — a different question formed in her heart.

Had they all jumped the gun? Condemned a child before he ever had the chance to become a man?

Sylvaris looked so handsome right now.

His tall frame stood like a shield between her and her husband's fury. His sword, eerie and glowing white, should have terrified her — but instead, it felt comforting. Like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

A protector. A shadowed hero.

For a fleeting, forbidden moment, Aureve let the thought slip through her mind: Was this the man who would finally end her suffering?

Not with kisses. Not with love. But with that cold, unyielding blade.

She had spent years trapped in a marriage without warmth. Not one woman in this household was truly happy. Some had married Arathor in their youth, enchanted by his strength, his charm, the image of a future built on glory. But it was all illusion. They had married status. Legacy. And in return, they birthed sons who inherited the same arrogance — sons who never once stood up to the tyrant who raised them.

Except Sylvaris.

Only he ever dared to speak against Arathor. Only he had the spine to call their father what he truly was. And so, no one liked him.

No one, except the sisters who clung to him like he was their sun. And now, for the first time, Aureve began to understand why.

"Draw your blade, old man. Let's take this outside." Sylvaris's voice rang like iron striking steel — cold, sharp, final. "I'll cut off the hand you beat them with. And if you ever raise it again… I'll cut off the other."

"You shouldn't draw your sword so easily, brother. You're a Hero now, not a criminal."The mocking voice drifted down the corridor like a shadow with a smirk — the voice of his eldest brother, Lucerian. It hit Sylvaris like a blade pressed against the nape of his neck — invisible, but unmistakably sharp.

Then came the footsteps.—Clack. Clack. Clack.—Heavy. Confident. Unhurried. And suddenly — steel. Three blades gleamed against Sylvaris's back, cold auras flaring to life like wolves baring their fangs.

"Welcome home, Sylvaris," Vaelric said with that same lazy arrogance he'd always worn like perfume. "It's been a while, hasn't it? Look at you... even look a bit older. Was living without protection that stressful?"

His blade touched Sylvaris's spine — just enough to send a warning. "How about we grab a drink later? Chill a little. Maybe even get a few girls, huh? Let off that edge."

"Brother's just overwhelmed," Caldrion said, his tone softer, but his blade wasn't. It kissed the space right behind Sylvaris's heart — a threat wrapped in sympathy. "As for Father and Auntie… that's between them. You shouldn't interfere. Let it go. If not…" He smiled faintly. "Well, before Father kills you, I might challenge you myself."

Three brothers. Three blades. All pointed at his back. And all of them ready to kill, not for justice, not for honor, but for him. For the tyrant they called Father.

Fucking dogs, Sylvaris thought, jaw tightening. Do they really think I can't take the three of them? Maybe he could. Maybe he'd gut them right here and now. But his eyes flicked toward Aureve — and his rage cracked. Her hands were trembling, tears welling in her eyes. She didn't want blood spilled. Not for her. Not like this.

His grip faltered for a breath. And then he vanished.

In a flicker of light, Sylvaris was no longer between their blades—SWOOSH—By the time they blinked, his blade was already drawn — its eerie white glow a ghost in motion — and it was reaching, silent and swift, for Arathor's throat.