Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

He moved like lightning. The movement technique was one of the family's secret leg arts — but none had ever mastered it like Sylvaris and his father. In the blink of an eye, his body vanished. Before the others could even react, Arathor was already standing across the room, clutching his neck. His breath hitched.

In his eyes, Sylvaris wasn't a boy anymore. He was a god of battle in his infancy. A warrior overflowing with terrifying potential. A swordsman whose talent eclipsed even his own.

Arathor was certain — he had been cut. He could feel the sting, the heat, the phantom pain slicing through his neck. And yet… he had moved just in time. Just barely dodged the blow that would have taken his life.

"You…" he rasped, fury rising like a tide of fire. His eyes burned with disbelief — then madness.

All four men moved at once.Arathor and his three sons lunged together, blades flashing, their aura flaring with lethal force — aiming to put Sylvaris down before he grew beyond them.

Sylvaris didn't retreat. He didn't flinch. You want a fight? Fuck it. I'll give you a fight.

His blade ignited — white as moonlight, edged in a creeping veil of black. The two auras intertwined — light and darkness merging in harmony, radiating power that slammed into the room like a god's heartbeat.

It was the first time he'd tapped into his darkness system. And even he didn't know how many bodies would fall before he'd need to flee the kingdom for good.

Then suddenly, Thunderous footsteps, screams, and a blur of color rushed down the hallway.

"STOP!" Lurevia's voice shattered the moment — louder than blades, sharper than steel.

Sylvaris quickly spotted his beloved sister, and something shifted in the room like a cold wind brushing against fire. His golden eyes locked onto her frame the moment she burst in, her voice still hanging in the air like a divine command — and just like that, the clash that was about to erupt crumbled into stillness.

His brothers halted mid-step, steel just inches from the strike, frozen not out of fear, but because her presence didn't allow otherwise. Even Arathor, fists still clenched, his body screaming for violence, found himself hesitating, his foot sliding just a hair off the path forward, caught in the ripple of her voice.

But none of them noticed it. None of them saw the danger that was already blooming in the shadow of Sylvaris's blade.

His sword, still lowered at his side, had begun to pulse faintly — the familiar eerie white glow now veined with something darker, something ancient.

Black tendrils had emerged like living things, four shadowed spikes stretching along the sides of his blade, razor-thin and ghost-quiet. They didn't rattle. They didn't shine. They simply existed, like death waiting beneath the surface.

The moment they had crossed the invisible line, the moment they came any closer with intent to harm — it would've activated.

A silent kill.

This was no flashy sword skill, no thunderous technique to carve through armies — this was something far worse. A gift from the darkness buried deep in his soul. A trick laced with cruelty and precision. [Assassin's Fingers]. One of the deadliest techniques in his Darkness System.

It consumed mana like wildfire, yes, but in return, it gave him the ability to slip into the role of a phantom — one who didn't need to swing wildly, only to wait for his enemies to offer their throats on instinct.

The energy of the skill whispered through his sword like silk cutting bone, shadow crawling into steel, threading through the metal until it became something else entirely. These weren't blades meant for war. These were for executions.

Steel could be blocked. Magic could be countered. But this?

This would've ended them before they even realized he moved.

He stood there in silence, not even breathing hard, and let them believe that the scream of their sister had saved them.

But in his heart, he knew the truth.

They were just one second away from never walking out of this room again.

"What is the meaning of this? Did the entire house decide to make my room the gathering spot?!" Arathor snapped, his disheveled hair whipping behind him like a lion cornered, the tremor in his voice failing to hide the fact that he'd just been backed down in front of his wives and sons. "Scram. All of you. And you, Sylvaris—this is not over. We'll have a talk after this." His tone was cold, unwilling. But what could he do? Kill Sylvaris in front of the family? That wouldn't do. Even a beast knew when to sheath its fangs. Not out of mercy, but politics.

"But father, he—" Lucerian stepped forward, blade half-raised, voice sharpening with righteous accusation, but Arathor didn't let him finish.

"Get out." The words crashed down like stone.

"Leave me alone. And somebody, for the love of the gods, take this messy woman away from my sight."

The sentence sliced through the room sharper than any sword. Aureve froze, her breath caught in her throat, her already-bruised cheek stinging worse now from his words than his fist.

Her teary eyes locked onto her husband, her voice trapped behind clenched teeth. She had always known she was one of many, a name on a list, a body in a bed barely warm enough to remember. But today, today she finally understood something deeper.

There were things in life she had never tasted. Love. Passion. Protection. The feeling of being chosen.

And as that realization clawed through her chest like a scream long held back, a new desire bloomed, slow, wrong, wicked. Desire to feel good. To feel wanted. To feel alive.

And her heart, traitorous and trembling, beat for the one man she should never look at. The one man forbidden to her.

Her gaze drifted toward him, toward Sylvaris.

She shouldn't have looked. But… she did.

Those golden eyes weren't just fierce tonight—they were magnetic. Burning. Dangerous. He didn't look at her like a man sees a burden. He looked at her like a man who would fight for her. Kill for her. Break rules for her.

His black hair hung loose now, the way she liked it—wild and messy, framing his sharp jaw and powerful neck like a portrait of temptation. And his body… built like a warrior god, all broad shoulders and sculpted muscle, towering between her and her pain like a shield she hadn't realized she needed until it stood in front of her.

"Until next time, father..." Sylvaris said coldly, sheathing his blade with a final, sharp click. The sound lingered like a threat.

He turned away without waiting for a reply, walking over to Aureve, still kneeling on the floor, bloody, teary, stunned into silence. His towering frame cast a long shadow across her, and then… his hand reached out.

"Let's go. I'll help you clean up those wounds."

His voice was soft. Gentle. Like a spring breeze after a long winter. It tickled her chest, warm and dangerous. And for the first time, Aureve felt it. The hatred she once held for Sylvaris melting away like snow in the early sun.

She looked up at him, blinking through the haze. That golden gaze. That calm strength. And when she turned to glance at her husband, still standing behind them in silence, her heart shattered clean in two.

She wanted to see a flicker of resistance. Jealousy. Anything. But Arathor didn't even glance her way. His gaze drifted toward the window, empty and dismissive. As if she were nothing.

She was his wife. And yet she felt less than dirt beneath his boot.

Even her own son, Vaelric, said nothing. Pretended he didn't see the bruises. The swelling. The pain etched into her eyes. He was just like his father. A second Arathor. Proud, strong, and blind.

That was the final drop. The water had overflowed.

"...Yeah." Her voice cracked. Barely more than a whisper. "Thank you, Sylvaris. You're such a sweetie." She said it with a soft smile, but her eyes burned. Not with hatred. But with something new. Something dangerous. Something she hadn't felt in years. A woman's fire.

A silent system window shimmered before Sylvaris's eyes:

[Potential Harem Member Unlocked: 10%]

[Love Meter: 2%]

For a moment, he almost flinched. Almost let go of her hand. But then... he grinned. Not outwardly. Just inside — a cold, vicious grin curling at the edge of his mind.

He understood now. How to wound his father deeper than any blade ever could. Not through death. Not through war.

But through seduction. Through conquest. One woman at a time.

It was time to steal the household... starting with its women.