Demonic Dragon: Harem System

Diana staggered back a step, as if struck by an invisible blow. Her previously animated face was now filled with a mixture of disbelief and fear.

"Dragons...?" she repeated, almost without a voice. "No... it's not possible. Vorah has magical walls, sentry towers, air defenses—"

Strax interrupted, his voice as sharp as a blade fresh from the forge:

"And none of them are any use when the protectors themselves are dead. Or have been bought. Or have simply fled."

Diana brought one hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with genuine shock. For the first time in a long time, she looked small — stripped of her flourishes and sarcasm.

"I didn't feel anything... Nothing! How—"

Strax approached, his presence filling the hall like a living shadow. "That barrier was designed for the palace. Made to blind. To keep you here, playing with dollhouses while the world outside bled."

She looked around, as if the palace itself could give her answers. But there was only silence—the cruel kind that screams too many truths.

"So... everyone...?"

"Vorah fell less than a few hours ago," Strax replied, his voice steady, as if reciting an epitaph. "And I only arrived in time to see the buildings destroyed. The central palace? Reduced to ashes. The market? A field of bones. The gates were knocked down like wet paper."

Diana turned slowly, staring into the darkness of the hallway behind her. This was not just a mansion. It was her home, her kingdom — her gilded prison. And now, she knew, it was also her illusion.

"This doesn't make sense," she whispered. 'I would have felt it. I am connected to this place. The magic... the blood... everything. It's not possible that I was so oblivious.'

Strax sighed with contained anger. 'They came prepared.'

She clenched her fists, her wounded pride burning hotter than any flame. "Sons of bitches."

Strax turned toward the main staircase, his voice heavy with urgency.

"Now listen to me carefully. We have little time."

Diana straightened her posture, and the change was instantaneous—the veil of theatrical nobility gave way to pure determination. Her aura hardened like steel being forged.

"I'm listening."

"Gather all the remaining knights at the Vorah Academy," he ordered firmly. 'We need military force on the streets immediately. Organize platoons to aid the wounded and rescue those trapped in the rubble. Many buildings have collapsed. Many people are buried.'

He turned away, already walking away, but his voice still cut through the air like a war command.

"And send reinforcements to the city limits. If there is another attack, Vorah cannot hold out alone."

Diana was already moving before Strax had finished speaking, firing orders into the corridors like a bolt of pure command. But he did not stay to see the execution.

He turned without another word and crossed the palace steps like a silent gale.

The air seemed heavier now. More real. As if the world outside was about to swallow it all—that false calm, that palace of illusions.

As he stepped through the great gates, Strax smelled the burning city on the horizon. Even with the barrier surrounding the mansion, its mana had already spread beyond its limits, and he knew exactly where the pockets of chaos were.

He took a deep breath, tasting the bitter flavor of responsibility.

And then, with a roar of raw energy, he released his wings.

They exploded from his back with a sharp crack—long, black as night, with scarlet veins now pulsing even more intensely. The aura around him trembled, making the air hiss. Gravity itself seemed to hesitate for an instant.

He crouched for just a second—a muscle tensing before a jump—and then he took off.

The ground cracked beneath his feet.

The world below became a blur.

Strax cut through the skies like a comet of shadows, a black flash streaking across the pale blue sky of the devastated morning. Clouds split apart in his path. The wind whistled like a war song around him. And below him, Vorah began to show its scars.

Towers destroyed. Entire districts covered in dust and debris. Bodies—some covered, others still waiting for help. The trail of the dragons' attack was an open wound, and the city bled in silence.

Strax gritted his teeth. This wasn't just destruction—it was a message.

And someone would have to answer it.

He dove.

His body shot through the sky like a divine spear, and when his boots touched the ground again, he was in the center of Vorah's main square—where once there had been a fountain, now reduced to broken stones and dried blood.

Civilians looked up, some still stunned, others already screaming for help.

Strax rose amid the smoke, his presence bursting forth like a beacon of order. His wings retracted, and his eyes scanned the surroundings with surgical precision.

He raised his voice, deep and commanding, resounding like controlled thunder.

"Everyone who can move, form lines and start digging through the rubble! Injured first. Children and the elderly to safety. The knights of the Academy are on their way. Until then... you have me."

The people looked. Some feared. Others were filled with hope. But all obeyed.

Strax took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing.

The war was not over. It was just beginning....

...

[RED SEA — ICE PALACE, COAST OF NARVA]

The sound of the waves was muffled.

The Red Sea, despite its name, was covered in blue mists and icy winds that cut like razors. There, at the northern tip of the continent, stood the translucent towers of a palace carved entirely from living ice — a magical material as ancient as the gods themselves.

The palace pulsed. Like a frozen heart.

And at its center, beneath a sparkling dome that hung like the interior of a crystal cathedral, Albert Vorah stood in silence.

His long cloak — black with gold and red details — swayed slightly with the air currents, but his posture was as firm as a statue carved by time. His eyes, blue and relentless, stared at the figure before him with an expression difficult to decipher: neither hostility nor reverence. Just... calculation.

She, the woman who met his gaze, was no ordinary woman.

Her skin had the soft tone of a full moon, almost translucent. Her silver hair fell to her waist in flawless waves, floating as if submerged in invisible water. Her eyes were oceanic abysses—no pupils, only mirrors of ancient tides.

Thalyss, sovereign of the Submerged Empire. Called by the ancients "Mother of the Currents," and by her enemies "The Drowned Queen."

She sat on a throne made of petrified shells and black coral, molded under magical pressure from the bottom of the ocean. Her presence was elegant, but the air around her was saturated with primitive magic — wild and cold.

"You are late," she said, without raising her voice, but causing the surrounding walls to vibrate slightly. "I expected more punctuality from the 'Lord of Vorah.'"

Albert remained impassive. His gaze remained fixed on her, but his voice was low, controlled like the edge of a blade being unsheathed. "For someone asking for help, you should learn a little about manners, old woman."