Auctioned by the Gods: Rebirth of the Harem Emperor

The cold of Amara's realm wasn't like winter.It was deeper, older — a chill that slithered under Ren's skin and coiled around his bones, whispering that warmth was a lie he'd once believed in.

He stood on what looked like a barren plain, endless gray stretching under a black sky stitched with thin, trembling stars. Each step sent up little clouds of dust that quickly settled, as if even the ground was too tired to remember being disturbed.

In the distance, mirrors rose like twisted trees. Some were cracked, others pristine. Each caught faint gleams of starlight, throwing back distorted images of Ren: taller, smaller, wearing different expressions. Some smiled cruelly, others wept. One stood completely still, blood dripping from its hands.

"Ren Zian."

Amara's voice floated to him from everywhere and nowhere. It was softer than before, almost gentle — which only made it more terrifying.

"This is the final trial. Not a memory of what you were, nor merely what you feared to become… but what you still might be."

He clenched his fists. "I've made my choices. I won't be twisted by chains or divine games."

A soft laugh answered. "That's what makes this so fascinating. Come, then. Face what still lives inside your shadows."

He stepped forward.The nearest mirror rippled.

Suddenly he was somewhere else.

A grand hall stretched before him, crowded with nobles draped in lavish silks. They bowed low as he passed, fear shining in their jeweled eyes. On either side, armored warriors saluted with blood-streaked gauntlets.

Ren's heart lurched. This felt wrong. Too polished. Too silent.

Then he reached the dais.

There, on a throne carved from dark marble veined with gold, sat a version of himself. Older. Dressed in robes that glittered with tiny stars, a cruel crown heavy on his brow. One hand rested on the armrest, idly turning a soulstone over and over — the soft cries trapped inside echoing faintly.

At his feet knelt Lyra.

Her once-luminous hair was dulled, bound in intricate braids that spoke of ownership, not devotion. Heavy jeweled bands circled her throat and wrists. Her eyes — gods, her eyes were empty. No spark of defiance, no tender crinkle at the corners when she looked at him. Just blank obedience.

Ren stumbled forward. "No… this isn't real."

"It could be," Amara's voice whispered at his ear. "This is a path still written in the possible. Power is a hunger that does not end, Ren Zian. It consumes love. It reshapes even the gentlest hands into claws."

The crowned version of himself finally looked up. Those eyes were black, ringed in faint silver lines. They bored into Ren with cold disdain.

"You're a shadow," he said. Even his voice was colder, stripped of every warm note Lyra had once coaxed out of him. "A half-formed regret."

Ren's throat tightened. "What did you do to her?"

"What she demanded," the Emperor drawled. His hand drifted down, stroking over Lyra's bowed head. She didn't flinch. Didn't react at all. "She chose me, remember? Just as she chose you. She merely… accepted the inevitable shape of devotion."

Lyra looked up then, meeting Ren's eyes without a flicker of recognition. "Love is submission," she intoned. "Love is chains willingly worn."

Ren flinched back. "That's not her. That's not us."

"It could be," Amara breathed. "What if she grows weary of your constant rebellions? What if she decides a stable throne is worth more than fragile, painful freedom? Would you chain her if it meant keeping her by your side?"

"No," he rasped. "Never."

"Liar," the Emperor on the throne snarled, rising in a fluid motion. "You dream of it every night. Not just to have her love — to own it so completely it could never stray. To never fear losing her again."

He descended the steps, each movement predatory, robes whispering across the marble. Ren tried to step back but found he couldn't move. The air itself gripped him, cold fingers digging into his limbs.

"You think your tender words make you noble?" the Emperor hissed, stopping inches away. His breath was ice. "I've known your every secret craving. I am the part of you that grew tired of begging to be enough. I took her. I took all of them. And none ever left."

Suddenly hands seized Ren from behind. He struggled, twisting, only to find dozens of ghostly figures clutching at him — pale echoes of Sariel, Aravielle, Eirian, Miraye, even Morwen. Each wore a faint sad smile, each gripped him like lovers desperate not to be abandoned.

Lyra rose slowly from the Emperor's feet. Her movements were languid, her chains clinking with a soft musical sound. She walked to Ren, reached up, and cupped his cheek.

"See?" she whispered, voice low and lovely. "This is simpler. No fear. No doubts. We're yours, all yours, forever. All you had to do was stop pretending you wanted our freedom more than our submission."

Her lips brushed his — a mockery of every tender kiss they'd shared. It was sweet, cloying, wrong. He tasted blood and ice and something that filled him with hollow triumph.

"Enough!" he roared, wrenching back with such force that the ghosts scattered, wailing. The Emperor's eyes widened, just a flicker, before narrowing into slits.

Ren panted, throat raw. "I chose to remember Aravielle even knowing it would hurt. I freed Sariel because love demanded truth, not possession. I risked losing Lyra every day because her choosing me freely is the only fucking reason it matters at all."

The Emperor tilted his head. "Brave words. But we both know the deepest truth."

He leaned close, whispering so only Ren could hear. "Without them, you would've embraced me. You would've built this throne willingly, if only to never ache again."

The mirrors shattered.

Ren fell forward, hitting rough stone. He gasped, breath sawing in and out of his chest. When he looked up, he wasn't in the grand hall anymore.

He was on a narrow bridge of cracked basalt, suspended over endless dark. Across from him stood the Emperor — robes gone, crown gone, only raw power radiating off him in cold waves.

"This is your last chance," Amara's voice echoed from the void. "Destroy him, and prove to fate you are not bound by your darker longing. Or fail… and become him."

The Emperor smiled, slow and terrible. "Let's see which of us Lyra truly loves more."

Then he lunged.