Champion Of Lust: Gods Conquer's Harem Paradise!

Pyris didn't need to say it outright. It was in the way he smiled, in the way his fingers traced the rim of his glass with slow, calculated ease. It was in the way he met their gazes—unflinching, unapologetic, daring them to challenge him.

He was telling them, with every glance, every measured breath, every slight tilt of his head, I will be the bane of your existence.

And they knew it.

The men at the table—powerful in their own right, proud, accustomed to having their way—watched him with varying degrees of disdain, amusement, and, most telling of all, unease. Because Pyris wasn't just some charming rogue flirting with women already spoken for. No, he was something else entirely. Something dangerous.

He didn't simply take up space; he dominated it. He didn't just command attention; he consumed it, leaving no room for anyone else.

And worst of all? He made it look effortless.

The women were watching him now—no, more than watching. They were drawn in, caught in the pull of his presence, their laughter lingering a little longer, their eyes a little too bright. Even Madam Serenova, the most untouchable of them all, seemed... intrigued.

The men could do nothing but seethe behind polite smiles. Because deep down, they understood the truth.

Pyris wasn't just here to play. He was here to win.

Pyris moved with the kind of confidence that turned heads, that made men uneasy and women intrigued. He didn't just speak—he commanded. And when he turned to her, the Witch Queen, the air itself seemed to shift, thickening with something primal, something volatile.

He stepped forward, close enough to feel the pulse of power radiating from her, close enough that every breath he took was laced with the scent of something forbidden.

His gaze locked onto hers, dark, unreadable, yet utterly unyielding.

"You wield power like a storm in waiting," he murmured, his voice laced with something both reverent and daring. "Controlled. Measured. But beneath it? Chaos. Destruction. And, dare I say—" he tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smirk dancing on his lips, "—a hunger."

Her expression didn't falter, but her eyes sharpened, the flicker of amusement barely visible beneath her ever-present aura of command. "And what exactly do you think I hunger for, Pyris?" Her voice was smooth, deadly, a blade hidden within silk.

He chuckled, slow and deep, a sound meant to test her patience. He leaned in, just slightly, just enough to make it clear he wasn't like the others—wasn't one to bow or falter beneath the weight of her presence.

"Something more than what this world has given you. Something beyond mere reverence." His gaze dropped for half a second—to her lips, to the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest—before flicking back up, burning with wicked promise. "Or am I wrong?"

The room was watching, silent, the tension between them thick enough to suffocate. The Witch Queen didn't step back, didn't waver. If anything, the faintest, most dangerous smile touched her lips.

"You think yourself bold," she mused, her tone soft but laced with something ancient, something lethal. "But bold men burn the fastest."

He grinned, all sharp edges and unspoken defiance. "Then let's see who burns first, Your Majesty." He exhaled, slow. "You know what's funny?" His voice carried through the room, calm, almost amused. "I came here expecting to be impressed." A beat. "And yet, I'm the one leaving an impression."

A ripple went through the gathered leaders on the table. The Witch Queen said nothing, her head tilting slightly, but Pyris didn't miss the subtle shift in her pupils—like a predator tracking something it hadn't yet decided to kill or claim.

He continued, stepping closer, but not in the way one approached royalty.

He moved like a man approaching an equal, or worse—someone who should have been his better, but wasn't. "They call you the most dangerous woman alive among the witches and humans." He let his words breathe, let the weight of them settle. "But I don't see danger."

The room held its breath.

"I see loneliness wrapped in the façade of danger to scare away mediocrers." He looked at the leaders who had been chasing after her for some time now.

It struck like a silent dagger. No gasp. No visible reaction. But the shift was there, barely perceptible, a fracture beneath centuries of perfected composure. They gnashed their teeth.

This boy!

She spoke. "You are either brave," she murmured, "or catastrophically foolish."

Pyris smiled. "Bold words, coming from someone who hasn't denied my 'foolish claims'."

Silence. Heavy. Thrumming.

Then, the Witch Queen did something no one expected. She laughed.

A quiet chuckle, dark and rich, like wine aged in war.

"Interesting," she mused, swirling her goblet before setting it aside untouched. Then she stood, stepping forward—toward him, not away. A deliberate move. A challenge. The air in the hall thickened, expectant, waiting for Pyris to respond—to lean forward, to meet her head-on, to be ensnared in the gravity of her will.

Instead, he smiled. Slow. Knowing. "Patience, Your Majesty," he murmured, turning on his heel. "You'll have your moment."

And then he left. Not hurried. Not hesitant. But deliberate. A man who dictated the rhythm of the game, not one who played by its rules.

His attention shifted.

The Demon Empress.

Where the Witch Queen carried her power like a crown, the Empress wore hers like a second skin. She was not untouchable, not distant. She was the heat of a blade just before it meets flesh—the promise of destruction restrained only by choice.

Pyris moved toward her as if stepping into a storm's eye. Not reckless. Not arrogant. But savoring. Tasting the shift in the air, the way her presence curled around him, thick as embers before an inferno.

And then he met her gaze. And the world held its breath.

"Empress." His voice cut through the stillness, edged with something sharp. Something electric. "Quite a vision in shadows. I don't think anyone's ever truly seen you."

A flicker. The smallest fracture in the stillness.

Her eyes flashed—wild, untamed. "Maybe that's the way I like it."

He tilted his head, stepping closer. Just enough. "I like to think you'd change your mind if you saw the world through my eyes."

The words barely left his lips before he leaned in—breath warm against her ear, a whisper of something perilous. A touch lighter than air, yet enough to leave an imprint. When he pulled back, he caught the tension in her jaw, the quiet defiance in her gaze.

"I'm no prize to be won, Young Duke, Pyris."

Her voice was silk over steel, a quiet warning.

Then, slowly, deliberately—she lifted a single hand.

And pointed. "I'm already claimed by him." The Demon Emperor.

The moment stretched, taut as a blade drawn from its sheath. Pyris did not react—not outwardly. But something within him measured the shift, the unspoken weight of the declaration.

And then—

A sudden disruption.

Alera. Backstage. She moved quickly, whispering to Anastasia, who vanished like a shadow given purpose.

Pyris barely had time to process before the world twisted.

Across the room, Emberly, who had been engaged in idle conversation, stilled. Her head snapped toward the unseen, her expression shifting from ease to something razor-sharp.

And then—

Everything broke.

Pyris' body reacted before his mind did.

His aura ignited, crackling with raw, unrestrained force. The air itself recoiled. His breath left him in a whisper—barely more than a ghost of sound.

"Alexa."

Emberly did not hesitate.

A voice transmission sliced through space, swift as a dagger.

"Esmeralda. Take over the launch."

And then—

[Ding!

Fate is not merciful, nor is it blind. It does not forget the hands that dared to unweave its design, nor forgive the soul that thought itself beyond consequence. She has severed the threads, and now they coil to strangle. She has defied the current, and now the tide will drag her beneath. There is no salvation—only the weight of what must be.

Mission: Save the Child of the Godly Realms from the grip of Fate!]

The voice of fate does not boom. It does not scream. It does not plead. It whispers. And in its whisper is the weight of the inevitable. Fate does not grieve for those who defy its will. It does not rage.

It simply waits.

And when the moment comes—

It tightens the strings. Until they snap.

[Reward: Debt to the Goldy Realms!]

The storm did not gather—it erupted.

It was an explosion of presence, a force so visceral it did not just shift the air—it shattered it. A violent burst of unseen energy surged from where Pyris stood, the very essence of his being twisting reality for a split second before he vanished.

Not in a mere step, not in a blur—

But in a maelstrom of speed, a phenomenon that shouldn't be possible. The table trembled beneath the force of his departure, chairs creaked, and the gathered leaders barely stifled their reactions as something primordial brushed against their senses.