Demonic Dragon: Harem System

Strax reached out his hand.

The claw—still black, still monstrous—wrapped around the sword's hilt as if closing its fingers on its own destiny. The blade did not resist. It did not vibrate. It did not shine. It simply accepted. As if, since the beginning of time, it had been waiting for just that touch.

And then, the world... stopped.

The Garden fell silent. The spirits, the mountains of bone and crystal, sound and time—everything froze, as if the universe held its breath to witness that moment. The moment Strax touched the truth.

He did not breathe. And the world, respectfully, did not either.

Then everything disappeared.

When he opened his eyes, there were no more shadows. No light. No body. Only her.

A plain suspended over nothingness, where the horizon was made of memories that never existed. And there, standing as if she had never stopped waiting for him, was a woman.

Tall. Elegant. Deadly as a war poem.

Her red hair waved without wind, like ancient flames. Her eyes—wild amber—carried something ancient: judgment and mercy, tenderness and danger. The kind of look that could order the destruction of an empire... or forgive the son who killed his own king.

Strax couldn't move. He didn't need to.

She smiled—a small gesture, but one laden with centuries. With untold stories. With unlived loves.

"You've grown," she said, her voice sounding like hot iron and ancient honey.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His throat was a dry field. His emotions too vast to name.

She approached, her steps calm, as if treading in a temple. The dress — or armor? or skin? — was made of red scales sewn together by shadows, as much a part of her as fire is part of the sun.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not here. But you... you're stubborn." She arched her eyebrow, amused. "Like me. Like your father. Like anything that carries the blood of the Fall."

Strax took a step forward. The draconic form recoiled. The scales retracted as if ashamed. The monster bent its knees. Each heartbeat brought him closer to the boy he could never be.

"You... you can't be real," he said at last, almost a whisper.

"I'm not," she replied, sweetly. "But I'm not a lie either."

She opened her arms, and for a moment, he saw something that no portrait, no story could ever show: his mother. Not as a warrior. Not as a legend. But as a woman. As warmth. As home.

"I am the echo your blood refused to forget. The promise whispered before the end. I am the blade that remained in the world when my body fell."

Strax fell to his knees. The ground beneath him was made of silence and longing. He squeezed his eyes shut. The pain that came was not physical. It was something else. A wound that does not bleed, but also never heals.

"You left me," he said. Simple. Raw. Deadly.

Scathach knelt with him. She touched his face with firm, precise fingers—like a warrior who knew every weak spot and yet chose not to hurt.

"I died," she said, without drama. "So you could live."

"I didn't want to live. Not... like this. Not... alone."

She looked at him. Not with pity. With sad pride.

"Even if you are not my son. Even if your soul is not the one born from my womb. You are him now. You carry the name. The legacy. The blood. That is enough."

He took a deep breath. As if he were about to sink.

"You saw me. You saw what I did. What I... am."

"Yes." She pulled him into an embrace. And there, in the space between them, there was no judgment. Only truth.

"You are destruction," she said, whispering. "But you are also rebirth. You are fury... but you are also care. You are pain... and yet, you are choice. You can be the end. But you can choose to be the beginning."

Strax trembled.

"You don't have to explain yourself," she continued. "You are my son. And that is enough."

The field began to crumble. Like a memory that time can no longer sustain. The edges flickered. The light wavered. The moment fell apart.

"Wait!" Strax grabbed her arm, desperation in his eyes. "I still... need..."

Scathach laughed. A deep, elegant sound, laden with danger and affection.

"You'll see me again. In the real world."

"How? When?"

She leaned in and whispered something that seemed to pierce not only the moment, but the very fabric of reality:

"Go to Caelum. There, blood will find blood."

Then everything fell apart—light, touch, warmth. Everything except her gaze. The last gift.

A gaze that said:

"I love you, even at the end of the worlds."

And then he was back.

The sword in his hand. The Garden in silence.

But Strax was no longer the same.

Not after feeling, for an instant, the impossible: his mother's lap.

And the world... began again.

The world returned.

Not gently, but like a blade being torn from flesh—abrupt, cruel, inevitable.

Strax fell.

The ground was no longer made of memories and sacred silence. It was stone. Damp earth. The smell of flowers crushed under the weight of return. The Mansion Garden welcomed him like an exiled son: no ceremonies, no questions, just the gravity of reality.

His knees hit the ground hard, as if the earth demanded tribute for letting him go.

He was panting.

His hands sank into the grass, his shoulders hunched. His body trembled, not from battle, but from something much rarer for someone like him: fragility. The draconic form was gone. The man remained. Or what was left of him.

The silence there was different. Not the reverent silence of the Garden of Swords. But real silence. Laden with wind, dry leaves, and the invisible presence of someone watching—perhaps fate itself.

And then... it came.

The sword.

Scathach's blade.

It fell in front of him with an almost ceremonial sound. A slight metallic clang against the stone, like a seal sealing an ancient pact.

Strax looked up.

She was there. Not as a vision. Not as a memory. But real. Cold. Solid. Steel and memory fused into one object. The hilt still breathed the warmth of the warrior who wielded it for the last time. The blade, now alive, pulsed as if it had a heart.

He stared at it as one would stare at a father's grave. Or a child's cradle.

His fingers moved slowly. They touched the hilt. It was like touching her hand again. An invisible link across time and blood.

Strax did not cry. He no longer knew how. But there was something in his eyes—a pacified anger, a rested pain. A void less empty.

For a moment, he just stood there, kneeling before the sword. And it—the blade—seemed to wait. As if to say, "When you are ready, I will be."

And then, behind him, footsteps.

Someone was approaching.

But Strax didn't turn around.

The footsteps behind him stopped.

Strax still didn't move. He didn't need to. He already knew who it was.

The scent was old. Burnt wood. Rain-soaked leather. Strong wine mixed with dried blood. A smell he always associated with strength, sarcasm, and broken promises.

Scarlet.

She stood silently for several seconds, observing the scene. He was kneeling. The sword was stuck in the ground, still vibrating with the weight of another world.

"Strax..." Her voice was low, almost a whisper. Almost a prayer.

She took another step, and then she saw it up close. She really saw it.

The sword.

Time stopped for her too. Her eyes — always alert, always ready to judge, to react, to attack — widened as if she had just seen a ghost... and, in a way, she had.

Her whole body went rigid. As if every muscle remembered, at the same time, ancient battles. Dawn training sessions. Laughter muffled by exhaustion. Blood. Brotherhood.

Scarlet stopped beside him, without looking at him. Just staring at the blade.

"How..." her voice faltered. She cleared her throat, her eyes fixed on the hilt she knew better than her own hand. "How did you get this?"

Strax finally raised his face, his eyes heavy as if he had aged a hundred years.

"My mother gave it to me."

The answer came raw. Simple. Unquestionable.

The air left Scarlet's lungs like a punch to the stomach. She staggered back a step, then forward, until she fell to her knees beside him. As if the sword were an altar, a cross, a miracle and a punishment all at once.

"Scathach..." she murmured. The word was laden with memories that no one had ever heard from her. "She... she was..."

Strax did not answer. He knew. The world did not need to hear what already lived deep within them both.

Scarlet reached out her hand. Hesitant. Trembling.

And when her fingers finally touched the hilt of the sword—when her skin met Scathach's living steel—something broke.

The sword glowed softly. Heat rose through her hand, coursing through her arm like ancient fire. Not magic. Not only. It was her. The woman Scarlet had known. Trained. Shaped. Loved like the sister she never had, like the daughter she never stopped challenging.

Scarlet began to laugh.

First, softly. In disbelief. Then louder. Uncontrollably. A laugh that came from deep within, where the things that are never said are hidden.

The ground shook.

The trees trembled.

The clouds receded in the sky.

And then she screamed—a scream between joy and fury, between relief and longing:

"YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU'RE ALIVE, YOU DAMNED DISCIPLE!"

The laughter became disguised crying, the scream turned into an outburst and despair.

Scarlet bowed, resting her forehead on the blade. As if asking for forgiveness. Or as if saying "thank you" without having the courage to speak.