Demonic Dragon: Harem System

Strax watched Scarlet with his forehead pressed against the blade, laughing and crying in the same breath. For a moment, he said nothing. He didn't dare break that moment—as if the truth, as fragile as old glass, could shatter at the slightest whisper.

But he needed to know.

"What do you mean... she's alive?" Strax's voice came out hoarse. He barely recognized himself. "You said... you felt it."

Scarlet slowly raised her face. Her eyes were still teary, but there was more than emotion there: there was certainty. A kind of conviction that cannot be learned or taught. It can only be felt.

"When I touched that sword," she began, breathless, as if still processing what she had just experienced, "I felt something I hadn't felt since the Fall."

She closed her eyes, touching the hilt as if reading an invisible map engraved on its surface.

"It wasn't a memory. It wasn't longing. It was... presence. Real. Alive. And not echoing with magic. Not from a spell or some ancient enchantment. It was her."

Strax clenched his fingers on the floor. His heart was pounding.

"But she's dead, Scarlet. I saw her. I felt her. I..."

"Yes." Scarlet opened her eyes and looked at him with the determination of someone who had seen the impossible and decided to believe it anyway. "She died. I know that. But that doesn't change what I felt. Her aura, Strax. As clear as the blood in my veins. And she's no longer on this plane... not entirely, but she's not gone either. She's somewhere."

"Are you sure?"

"No." She gave a brief, humorless laugh. "But when you wield a blade long enough, when you share blood, sweat, and death alongside someone like Scathach... you learn to recognize when a presence isn't a trick of the mind. She's alive. Somewhere. Wounded or hidden. Trapped or fighting. But alive."

Strax looked down at the sword between them. For the first time, it seemed less like a burden and more like a path.

"You said you felt a direction."

Scarlet nodded, her gaze turning to the horizon, beyond the walls, to the sky painted gold and purple in the distance.

"Yes. When I touched the blade, it was as if part of me had been pulled westward. A raw, undeniable, instinctive force. As if my soul had been hooked by an invisible thread. And that thread was pulling me there."

She pointed.

To the west.

Beyond the fields and valleys, the ruins and lost fortresses.

"That's where Caelum is."

Strax felt a chill run down his spine.

Caelum.

The cursed continent of the Dragons that had attacked Vorah not long ago.

Then, slowly, he turned his face to Scarlet.

"Why are you here, Scarlet?" His voice was firmer, but there was no accusation in it. Just the raw need for the truth. "You don't move without reason. Something brought you to me, especially in this place."

Scarlet hesitated for a moment. The laughter was gone, and now her features were tense again, like those of a predator who had once again smelled the scent of war.

"Because they're back, Strax," she said calmly as she stretched. "Kali, Tiamat, and Ouroboros."

Strax looked up slowly. "Did they solve that problem of ours I asked you to?" Scarlet nodded, grim.

"It seems they're much more tired than I imagined." She took a deep breath, as if the mere name were a burden. "Zanith doesn't seem to have given in much to those crazy Dragoas."

"Is she more controlled?" he asked, as if there were still some hope. "Or is she still... acting like a crazed succubus?"

Scarlet looked at him for a moment. She didn't answer right away. The wind ruffled her scarlet hair, and her eyes showed a trace of resigned irony.

Then she shook her head.

"Same," she said simply.

Strax sighed, long, almost like a lament. He ran his hand through his hair and muttered something unintelligible, probably an ancient curse. The shadow of a weary smile crossed his face.

"Of course."

"Of course," Scarlet repeated, her voice dry. "Those three also have no awareness of manipulation to make that perverted sword feel ashamed. All that's left is to accept her personality."

Strax rose slowly, as if the weight of the decision was already settling on his shoulders before he even took his first step. His muscles protested—not from pain, but from memory. It was always like this before a new journey: the body remembered the old ones.

He stared at the horizon for a long moment, the sun setting in shades of blood and wine behind the distant mountains. Caelum was there. Waiting. Or calling.

"So that's it," he muttered. "Let's go to Caelum."

Scarlet watched him, arms crossed, as if she already knew he would come to that conclusion—because it was the only possible path for someone like him.

"We can't take everyone," he continued, glancing at her. "If they really did come back, and if she's really alive... I can't turn this into an open march. Not everyone would make it out."

Scarlet nodded, serious. "I agree. Choose the ones who have the most to lose if they stay—or the most to offer if they go."

Strax scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"I'll take only a few. And leave the others here, keeping Vorah on her feet in case this goes wrong." He took a deep breath before looking at Scarlet with clear intent. "Who do you suggest?"

Scarlet didn't hesitate. "Take me, Tiamat, and Ouroboros."

Strax raised an eyebrow. "Hmm... leave Kali?"

"She stays," Scarlet replied firmly. "She's powerful, yes, but unstable. She's still kind of getting used to her new body. I don't think she'll be much help in actual combat. Here, though... it would be good for her to help protect this city while it's being rebuilt."

"Fair enough." Strax crossed his arms, pondering. "Tiamat, despite her ego... is level-headed. And she knows how to follow orders. Ouroboros, on the other hand..."

"She's problematic," Scarlet interrupted. "But right now, that's an advantage. She won't hesitate if something needs to be done. And she also knows what to do in critical situations."

Strax nodded. "The others stay in Vorah, then."

"Vorah will hold out," said Scarlet, almost as a promise. "With or without us. But it's best to make sure that if we fall, there will still be someone left to avenge us."...

[Unknown]

The heat should have been unbearable. The underground chamber pulsed with ancient life, roaring with every crack of the rock, every muffled tremor of the magma beneath their feet. The air, thick as coagulated blood, vibrated with the slow breathing of a sleeping giant. And yet, in the center of that hell, there was ice. Not magical ice, not an illusion. Real ice.

There, encased in translucent crystals, as if time had stopped only around her flesh, a woman remained imprisoned.

The dragon man watched.

He did not move. He just stared.

His wings were folded, wrapped like a cloak of bones and black leather. The scales covering his body glistened in the crimson light of the magma, reflecting dark shades of bronze and rust. His eyes, golden and flickering slits, were fixed on the female figure beneath the ice prison.

It was not desire in his gaze.

It was fascination.

Obsessive, sickening. Like someone contemplating a desecrated relic with the devotion given to a dying god.

He took a step forward.

The sound of his obsidian boot on the stone echoed throughout the chamber, as if the volcano itself held its breath. The ice did not react. No steam formed. No new cracks appeared. The body inside remained motionless, suspended, naked under brittle veils of crystal, like an offering trapped between worlds.

He stopped in front of the ice.

The woman lay on her back, her hair black as ebony spread over her bare skin like cold silk. Scars—some old, some still fresh—crisscrossed her back like forgotten inscriptions. Her legs were partially bent, her right arm outstretched as if, in the last moment before her imprisonment, she had tried to reach for something... or someone.

Her face, hidden by the angle of the crystal, remained a secret.

The dragon man reached out his hand.

Long fingers ending in elegant claws touched the ice. A slight whisper escaped from the contact, like the sound of wind passing through an abandoned temple. He tilted his head slightly and spoke. His voice, deep and melodious, seemed to be made of burning coal.

"Are you comfortable in there, warrior?" he said. "It's curious... even now, with the centuries passing over you like dust on a grave, it still gives me chills."

The ice did not respond. But for a moment, just one, it seemed to pulsate. As if it had life.

The dragon man continued:

"They think you're dead. That this is just a preserved shell. But I know. I felt it."

He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, as if savoring an aroma he would never forget.

"You still dream, don't you? You still fight. Even here, frozen in the core of the world, in silence... your soul has not accepted the end. And that's why I can't stop coming here. Because you still challenge me even in eternal sleep."

A drop of sweat trickled down his temple and evaporated before reaching his chin. But he didn't back away.

He touched the ice again with both hands and rested his forehead against it, like a priest at a profane altar.

"What are you waiting for, Scathach?" he whispered. "Why haven't you woken up yet?"

Silence.