Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!

The convoy of the Church had stopped for the night just off the main road. Four wagons filled with crates of the so-called "Divine Miracle" sat guarded by a mix of priests and knights.

A fire crackled in the center of their small camp as two knights sat near it, eating dried meat while the others rested.

"I still don't get it," one of them muttered, poking at the fire with a stick. "Why deliver this many pills to villages that don't even have a temple yet?"

"Orders from above. Oracle or not, it's not our place to question," the other replied with a yawn.

A priest nearby adjusted his robes and looked up from his prayer book. "It's a blessing. The Goddess chose us to spread her grace. We're saving lives."

The first knight scoffed. "Feels more like a waste. We've already gone through three convoys this week. If anyone's going to get healed, it's the black market buyers."

Laughter broke out among a few of the guards.

A cleric set down his bowl. "Enough talk. Rotate the watch and get some rest. We move again at sunrise."

Gradually, the camp quieted. The fire dimmed. Most had gone to sleep, only a few guards pacing near the wagons. A couple of horses snorted restlessly.

Then—silent movement in the trees.

Before anyone could shout, a crossbow bolt pierced a guard's throat. He dropped with a wet thud.

The clerics and priests look confused at first, but they finally make a protection for themselves and everyone. But it wasn't enough.

"Move! Move! Move! Wake up and make formation!" one of the knights said.

"Protect the Divine Medicine!" another shout.

However, a knight stumbled back, drawing his sword, but a dagger found his gut before he could raise it. He choked, fell to his knees, then collapsed.

"What?! My barrier was destroyed just like that?!"

One of the clerics screamed in panic, trying to fix the destroyed barrier but she wasn't fast enough to dodge another poisoned arrow that shot straight to her heart.

Figures dressed in dark cloaks and masks emerged from the shadows, blades flashing in the firelight.

They moved fast, targeting the knights first—slashing throats, stabbing under armor, cutting down the groggy defenders as they scrambled out of their tents.

One priest managed to scream before he was silenced. Another tried to cast a spell, but a throwing knife lodged into his chest mid-chant.

"Mercy—!"

Steel answered.

The remaining guards put up a weak defense, but confusion and darkness left them blind. One by one, they were slaughtered.

Blood soaked into the dirt. Crates were broken open and the pills were tossed into the fire or crushed beneath boots.

Within minutes, the camp was silent again.

A masked figure gave a short nod.

"Burn everything. Leave nothing."

The attackers worked quickly—setting wagons ablaze, throwing bodies into the fire, erasing tracks.

By morning, there would be no trace of the convoy. No witnesses or survivors.

Just another "bandit attack" in a lawless land.

And far from the scene, Claude receives the report with a satisfied smile.

It was the fifth strikeout of seven. Four convoys had already been wiped out, all blamed on supposed "bandit attacks."

The remaining three, however, required a different approach—one Claude had already prepared for.

That was why he now stood in the middle of a small, disease-ridden town called Maier.

Far from the kingdom's capital and long abandoned by central governance, Maier was a festering ground where the Red Slumber continued to spread unabated.

Corrupt nobles turned a blind eye, and suffering was rampant—making it the perfect place for the Church to play savior with their so-called "blessing."

But that same blessing would become their downfall.

Claude moved silently through the streets, cloaked in a black robe, a long-beaked bird mask covering his face. In this land, masks came in all shapes—used as a custom to ward off illness and evil spirits.

The irony of Claude wearing one now was not lost on him.

Corpses lined the streets, some already stiff, others still twitching in feverish fits. He turned into a small pharmacy—one of the few still operating—not for medicine, but for information.

After all, the dead were silent. The dying often whispered truths. And Claude had come to listen.

He placed a few silver coins on the counter. "I need something for fever. And coughing blood."

The man nodded slowly and turned to gather a few sachets of dried leaves and dark pills. As he wrapped them, Claude spoke again, his voice muffled behind the mask.

"What about the Church's medicine? The one they call the Divine Miracle. You have that too?"

The old man paused.

"They came two weeks ago. Gave it for free. Some got better… some didn't." He lowered his voice.

"It's not like the old witch pills. These ones… people stop coughing, sure. But then they don't wake up the next day."

Claude picked up the bundle and dropped another coin on the counter.

"Thank you," he said, then turned and left without another word.

He then continues with the deep smirk on his lips, satisfied with the information he gets.

He then stepped into the heart of Maier, his black robe trailing through the dirt as the wind carried the sharp scent of burning wood and bile.

The square was packed—angry townsfolk swarming like hornets, their faces twisted in rage and grief.

Cries echoed against the stone walls as two priests in white robes, bloodied and bruised, were dragged toward the wooden guillotine erected hastily at the center.

"You said it was a blessing!" a woman screamed, flinging a broken jar at one of the priests.

It shattered at his feet, sharp shards slicing into his ankles. "My son took it—and he foamed at the mouth before dying in my arms!"

"They said it was divine!" shouted another, hoisting a sign with red-streaked writing: False Faith, False Cure.

Rotten vegetables, stones, and even chairs were hurled through the air. Guards had to hold the crowd back with shields, but even they wore expressions of doubt and disgust.

The priests were forced to kneel. "NO IT IS TRUE! THE MEDICINE CAN CURE!"

"THIS MUST BE THE WORK OF DAEMON THAT MAKE IT CURSED!" the priest started to cry, to protest, but no one heard him.

But he flinched, feeling a dark energy swirling nearby as his eyes met with Claude. The priest trembled in fear, it was the biggest dark mana he had ever seen in his life.

But even with that terrifying thought, his mouth opened and murmured, "You filthy daemon!" before his head rolled on the ground followed by the other as a smile in Claude's mouth widened.

The crowd roared.

Claude's eyes didn't leave the blood-soaked platform. He stood in the shade of a crumbling building, watching the chaos unfold like a man admiring a well-painted mural.

So many died from that "Divine Miracle." Not immediately, of course. That would've been too obvious.

The poison was subtle—reactive only under specific fevers brought on by Red Slumber. A slow, inevitable death… twisted into divine punishment.

'As expected from Black Orchid, they did their job splendidly,' he thought.

He pulled his hood further down, hiding the slight curve of a smile on his lips.

This was no longer just about weakening the Church.

It was about making the people reject them. Making faith curdle into hatred. Making the very cure they clung to turn against them.

And so far, it was working beautifully.

Claude turned away from the spectacle as the executioner wiped the blade clean.

There were still two more shipments untouched.

And he had plans for those too.

***

Theresia turned pale as her eyes swept over the report clenched tightly in her trembling hands. Sweat beaded along her brow, her lips parting in horror.

"It's… it's all a mess," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Several convoys have been attacked—robbed by bandits. The others that made it safely… their medicines were distributed as planned. But—"

She swallowed hard.

"But people started dying. Horribly. And now, the outrage against the Church is spreading faster than the plague itself."

Her hands shook, crumpling the edges of the parchment. "Could this… could this be a punishment from the Goddess Eunomia? For using the witches' medicine?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Theresia," Cosette interjected flatly, popping a lavender macaron into her mouth and sipping tea like the world wasn't on fire. "This reeks of daemonic interference."

She picked up another report with a lazy flick of her fingers. "It confirms the theory. That. The medicine likely funded and distributed by daemons."

"Tch… so the Goddess was right all along," Regulus muttered bitterly, arms crossed, barely keeping his composure. "The witches are allies of the darkness."

Cosette raised a brow, leaning back with a smirk. "And yet, all of this wouldn't have happened if we hadn't persecuted them in the first place. We made them enemies. We forced them into the arms of daemons."

"What did you just say?"

"Don't act deaf. I said it's a self-fulfilling prophecy. We burned them, hunted them, destroyed their homes—and now we're shocked they're striking back?" She stood, brushing crumbs from her lap.

"Watch your tongue, Cosette. That's blasphemy."

"Spare me the theatrics." Cosette rolled her eyes. "Pointing fingers won't fix anything. What we need now is a strategy."

Theresia finally looked up, her voice hushed. "Do you… have a plan?"

Cosette grinned, all warmth was gone from her face. "We raise our war flag."

"War?" Theresia blinked.

"For now, let them think they're winning. Let them crawl out of their filthy holes, show their faces, build up their arrogance." Her tone sharpened.

"We'll pull back. Strengthen quietly. And when the time comes… we strike."

Her smile turned cold. "We burn every last daemon-loving heretic with our own hands."