Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!

The tent was stifling with tension, the lanternlight flickering softly against maps stained with blood and ash. A sprawling war table sat at the center, weighed down by brass tokens and scattered parchments.

Claude sat at the head, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting against the back of his fingers as his generals argued.

Samson stood like an iron wall beside him, arms folded, his blunt voice slicing through the air. "Hyparia will reinforce their border before week's end. If we don't move now, we'll be pinned between the Saintess' march and the Crown's eastern dukes."

Beside him, General Vale—young, quick-tongued, always three steps ahead in numbers—shuffled tokens across the map.

"Duke Veltair's town sits right along the southern trade artery. If we seize it, we'll have supplies, height, and the port. The only problem is the Magus Tower stationed inside. Forty spellcasters at minimum."

"Not a problem," Claude said lazily, extending a finger to tap the center of the board. "We'll take it in just one day."

He sounded more like a bored aristocrat ordering wine than a warlord preparing for siege. Honestly, even though he loved terrorizing his enemies, there were times when the whole ordeal bored him.

Especially in a room full of daemons arguing endlessly over strategies. How could they not think as fast as him?

Weren't they supposed to have more experience in warfare than he did?

The others paused.

"...We'll need at least two battalions to surround them, Your Majesty," Samson said, frowning. "And we should mobilize Sevrin's hounds for infiltration. They're used to urban warfare. If we draw the mages out—"

Claude cut him off with a breath, too soft to be called a sigh. "I'll go alone."

Silence, followed by a collective gasp. Even if he was the strongest among them, it was still dangerous for their king to go alone.

Claude leaned forward, resting both arms atop the table, his crimson eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

"I'll use it."

Samson's jaw clenched. "You mean the armies of undead?" His voice was low.

It was the army made from all the victims of the poisoned water. There were many, and some had even evolved into undead great knights or spellcasters.

Claude offered a faint smile. "Mm."

"No, Your Majesty."

The refusal came like a gunshot. Sun looked up sharply. Even the lower officers and scribes lining the tent's edge seemed frozen.

"It's too dangerous. They might have numbers, but most of them are just normal undead. I could destroy that kind of army myself in minutes."

"Hm... How long have you been by my side, Sun?"

"Huh?" Sun blinked. "A long time, Your Majesty…"

"And yet you think I'd use such a cheap strategy? Just hoping the undead can penetrate those fortress walls? How dumb do you think I am?" Claude's brow knit, and even Samson flinched.

Sun shook his head quickly. "I never thought that low of you, Your Majesty! You're right, please punish me." He stood up and bowed, body trembling—not from fear, but from disappointment in himself for doubting his lord.

Claude sighed. "It's alright, Sun. But next time, don't you dare question my credibility again."

"Yes! I would never dare... Thank you, Your Majesty."

"No other objections?" Claude asked, gaze sweeping over his generals one by one.

No one spoke. The tent seemed to constrict, heat blooming as Claude stepped around the table, casting one final glance at the map—as if already seeing the town burning in his mind.

"Oh, this will be fun." He smirked, already imagining what tomorrow would bring.

***

By morning, Claude arrived alone before the enemy fortress, riding a single horse and flying the banner of Elysium.

He already ordered his armies to stay in their tent. Observing him and his power, they also allowed to help if Claude in trouble which won't happen.

He stopped just outside the archers' range and raised his hand, amplifying his voice with magic.

"I am Claude, King of Elysium and Lord of Calamity's descendant. Surrender your fortress and your town. They belong to me now."

The soldiers atop the walls stared, then erupted into laughter. Some spat over the ramparts. A commander shouted back, "Go home, madman! You'll die before reaching the gate!"

Who even believe he was the Lord Of Calamity when he was alone? The soldiers just thought Claude was messing around.

"Maybe he got lost on his way to a costume parade!"

"I've seen beggars with more threat than this!"

The Duke overseeing the defense stood behind his men, arms crossed, lips curled in disgust. "Is this what we're supposed to be afraid of?"

He instead focused the telescope to see Elysium temporally outpost was not moving since night.

More jeers followed. Claude remained calm, his expression unreadable. Then, he whispered, "Keira. Connect."

A pause.

[Connection established. Bloodline access granted.]

He raised his hand high, and black symbols formed above his palm.

"Undead Dominion: Awaken."

The earth trembled. Cracks spread across the plains as skeletal limbs broke through soil. From the graves and battlefields below, a mass of corpses began to claw their way back to the surface.

At first, a dozen. Then more coming out with only skeleton form. Not long after the great knights also crawled from the ground followed by the spellcasters.

The ground darkened with their presence—an army of five thousand risen dead.

Mixed among them were armored death knights with broken crests on their pauldrons, and spellcasters whose robes still clung to their rotting forms, glowing faintly with corrupted magic.

On the walls, the mocking fell silent.

"What the hell…" someone muttered.

The Duke overseeing the fortress gritted his teeth. "Hold your ground! Undead or not, this fortress is impenetrable!"

His words seemed to calm the troops. When the undead began their march, clumsily crashing into the stone walls, many soldiers scoffed again.

"They're weak!"

"They can't even climb!"

Arrows flew down and shattered brittle skulls. Some soldiers tossed rocks. The gate held firm. From above, it looked like a futile display, mindless corpses throwing themselves at stone.

The laughter resumed.

"Is that all, Lord of Calamity?!"

Claude didn't respond. He merely watched, arms crossed, standing alone at the edge of the field with a smirk on his face.

And he slowly raised his hand again.

"Arise… Dread Warden of Ruin."

A pulse of black magic spread outward like a ripple in still water. The undead, still clawing uselessly at the walls, suddenly stopped moving.

Their heads snapped toward him in unison. Then, as if some hidden signal had been triggered, they turned on one another.

Bones cracked, twisted, and reshaped. Skulls melted into torsos. Ribcages fused into jagged, spiked plating. Rotting limbs disjointed and flew across the field as the thousands of corpses knit together.

A massive shadow began to take shape—a half-complete skeleton easily towering over the fortress walls. Its lower body was absent, as if cut at the waist, but its torso alone loomed like a siege tower.

Black iron armor materialized over it, fused from the scraps the dead once wore. A rusted greatsword, wide as a wagon, formed in its hand. Magic sigils ignited along its bones like veins of fire. Its single eye socket glowed with red flame.

Someone screamed.

The Duke stepped back, stunned. "What... what is that?!"

One of the mages in the tower barked, "ALL MAGIC UNITS, FORM DEFENSE TRIANGLE NOW!"

A flurry of movement erupted in the tower. Staffs glowed, runes activated. Triangles of blue light formed in the air—barriers forged from years of study. The fortress shuddered as mana saturated the space.

"Cast Binding Chains!"

Three magicians raised their staffs. Golden shackles of light shot from the tower, wrapping around the skeletal giant's arm.

"Hit it with Piercing Comet!"

The sky cracked open as a beam of molten light fell upon the giant's chest.

The skeleton didn't flinch.

Instead, it turned its massive hand toward the tower and opened its palm.

A black circle bloomed from its core—Anti-Magic Singularity.

The barrier sigils cracked instantly. Runes evaporated like steam. The Binding Chains flickered, then burst into motes.

Then, it moved.

With a single swing of its sword, it cleaved through the fortress gates, the impact splitting the stone beneath it in two.

Screams erupted as soldiers were sent flying. Arrows bounced off its armor like pebbles on steel. Fireballs broke against its ribs, harmless.

It advanced, dragging itself forward with clawed arms like a demon crawling out of the abyss.

The mages in the tower began chanting a last-resort incantation.

"Don't let it cast—don't let it finish!"

The skeleton raised its sword again.

The magic tower exploded.

Its upper floors shattered under the weight of the slash. Bricks and bodies rained from the sky. Blue fire burst from its core and spiraled upward, before dying with a final hiss.

The remaining magicians—those who survived the fall—staggered through the wreckage, barely breathing.

The giant skeleton lurched forward once more, dragging itself across the rubble like a god of death.

It didn't stop until the banner of the fortress was reduced to ash as everything turned silent.

Claude rode forward, passing corpses and flame, his black cloak billowing gently.

He stopped before the remains of the gate.

The half-skeleton turned toward him, still burning from within.

"Good," Claude said. "Now purge the town. Don't touch their supply though."

The abomination obeyed.

And the screams began anew.