Void Lord: My Revenge Is My Harem

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"Get some rest. I will ring the bell at dawn."

John hesitated for a breath, then turned and walked back toward the main hall.

Sera remained behind. Alone in the quiet glow of candles, she pressed a hand to her chest. "I vow to serve the god," she whispered. "I don't want to fall in love. No… I can't fall in love."

She slapped her cheeks to snap out of it. But her heart was already beginning to disobey.

Soon the morning, the sun rose behind a thick curtain of valley mist.

A single bell rang from the roof of the temple. Its echo carried across the village, soft and steady, a call not of warning, but of gathering.

By the time John stepped out into the square, the villagers were already assembled. Dozens of them stood together. There were farmers with calloused hands, weavers with threads clinging to their sleeves, and old soldiers with faded scars who had long since traded their swords for shovels. Some fishermen and some young children.

No one spoke as he arrived.

All of them looked up as he stepped forward, his figure outlined against the temple's stone. The mist curled around his boots. Behind him, the temple door remained half open, glowing with a quiet firelight.

Sera stood at his side. She raised one hand. "This man is not your enemy."

Her voice carried across the square with clarity. Not loud. Not forced. But with confidence. Everyone respects her in this village.

"He is not here to steal or threaten. He comes from beyond, far beyond anything you know. The nobles will call him dangerous. The Circle Mages will call him cursed. But he is neither of those things."

She turned slightly toward John. "He is what comes next."

John stepped forward and met their eyes.

The villagers did not move. Their faces held suspicion, curiosity, even fear. But they listened.

He lifted the blade. "This world is broken." His voice was calm, almost quiet, but every word struck like a hammer.

"The strong hoard magic. The weak die nameless in forests, tunnels and alleys. They speak of power and righteousness, but they leave you with nothing but scraps."

He paused, turning his gaze from one end of the square to the other.

"You want change. I have seen it in your eyes. You know it too. You work all day, yet your children go hungry. You send offerings to nobles, but no protection from their bullies. The nobles take your taxes and call it duty. The mages ignore your children and call it lower bloodline."

He lowered the blade.

"I carry knowledge far beyond any noble. Tools from another era. From a world that does not worship magic. I can forge weapons and defenses your enemies will not understand. I do not ask for loyalty. I do not ask you to bow."

He pointed at the hills beyond the trees.

"I ask for land. For a place to build. A place to stand. In return, I will protect this valley. And if you are willing, I will help you rise with me."

The silence was thick.

Then the village elder stepped forward. His back was bent with age, but his eyes were still sharp. He leaned on a wooden cane worn smooth by time.

"Do you swear not to use this power against us?" His voice was hoarse, but steady.

"We are common people. We do not have the luxury or capital to practice magic. Our lives are busy earning enough money to feed our family. We cannot afford the wrong side of power."

John nodded once.

"I swear. I do not want to enslave you. If fate allows, I will be your patron. I will make this place a forge of opportunity. I will open the path of magic to all who show talent. Or swordsman training to those who have the will."

The old man looked at Sera. She said nothing at first. Then she gave a single slow nod. The elder turned back to John.

"Then the land is yours. You may build. You may live here. You may fight here." He looked at the crowd. "And we will stand beside you. If your words prove true."

John bowed his head once. He said no more. The village had given him its first yes.

After the crowd began to thin, and the murmurs of uncertainty gave way to a hesitant, lingering acceptance, John found himself standing alone in the village square. The tension that had once blanketed the air like smoke had lifted. It was just enough for breath.

The villagers had returned to their routines, but not with indifference. From behind shuttered windows and half open doors, they watched. Measured. Whispers echoed between cracked walls. Children peeked out from behind their mothers' skirts. A pair of blacksmiths resumed hammering bent tools, but their rhythm had changed. It was quieter now. Slower.

No longer afraid. But not yet trusting. Only curious.

The village elder waited at the base of the temple steps, leaning slightly on his polished cane, the furrow in his brow now more thoughtful than wary. The lines of his face caught the sun like an old statue weathered by war and wind.

When John approached, the elder inclined his head and motioned with a quiet wave of his hand.

"This way," he said. "I will show you the land. It is not much, but it is soil you can call your own."

John followed him behind.

They walked without words, their footsteps crunching softly on the gravel path that curved behind the village's outer homes. Fields stretched out in every direction, some freshly tilled, others carpeted with sprouting green sprouts. Ropes hung between drying poles, where bundles of flax and herbs dangled like prayer flags.

A flock of chickens scurried past a child playing with a stick. Smoke rose in slow spirals from stone chimneys. A cart creaked as it rolled toward a barn, its wheel groaning like tired bones. The bark of a mutt echoed once and fell silent.