Demonic Dragon: Harem System

Strax dropped the book on the table with a thud, turning completely to face the woman who was now invading his space with an ambiguous proposal. His narrowed eyes scanned her body, but not with the desire she expected—it was a calculating, almost clinical gaze, as if examining a defective weapon.

"Compatibility?" he repeated, his voice laden with skepticism that could cut steel. "Are you talking about sex or Swords? Because if it's the former, I've already told you I'm not interested."

She smiled, but this time there was something sharp in her expression—a hint of real defiance. Her fingers touched her collarbone, where golden skin hid almost imperceptible marks: scars from old burns, the kind only blacksmiths or warriors carried.

"Not everything is about sex," she murmured, and for the first time, Strax noticed her hands—long, skilled fingers, calloused at the tips, hammer marks under her thumbs. 'But if you really want a sword that won't break... maybe you need me.'

Strax crossed his arms, but didn't interrupt.

"Hold my hand," she ordered, extending her open palm to him, her fingers slightly curved like a blade about to strike.

Strax raised an eyebrow, muscles tense beneath his scarred skin. "Is this some succubus trick?"

She laughed, the sound echoing like metal striking metal. "So suspicious. And then they say I'm the dramatic one." Her eyes flashed with challenge. "Take it. Or are you afraid?"

With a grunt, Strax grabbed her hand—and the world exploded in light.

An incandescent heat coursed through his arm, not burning, but molding. Before he could react, her body dissolved into golden sparks, twisting in the air like liquid fire. Her skin, her bones, her entire being compacted, stretched, transformed—until, with a clang that echoed like a war bell, Strax found himself holding not a woman, but a sword.

And what a sword.

The blade gleamed as if it had been forged from the night sky itself, black steel speckled with silver stars that pulsed with energy. The hilt was wrapped in dark red leather, warm to the touch like living skin. And in the center of the guard, a golden eye blinked at him, mischievous.

"Well, that was... unexpected," Strax admitted, turning the sword with a fluid motion. The balance was perfect, as if its weight adapted to his muscles.

Her voice echoed in his mind, sweet and satisfied: "And you have a firm grip, warrior. I love it."

Strax almost dropped the sword. "You—you're talking inside my head?"

"Well, isn't that what you wanted? A sword that talks?" She laughed, the blade vibrating slightly in her hands. "Relax, I only bite enemies. Unless you ask nicely."

He looked at the sword, then at the space where it had been, and then let out a sigh so deep it could have extinguished a fire. "I already regret it."

"Lies," she purred, the eye on the guard flashing again. "You're loving it. Now, shall we go? There's a world out there full of things to cut up together."

Strax stared at her for a long moment. Then, with a smile that was half exasperation, half admiration, he sheathed the sword in its belt.

"If it starts singing in my head, I'll throw you into the first lava river I find," he warned.

The reply came immediately, full of swing: "I promise nothing, love."

Strax climbed the stone steps of the library with heavy footsteps, the new sword glinting in its scabbard like a piece of night captured in steel. He had barely set foot in the upper corridor when a chorus of familiar voices hit him like a cavalry charge.

"Finally! I was already thinking of sending a rescue party," announced his first wife, Beatrice, crossing her arms under her generous bosom. Her pink eyes darted between him and the sword with keen suspicion.

"I bet Frieren that you had fallen into another dimension," added the second, Samira, nibbling on a piece of bread with honey as she leaned against the wall. Her smile was that of a fox that had smelled blood in the air.

Frieren merely raised a snow-white eyebrow, her ancient eyes fixed on the blade. "Hmm. That's a new one."

Strax paused, feeling the weight of female judgment like a man who had stepped into a minefield. The sword at his waist vibrated slightly.

"Ohhh, what lovely roommates you've got," the sword's honeyed voice echoed in his skull, 'Especially the elf. Is she single?'

Strax ignored the comment, focusing on the three women who blocked his path with the efficiency of an elite platoon.

"I found it downstairs," he muttered, trying to push past them.

Beatrice planted a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. 'Just a sword?' She sniffed the air like a cat sensing treachery. "And why, exactly, does it smell of jasmine and insolence?"

Before he could answer, the sword winked—literally—its golden eye on the hilt flashing at the women like an obscene beacon.

"Hello, girls~" the sword's voice echoed loud enough for all to hear, "Don't worry, I'm fully conscious and won't hit on your husbands. Unless they want me to."

A deadly silence fell over the hallway.

Frieren was the first to react, rubbing her chin with academic interest. "A talking sword with the personality of a courtesan. Fascinating... the Idiot managed to reach the Soul of the Sword and gave it personality." Frieren spoke as if she already knew what that sword was...

Samira spat out the piece of bread, pointing at the blade. "Did she flirt with you?"

Beatrice turned to Strax with narrowed eyes. "Did you bring home a magical prostitute in the form of a sword?"

Strax raised his hands in surrender, feeling the situation slip into the abyss like a ship in a whirlpool. "In my defense, I didn't know she was like that when I picked her up."

The sword laughed, the sound like crystal bells drenched in honey. "Liar. You loved my hilt."

Two pairs of female eyes turned on him, laden with the promise of violent retribution.

Strax sighed, running a hand over his face. "She... said she killed Ouroboros, Tiamat, and Nyx... I think she... is another sword of Artorias."