Demonic Dragon: Harem System

Beatrice joined Samira, resting her chin on one hand as she watched the violent spectacle as if it were a particularly engaging play.

"You know..." she murmured, looking at Strax, "if this thing keeps acting like this, maybe I'll break it a little more myself."

Strax snorted, his arms still crossed.

"You'll have to get in line," he replied, glancing briefly at Tiamat, who was conjuring a magical prison made of spectral serpents, entwining Zanith's arms and legs.

The sword screamed, its feminine voice drawn out, distorted by pain and humiliation.

"I am a legendary relic! An arcane masterpiece! I have drunk the blood of gods, destroyed entire kingdoms, brought armies to their knees! You cannot treat me like this!"

Ouroboros paused for a moment, her fist covered in mystical blood, and leaned slightly to look into the sword's spinning golden eye.

"Yes, we can," she replied with a wicked smile. "And we will continue to do so. Until you learn to keep that little heart tail down."

Zanith tried to regenerate, summon an aura, maybe even flirt again—but each attempt was interrupted by a new blow or spell. Tiamat remained merciless, her eyes cold, her movements precise like a deadly choreography. There was no emotion in her expression—only the clinical focus of a deity cleaning a wound that should never have existed.

Strax turned slightly to the side, watching Frieren.

"You're strangely quiet. I thought you were going to take notes," he commented, somewhat ironically.

Frieren, with an attentive gaze and raised eyebrows, replied naturally:

"I am. Mentally. This will yield an entire chapter in the next volume of cursed artifacts. In fact..." she looked at the broken wall where Zanith lay "...the sword's soul's reaction to emotional rejection deserves an entire section. Pathetic. Fascinating, but pathetic."

Beatrice laughed loudly at the comment, the light sound cutting through the remaining tension like silk. Samira, meanwhile, approached Strax and held his hand, her fingers intertwining naturally with his.

"Even with all this chaos... are you okay?" she asked, her voice soft.

He squeezed her hand back and nodded. "I am now. Nothing like seeing the wives solving a problem with their own fists."

Across the room, the wall finally gave way with a crash, and Zanith fell to the floor amid the rubble, moaning softly.

"Okay... okay... I surrender..." she whispered, the words almost choking between her teeth. "Let me live... just don't break me again... I swear I'll be useful... quiet... cute..."

Tiamat looked down at her, still holding the scepter aloft. "You will be silent. You will obey. And you will pray that one day you will deserve the chance to be wielded again."

Zanith only groaned in response, the humiliation almost more painful than her injuries.

Strax sighed once more, looking around: the partially destroyed ceiling, the cracked floor, the echo of screams still vibrating off the walls. He shrugged. "And I thought today was going to be a quiet day..."

Beatrice patted him on the shoulder, smiling crookedly. "With you? That's never going to happen. And honestly... thank goodness."

Zanith barely had time to crawl away from the rubble. Still in her human form, covered in arcane bruises and with her white hair tangled and stained with dust, she tried to lift her body, trembling, when smack! — the sharp sound of a slap echoed through the room, as unexpected as it was brutal.

Zanith's head spun from the impact. She stood motionless. Her face turned to the side, her golden eye wide with utter shock. It wasn't a punch, or a blast, or magic — it was a slap. A gesture so human, so laden with contempt, that it seemed far more painful than any spell.

She slowly brought her hand to her cheek, feeling the burning sting of her marked skin.

"You... you slapped me?" she whispered, incredulous. "You hit me as if I were... an ordinary girl?!"

Ouroboros moved closer, the shadow of his immense body covering Zanith like a living wall of accumulated anger.

"Surrendering won't save you from the beating you're about to take," she said, her voice firm, cold, without a trace of compassion. "I remember very well the last time you showed up. When that son of a bitch Artorias wielded you... and killed us."

Zanith's eyes widened even more. This wasn't just violence. It was personal.

Ouroboros continued, crouching down to her level, her eyes blazing.

"You laughed as he cut us to pieces. You made fun of the pain. You sang. You sang, you bitch. You said it was a symphony of the end of an era. And now you want to play the repentant seductress?"

Zanith tried to open her mouth, perhaps to offer some witty excuse, or perhaps another sexual quip... but nothing came out. There wasn't enough charm in the world to erase that.

"I... was used," she finally murmured, her voice almost childlike. "I... was under contract... you know how it works..."

"You accepted it," interrupted Tiamat, now approaching with her scepter still sparkling. "You could have resisted. You could have kept quiet. But no. You liked it. You wanted it."

Zanith closed her eyes, trying to curl up—but the magical chains Tiamat had conjured were still firm, pressing her limbs against the floor.

Strax, watching the scene with his arms crossed, muttered to himself:

"And then they say that swords carry the burden of their owners... That one has become the burden of its owners."

Beatrice, beside him, couldn't hold back her laughter.

Samira raised an eyebrow.

"Want to bet how long she'll last without cracking a joke?"

"Three minutes," said Beatrice.

"Two," replied Frieren, her tone impassive, without taking her eyes off the scene.

And before them, Zanith remained motionless, not daring to react. For the first time in ages, silence was his only defense. But even that, there, seemed like a temporary luxury.

Ouroboros rose again, wiping the blood from his hand with disdain.

"This was just the beginning. We're still remembering everything you did. When the memory returns completely... the beating will get creative."

Zanith swallowed hard, his golden eye slowly turning.

And he muttered, almost like an imploring whisper:

"...shit."