Demonic Dragon: Harem System

Located between the dark and untamed Kingdom of the Werewolves to the north and the enchanted and treacherous Fairy Forest of Lumina to the south, Al-Mirhaz is an open scar on the map of the continent, an ancient wound that has never healed. No road crosses it. No traveler passes through it without paying a price. Al-Mirhaz is not just a desert—it is a tomb of forgotten empires, of ancient pacts sealed with blood and sand.

The heat is suffocating. The sky is a bright white dome where the sun reigns supreme, cloudless, merciless. The air vibrates like glass under tension, and the light blinds even the sharpest vision. There are no shadows—only distorted shapes crawling over the cracked sand and piles of black stone. The ground is uneven, alternating between razor-sharp dunes and dry valleys where the wind digs graves for the unburied dead.

Sometimes bones emerge from the dunes — exposed ribs of some ancient beast, horns covered with extinct runes, or the remains of war machines whose gears no longer turn. The desert keeps everything. It chews up what dares to enter and regurgitates only silence.

There are no birds. There are no insects. The dominant sound is the wind: mournful, restless, whistling between the rocks like an evil whisper. At night, it changes. It blows like a sacred voice, as if the desert itself reminds the living that this is the land of the dead.

In the center of this parched hell, where the sand seems to steam with heat and the horizon trembles like a feverish delirium, two figures stand, separated by a few meters—but connected by something much deeper than physical space.

Liam and Noah. Brothers. Blood of the same blood. Warriors of rival houses, of lost causes. And now, with eyes fixed on each other, enemies with no turning back.

The battle between the two has lasted more than two days. The sun has risen and set twice, and yet neither has yielded. There is no honor in the duel anymore — only exhaustion, ferocity, and an insane pride that refuses to die before the body.

The ground around them is stained with blood. Parts of the sand have been blackened by successive explosions of magic and sword clashes. The once desolate place now looks like a profane altar built with suffering. Broken swords are stuck in the ground, as if the desert itself had witnessed other warriors fall there before.

Liam is wounded in the side, blood trickling through the plates of his damaged armor. Sweat covers his face, and his blond hair, once clean and proudly tied back, is now tangled and soaked. His gaze, however, remains the same—hard, cruel, determined. He holds his sword with both hands, the blade stained and cracked, but still functional. His pale green eyes stare at his brother with silent fury.

Noah, for his part, is breathing heavily. His left shoulder appears dislocated, and there is a deep gash in his armor on the right side of his chest. The hand that holds the weapon trembles. But his eyes... his eyes are alive. Blue as ancient ice, but burning inside. Determined. As if dying there were not just an option, but a gift. He does not want to win. He wants to take Liam with him.

Around them, the sand vibrates with the heat and power released with each blow. Magic still pulses in the air—remnants of the runes each drew with blood and anger at the beginning of the confrontation. There are open craters where the spells collided, scorched marks on the ground, and columns of smoke still rising like lit candles for the dead.

The fight has gone beyond technique. There are no more strategies, no more refined movements. It is raw, primitive, instinctive brutality. Each step is dragged. Each blow is a superhuman effort. And yet, neither of them retreats.

Liam advances first, with a guttural cry, raising his sword in a vertical thrust. Noah narrowly dodges, spins his body, and counterattacks with his blade sideways. Metal meets metal with a dull, thudding sound—almost without sparkle, as if even the sound were tired. Sparks fly, and both stagger, breathing heavily.

"You betrayed everything we fought for, we had a deal, you coward," Noah growls through clenched teeth, spitting blood onto the sand.

"You're weak. You always have been. You don't have the courage to destroy in order to rebuild. This alliance was a mistake," Liam retorts, retreating with difficulty. "Your mundane goals are meaningless when you have no strength... The world demands strength. You are not strong."

The two circle each other. Slow steps. Like wounded predators. Like brothers who no longer know who they are without their hatred for each other.

In the distance, a sandstorm rises, threatening to swallow the sky. The wind begins to howl louder, raising swirls of sand around the combatants. But they don't care. The fight is all that exists now.

A new blow. Another cut. Swords cross, sparks fly. Screams tear through the air.

The words have ceased. Now it is only pain. Steel, blood, and despair sew their fate together like a stained tapestry.

At some point, perhaps, they had been true brothers. They had shared laughter, struggles, ideals. Perhaps they had fought side by side on the walls of Strax, or faced monsters in the depths of Alnareth. But that was lost. The desert took it away.

There, under the merciless sun, what remains are two ghosts of men—two stubborn wills that refuse to yield. The battle no longer has a purpose. It is a sentence. A condemnation that both have willingly accepted.

The storm approaches. The sky darkens to shades of amber and gray. The sand begins to whip their faces, getting into their eyes, cutting their already wounded skin. But even that does not stop them.

One last blow resounds. A crash. A scream.

Both fall to their knees. Face to face. Their faces bloodied. Their blades fallen.

But still alive.

Still staring at each other.

Still waiting for the other to fall first.

And above them, the desert watches — silent, ancient, impartial.

Without mercy. Without haste.

Just watching.

As it always has.

As it always will.