Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!

Prince Lorian's eyes landing on Saintess Marienne. His green eyes narrowed in dislike while the tie in his dark hair felt too tight for him now.

"I see the Everbright Church has grown quite comfortable in my father's palace."

Tension rippled through the room. His voice was calm, yet every word was sharpened with accusation. After all, his father started to become paranoid and act strange when the church stayed in the palace.

Agree with them working together when his sister and niece are a witch? What a joke! He believed that his father was being brainwashed.

Marienne met his gaze evenly. "I'm here to protect the kingdom, Your Highness. That is what I've been doing—despite every obstacle placed in my path."

Lorian folded his arms, armor creaking softly as he smirked full of mocking. "By letting your captain's severed head be sent to the king like a slaughtered pig?"

She gritted her teeth, her hands clenched tight almost bleeding. But she needs to be patient, everything would be hers if she was patient.

"I was recalled by the king," she replied. "You're welcome to read the order yourself, though I assume your return means you've already reviewed the reports."

"I have," he said coolly. "And they don't flatter you, Saintess."

Barthold stepped between them, voice measured. "Enough. We don't have time for internal squabbles. Claude's threat is real—and his timetable short."

Lorian didn't look away from her. "Then we shouldn't be taking orders from zealots."

"I don't give orders, I offer protection," Marienne replied, voice steady. "And whether you believe in Everbright's mission or not, you'll need my help if you want Hyparia to survive."

He raised a brow. "And why would someone from a foreign church care if Hyparia falls?"

"Because if the Lord Of Calamity wins here, he won't stop," she said, stepping closer. "The same armies that took Durnvale will cross into Mycentia next. Then perhaps Promised Land That's why I'm here, whether you trust me or not."

Their eyes locked for a moment too long. Then Lorian glanced away. He already knew the message the Elysium King sent and how his kingdom was crumbling from the inside out.

Barthold was right, he couldn't keep being a petty like little boy if he wanted to save his kingdom and win the war.

"…I don't trust you. But I trust war less."

She inclined her head. "Then we'll work together—cautiously."

Barthold nodded with rare approval. "We need both of you. His Majesty is… no longer able to rule effectively. With the crown fractured and Claude closing in, it falls to us now."

The chamber fell silent again.

Finally, Marienne turned to Lorian. "Then we begin now. Show me your maps. Let's anticipate Claude's strike before he makes it."

Outside, the palace bells tolled—not for celebration, but as a grim reminder of how little time they had left.

And far from the capital, in the depths of the Elysium war camp, Claude smiled as the clouds darkened over Hyparia's fate.

***

At the mist-laced edges of Windbarrow Pass, shadows moved without sound. There were no banners fluttering in the wind, no blaring horns or clashing steel.

Yet to any watchful eyes on the Hyparian side, it looked as though an army was already there.

Claude's ghost unit had arrived. It was part of his strategy to spread fear upon the land, a cunning way to get rid of his enemy like a lion playing with its food before eating it.

Atop the ridge, illusion mages crouched behind jagged rocks, whispering incantations that painted the landscape with phantom figures—soldiers patrolling wooden barricades, smiths forging weapons, even spectral beasts prowling under conjured moonlight.

Far below, real troops disguised their tracks while setting up unlit campfires and mock supply wagons.

A dozen illusory summoning circles pulsed with precise magical resonance, mimicking the spiritual weight of actual beast-taming rituals.

To any diviner watching through scrying glass, it would seem a horde of monsters was being readied to sweep through the mountain pass.

General Samson stood at the highest vantage point, holding a spyglass enchanted to monitor Hyparian surveillance magic.

"As predicted. Their scouts just saw us. They've bought it. How foolish of them not to even realize it all illusions."

"They are all scared, especially the news about Duke Ciel's severed hands and how his army is being wiped out by a single spell spreading fast," Sun commented, and appeared beside him.

"They'll panic before midnight and the lord of this territory will definitely take the bait."

It didn't take long.

By morning, Lord Hendral of East Hyparia, stationed near the Windbarrow stronghold, had penned a frantic letter to the capital:

[To His Majesty's Council,]

[Enemy summoners spotted at Windbarrow Pass. Movement is consistent with an imminent siege. I demand immediate reinforcements and magical barrier deployment. The southern road is no longer safe. I repeat—no longer safe.]

The letter arrived at dusk, sending ripples of dread through the capital. Rumors flew—of Claude's serpents rising in the fog, of Elysium summoners cracking the mountains with dark rites.

The council panicked, and even with Marienne's pleading to calm down, they won't. They reasoned that they had a lot of knights and soldiers, and sending some wouldn't hurt their resources.

It was better than seeing their land taken away, especially when it was close to the capital.

They decided to divert two mage squads and three hundred foot soldiers east.

Exactly as Claude had hoped.

Back at the Elysium war camp, Claude sat with wine in hand, reading the intercepted report with a wry smile.

"Windbarrow worked. Lord Hendral cracked faster than I expected."

"Two cities now believe they're next," Samson added, placing new markers on the war map.

Claude glanced at the others: Fairholt, a fortified granary city on Hyparia's northern grain route, and Tirenhall, a noble seat just two days' ride from the capital, home to a small royal vault and ancestral tombs.

In Fairholt, his spies had spread rumors of poison in the grain, strange lights in the woods, and missing farmers dragged away by 'silent shadows.'

Saboteurs lit minor fires near the outer silos under illusion cloaks, leaving behind sigils written in blood.

Within twenty-four hours, the terrified magistrate sealed the food stores and called for Church exorcists.

Meanwhile, in Tirenhall, Claude had quietly sent envoys wearing stolen Everbright colors to 'deliver a blessing' from Marienne.

When the local lord refused entry, those same envoys staged an arson—burning down the outer chapel and making sure one of the prince's distant cousins was caught in the flames.

The city now bristled with paladin escorts, terrified nobles, and mistrust of the Church. Whispers began to swirl in court: Is the Saintess plotting something? Why are Everbright agents in Tirenhall?

Claude tapped the map with a smirk.

"Now they fear for their crops, their graves, and their borders. And the Saintess has three fires to put out—but only two hands."

Samson chuckled. "Which one's real?"

Claude pointed to none of them.

Instead, he placed his finger on a quiet, agricultural city tucked into the western lowlands—Rivemount. Unremarkable on most maps. But its natural spring fed a third of the capital's drinking water.

"No one watches the roots," Claude murmured, "when the branches are burning."

Sun raised a brow. "And when she finally realizes it?"

"She'll be too late."

Claude turned from the map and walked toward the darkened tent flaps, his cloak brushing against the war table.

"Let's give her a day," he said. "Then we move."

***

Marienne stood in the heart of the war chamber, her knuckles white against the polished edge of the council table as the chamber erupted into a cacophony of fear and contradiction.

"Fairholt's granaries are under threat!"

"No, Windbarrow! That's where the summoners were seen!"

"What about Tirenhall? The Church is being accused of sabotage—this could cause a noble revolt!"

Every voice clawed for dominance, panic twisting even seasoned generals into fools. Maps were shuffled, wards requested, and troop reallocations debated in breathless chaos.

No one could agree. Everyone feared they would be the next target. How couldn't they weren't? The Elysium King spell was enough to destroy a whole army with knights and mages!

And Duke Ciel's knights were infamous of their skill... If the Duke and his army had just fallen like that, what would happen to them?

And in the middle of it all, the King's madness loomed like a stormcloud over their thoughts.

Marienne gritted her teeth. "This is exactly what the Lord of Calamity wants. He's baiting you. You're letting fear lead your decisions!"

Her words bounced off the walls, unheard or ignored. Even Chancellor Barthold, who had once been the voice of composure, seemed rattled.

He flipped through reports with trembling hands, sweat gathering at his brow.

She glanced at the prince.

Lorian said nothing. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded—but fixed on her. Not with blame, nor approval. Just observation. Cold, calculating observation.

'He doesn't trust me, not the Church, not the crown, no one.'

Marienne's heart pounded. The chaos Claude had unleashed was working—too well. With one fake move in Windbarrow and some saboteurs in Fairholt, he'd turned the court into a den of paranoia.

The King's panic was no longer isolated. It had metastasized. Infecting every noble, every general, every strategy.

If they didn't regain control soon, they wouldn't need Claude to destroy them.

They would destroy themselves.

And all she could do… was watch them unravel.