Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!

The hospitals overflowed. From a normal one for common folk and nobles to the military base.

Yesterday, the report started of people getting poisoned from an unknown source. But it was spreading fast, even faster than Red Slumber and people who had still not recovered from losing parents and children were now in a panic.

The council was too late to give an announcement about the poisonous well and spring. They were too late to realize that the Lord of Calamity wouldn't play a fair game of war with them.

Rows of beds lined the marble halls, filled with soldiers and civilians alike. Some lay shivering, others gasped for breath, their veins darkening with the early signs of venom exposure.

The air was thick with antiseptic herbs and whispered prayers.

And still, they kept coming.

Marienne moved down the corridor with purposeful steps, her robes now turned into a black one, sleeves pushed to her elbows. Sweat clung to her neck—not from exhaustion, but from exertion.

She had been casting for hours.

Each body she passed carried the same symptoms: bloodshot eyes, fevered pulses, and retching.

Claude's venom wasn't ordinary. No mere poison. It was a cursed contagion that left a mark like glyphs on the victim's body. Something strong and ancient to the point not all of her priests and clerics could purify the water and the people.

Many of them fall because lack of mana and exhaustion. Moreover, since Hyparia untied the relationship between the church and the kingdom, holy people who was trained were rare.

Even churches all over the kingdom could be counted easily, they lacked manpower.

Marianne was furious now. All of her works were being blocked by many factors coming from Hyparia itself and not even from her enemy.

But even so, she was the chosen Saintess and today was the perfect day to show how holly she was. If she was lucky, the church might have new followers.

She reached the central chamber where the most critical patients lay—two young squires, a pregnant woman, and a knight captain vomiting blood into a silver bowl. His lips had gone blue.

The priests and clerics bowed as she passed, their faces stricken.

"We've tried everything," one murmured. "But the venom persists. We can't dispel them fast enough."

"Stand back," Marienne said, her voice calm and cool.

She stepped to the center of the room, raising her hands.

The glow started small—just a pinprick of gold between her palms. Then it grew, a second sun swelling above her head, illuminating the chamber.

The walls quivered from the pressure. Candles sputtered. Every symbol carved into the cursed victims' flesh lit up—screaming as divine light scorched through them.

She spoke no words, but the prayer resounded in the soul.

"Lux Sanctissima."

Holy light burst outward in a wave—golden, warm, searing. The patients gasped, arched, and then stilled. The veins faded back to normal, the skin cleared, and the pain stopped.

Every cursed sigil shattered into motes of dust and vanished.

Clerics fell to their knees. Some wept. The mother clutched her belly and cried, not from pain—but relief.

"Thank you! Thank you Saintess Marienne!"

Outside, the city felt it.

The wind shifted. The dark clouds that had hovered over the capital for days broke apart. A golden sheen danced over rooftops and fountains.

People stepped from their homes, staring upward as warmth returned to their skin. The sick who hadn't even made it to the hospital found themselves suddenly breathing easier.

She had healed the capital.

Not with sermons. Not with threats. But with her power—undeniable, divine.

In the silence that followed, a young priest whispered, "She is our Saintess…"

And the others repeated it, louder this time. "Saintess Marienne…"

Even among skeptics, fear turned to reverence.

The chief cleric approached her, wiping his eyes. "The venom's grip has weakened. The glyphs in the eastern aqueduct are fading. You've severed its reach."

Marienne didn't respond immediately. Her knees shook as she caught her breath. The spell had taken much—too much. She felt it behind her eyes, in her bones. But her duty wasn't finished.

"How many wells remain?" she asked.

"Three. One near the training barracks, one beneath the merchant quarter, and one leading to the inner palace spring."

"I'll purify them all tonight," she said.

"Saintess, if I may…" a young cleric stepped forward, clutching a water basin filled with pale venom. "We tried to cleanse this. It resisted all known chants. But it no longer reacts to our touch."

Marienne placed her fingers in the water. She closed her eyes—and with a short breath, whispered a single phrase.

"Be undone."

The water shimmered—then turned clear.

The cleric stared, stunned. "It's… gone. The venom's gone."

"No," Marienne said softly, drawing back her hand.

"It's still there, just sleeping. The Lord Of Calamity's venom is layered. Hidden. That's why we must go to the source."

"Rivemount?"

She nodded. "I leave before dawn."

"Should we summon the guard? A battalion?"

Marienne shook her head. "If this is a battle of the spirit, then I go with spirit alone. I don't need swords. I need truth. I will see the cursed wells with my own eyes."

She looked out the open doors of the temple. The night was falling. The stars over Hyparia were flickering into view like distant torches.

She had burned through much of her magic… but what she carried now was more than divine power.

It was resolved.

If the Lord Of Calamity had poisoned the roots, she would pull them up with her own hands.

And if he waited for her in Rivemount, then so be it.

The Saintess of Everbright was coming. And not even the Lord of Calamity would face her without cost.

***

The fog still clung low over Rivemount when Prince Lorian felt a sudden stillness in the air. The kind that came before lightning.

His hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword as his men around him straightened, their training sharpening their senses in the unnatural silence.

Then he appeared.

Claude stepped from the mists with all the serenity of a man entering his own garden. He wore no armor, only a high-collared black coat with silver embroidery, and behind him, the mist swirled unnaturally—like a living curtain.

Samson and Sun did not walk beside him this time. He had come alone, deliberately, like a king descending from a higher world.

Prince Lorian's jaw tightened as he gestured his knights to hold formation. But Claude didn't even glance at the Dawn Force.

Instead, his crimson eyes locked directly onto Lorian.

"You've seen the city," Claude said. "Tell me, is this what your council sent you to save? A hollow corpse?"

Lorian didn't answer at first. He watched Claude's posture, the way he stood just within striking distance but showed no concern. There was no sword on his waist. No magic circling his fingers.

And yet… the power emanating from him was overwhelming. It wasn't an aura of destruction—it was an aura of inevitability.

"Why are you here?" Lorian asked tone hard. "Who are you?"

The prince knew he was an enemy, from the way he talked, his aura, and his confidence. He was strong. Maybe a general?

"To offer you a future," Claude said simply. "Hyparia is dying. I can save what's left."

"I'm Claude, the King of Elysium and the Lord of Calamity descendant."

The moment Claude introduced himself, everyone pointed the swords at him as they became even more alert.

Lorian let out a sharp breath, a bitter smirk curling on his lips. "Save it? By turning it into a vassal state? I've seen the contracts you sent to other cities."

"You want taxes, slaves, our crops, our healers. You want us to hunt down priests and deliver them to Elysium like cattle. That's not salvation. That's conquest."

Claude didn't blink. "It's survival."

"You would have us betray our people and hand them over to be butchered or branded. What's left of Hyparia if I agree to that?"

"A kingdom still breathing," Claude said calmly. "With your banner still flying, and your people not burned to ash."

Lorian's fists clenched. "You poisoned our water. You murdered our lords. You sent their heads like gifts. Don't pretend you care about peace."

"I don't," Claude replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. "I care about the great of Elysium and your kingdom beneath us."

There was a pause as Lorian gritted his teeth, his jaw tightened. He never felt this powerless before in his life.

Then Claude stepped closer.

"You're not like the others," he said. "You see the rot. You know the king is broken and the nobles are weak. I offer you a chance to rise above it. To rule under me—not as a dog, but as a lion."

Lorian's heart pounded. Somewhere, buried beneath the disgust, a part of him understood the truth in those words.

His father was crumbling. The Church had meddled too far. His people were sick, starving, and divided. And Claude… Claude had done in weeks what none of them could in years.

But still, Lorian's voice came out cold. "No."

Claude raised a brow. "No?"

"I will not bend the knee to a monster."

A minute passed as Claude just there looking at him, as if trying to read his mind and it scared even the prince.

"You'll change your mind," Claude smirked said. "You'll see what I am. What I can do. And when your armies fall and the capital burns, you'll beg for my banner to fly above your throne."

He then turned around and paused at the edge of the fog.

"You will bow, Prince Lorian," Claude said softly. "Not because you want to… but because you'll see that I'm the only future left."

Then he vanished into the mist.