The Harem Overlord System

Ethan Reed — System Log: Social Threat Level Rising

Confidence: +0.30 (Barely upgraded, still flammable)

Charisma: F+ (The plus is legally questionable)

Points: 5 (Participation trophy energy)

Self-Esteem: Functionally unstable

Task Status: Pending… for now

Ethan wasn't built for this.

Day Three of Operation: Become a Semi-Functioning Human and the universe was already testing his emotional firewall. His system hovered at the edge of his vision like a stubborn pop-up ad that refused to die, glowing faintly, smug as hell.

The stats taunted him every time he blinked.

Confidence: +0.30 (Microscopic improvement, still tragic)

Charisma: F (Now with a shiny, condescending asterisk)

Points: 5

Five points. Like getting a gold star for breathing.

The system hadn't assigned today's task yet—silent, lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to ambush him with social obligations he wasn't emotionally equipped for.

He pulled his hoodie up, headphones in, and cut through campus like he wasn't actively avoiding every potential conversation. The coffee shop? No shot. Jenna the Barista probably still remembered his tragic foam-art analysis from yesterday.

System Memory: "Is that… a squirrel? Or like… a latte tornado?"

Result: Humiliation. Negative barista rapport.

Yeah—he was banned from caffeine-based socializing for at least 48 hours.

Instead, he posted up near the bookstore, loitering like a socially anxious raccoon in discount streetwear.

And that's when he saw her.

She wasn't pretty in the curated, Instagram-filtered, sunlit glow kind of way. She was… dangerous-pretty. Chaos-pretty. The type of girl who looked like she'd ruin your life and enjoy it.

Black leather jacket—fitted, worn like armor. Messy dark hair that curled like it couldn't be tamed by physics. Combat boots scuffed from either street fights or just aggressively disrespecting sidewalks.

She leaned against the brick wall, scrolling her phone, detached from the world like she was above it. Like gravity filed restraining orders against her.

Ethan's brain promptly blue-screened.

Nope. Abort mission. You'll say something stupid. She'll incinerate your self-esteem with one eyebrow raise. You'll die. Maybe burst into flames.

But like it could smell the fear leaking out of his pores, the system pinged across his vision:

New Task Assigned: Compliment a stranger (Authentic Only)

Deadline: 12 hours

Reward: +10 points

Penalty for Failure: Increased social irrelevance

Of course. Of course it waited until his target was the human embodiment of "out of your league."

Ethan exhaled, nerves rattling under his skin. "Authentic only" was system code for: no pickup lines, no awkward jokes, no trying to sound cool and failing catastrophically.

He could walk away. Pretend the system didn't exist. Keep his five pity points and vanish into the crowd.

But his pride—small, fragile, still bleeding from the Lisa Incident—shoved him forward like a glitching NPC stuck on a quest marker.

Each step felt like walking toward an execution.

The girl looked up, sharp eyes locking onto him, unreadable expression. No smile. No warmth. Just that cool, tired amusement of someone who's seen every dumb approach before and is already unimpressed.

Abort. Abort. You're gonna combust on the spot.

"Uh… hey." His voice cracked, fragile as glassware in a blender.

One eyebrow arched, a singular, devastating movement. "Yeah?"

Ethan's courage? Rented. Probably expired.

But the words fell out, clumsy and honest. "Your jacket's cool. Makes you look like you could punch someone. That's… a compliment. I swear."

Silence. Heavy. Stretching like bad WiFi lag. His heart did its best dying fish impression—flopping, panicking, terminal.

But then—small miracle—a smirk curled on her lips. The dangerous kind. A calculated, slow-burn smirk that made his pulse stutter.

"That's probably the weirdest compliment I've gotten today," she said, eyes narrowing with faint curiosity. "But thanks."

System Ping: Task Complete — +10 points earned

Confidence: +0.40 (Technically still embarrassing, but improving)

Ethan exhaled, shoulders dropping from his ears.

Progress. Microscopic, but real.

"I'm Ethan," he offered, voice steadier, ego duct-taped together but intact.

The girl slipped her phone into her pocket, studying him like a science experiment that might explode. "Lena." Her gaze swept over him, evaluating, calculating—not entirely unfriendly. "You always ambush strangers with murder compliments, or is it my lucky day?"

He shrugged, smirk wobbling but present. "Definitely your lucky day."

Lena snorted, a quick, sharp sound of reluctant amusement. No full smile—but the edge softened, just a fraction.

Then, without ceremony, she pushed off the wall, boots hitting pavement with calculated rhythm. "Later, Ethan."

She walked away like punctuation—decisive, bold, unapologetic.

Ethan stood there, blinking at the empty space she left behind, brain trying to process the interaction.

The system glowed faintly at the edge of his vision:

Points: 15

Confidence: +0.40

Charisma: F+ (Slightly less tragic)

Optional Objective Unlocked: Escalate Future Interaction

Huh.

Didn't die. Didn't vomit. She… smirked? Spoke his name? Minimal social disaster?

Ethan's lips twitched, the smallest crooked grin creeping onto his face. He shoved his hands into his pockets, heart still jittery but lighter.

The world? Still brutal. Still filled with social landmines and rejection.

But for once, he didn't feel like prey.

System Status: Social Threat Level: Manageable

Next Objective: Survive the day.