Champion Of Lust: Gods Conquer's Harem Paradise!-Chapter 396: Priestess’s Fractured Vision

Her lips parted slightly as if to ask the questions aloud, but she stopped herself, exhaling through her nose instead. She despised unanswered questions, yet here she was, drowning in them. It was infuriating. She prided herself on knowing things others didn't—seeing threads of fate where others saw only chaos. And yet… this boy was a blind spot in the grand design.

She scowled to herself. "I do not like blind spots."

No matter which way she turned the puzzle pieces in her mind, they only led to more questions—each one more tangled than the last.

She exhaled slowly, turning her gaze to her daughter. How did she even form a connection with this man?

A smile touched her lips, gentle yet laced with the weight of silent contemplation. Her daughter had spoken of him, but even before this, there had been something—a pull. Madame Seranova had felt it, like a whisper at the edge of fate.

And yet… she had never foreseen this.

The coming of an anomaly wrapped in the skin of the House Obsidian heir.

Her fingers tapped absently against her arm, the only outward sign of her frustration. That troubled her the most.

She had glimpsed fragments, flickering visions of him ever since her daughter had first uttered his name. But none of them were stable or shown anything about who—what—exactly he was. They shifted, twisted, morphed—refusing to hold shape. It was as if fate itself, an omnipresent force that dictated the course of all things, had tried to ensnare him in its unyielding grip—only for him to slip away.

Like trying to hold water in a woven basket.

She had seen countless fates, mapped out destinies with a precision most mortals could never fathom. Yet when it came to him, every thread she reached for unraveled in her hands. Every path splintered into infinite possibilities, as if the universe itself was uncertain of what to do with him.

It was as if fate, with its merciless talons, sought to clutch him tight, dragging him into the inevitable. Yet, just as the grip was about to close, he slipped—not through sheer defiance, nor by strength, but like a whisper escaping through the cracks of destiny's unyielding grasp. He wasn't supposed to break free. He wasn't meant to exist outside its design.

And yet, here he was, standing where fate had never intended him to be.

And he wasn't alone.

There was another.

A white-haired beauty with green eyes—serene, yet hiding a deadly nature beneath. Madame Seranova had never met this woman, only glimpsed her through fractured visions surrounding Pyris. But she knew… she knew this woman was as dangerous if not even more dangerous.

Her brow furrowed slightly. "Why do all the dangerous ones have to be pretty?" It was a cosmic injustice, really. "It would be so much easier if villains looked like rotting corpses instead of otherworldly beings sculpted by the gods themselves." Then there were the others.

Alexa. Aurelia. Alera.

Three walking disasters, anomalies in their own right.

She briefly entertained the idea of grabbing a drink. Something strong. Something that could knock a celestial off their feet. "How did I end up involved with so many reckless, universe-defying beings?" Of course she was meant to be carried into this madness on that fateful day —the day her daughter met the Obsidian Heir in the Grove!

Her visions would usually spin endlessly, revealing only glimpses of what could be. And before she knew it, curiosity had taken root. What was once concern had become something else—an eagerness, an curiousity anticipation to meet this boy in the flesh.

And now, here she was.

Only… that there were threats lurking in the background.

Her silver eyes gleamed, watching the unfolding events with silent interest.

She adjusted her posture slightly, lifting her chin with the quiet grace of someone who had long mastered the art of appearing unbothered—despite the absolute mess of unanswered questions piling up in her mind.

"Let's see how House Obsidian handles this."

______

Days had passed since Song had been entrusted with overseeing the launch, ensuring nothing would disrupt the already fragile balance between the empires.

Tensions ran high—Emberly and Pyris both knew the empires were always on edge, waiting for the slightest excuse to turn against each other. A single spark, and it would all go up in flames. Emberly understood this all too well. That was why she had placed Song in charge of security.

Anyone seeking to shatter the delicate truce between the empires would see this gathering as the perfect opportunity—a chance to deal a decisive blow against the leaders while they were all in one place. But Emberly wasn't about to let that happen. Not here. She didn't care if they killed each other but not in her compound.

If chaos erupted, it wouldn't just be the empire leaders caught in the storm—she would be dragged into it as well.

And that meant her family. She was already handling too much as it was. Pyris was approaching seventeen, then eighteen, and with that came the ripping time of the Curse. The last thing she needed was another political disaster on her hands.

So, she had no choice but to trust Song.

But even within the thickest walls of stone and steel, corruption had a way of seeping through the cracks—like smoke curling beneath a locked door, like rot spreading beneath polished marble floors, unseen until it was too late.

No matter how many guards stood watch, no matter how many wards were placed, there was always a shadow too deep, a whisper too soft, a hand too quick to catch.

Above, hidden in the shadows where no one could sense them, an unseen figure steadied their aim. Their fingers curled around the bowstring, drawing it back with slow, practiced precision. Their eyes burned—not with hesitation, but with sheer madness and unshakable resolve.

The arrow gleamed, absorbing every ounce of mana it could hold, its surface shifting between hues of deep violet and sickly gold. It pulsed with power, the air around it distorting ever so slightly, as if reality itself recoiled from its presence.

The assassin closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He didn't need sight—he needed the wind, the rhythm of the air currents whispering through the ventilation shafts above, weaving around the towering pillars and high balconies.

The artificial gusts from the cooling systems should have made the shot unpredictable, chaotic even. But to him, they were a guide, an unseen current he had learned to navigate long ago.

With a minuscule twist of his fingers, he adjusted the arrow's trajectory, accounting for the subtlest changes in airflow. And then—

He released.

There was no sound. No whistle, no rush of wind. No sign that death had been let loose. One blink, and it was gone.

A shift.

The arrow vanished mid-flight—only to reappear as four.

Four deadly projectiles, splitting apart with unerring precision, each locked onto a separate target.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Nothing could stop them now.