Demonic Dragon: Harem System-Chapter 825: Why did you come here?

"My name is Voralith Antherio, I am the Demonic Dragon Empress of the Ten Celestial Wings." Her voice didn’t pierce the space, didn’t vibrate in the nonexistent air of that place; it simply arose in Scáthach’s mind, as if it had always been there, as if those words had only been remembered, not spoken. "Who are you, little one?"

Scáthach remained motionless for a moment.

Not out of fear.

But because, for the first time since awakening on that plane, she truly didn’t know how to answer.

Her pride as a dragon existed, firm, intact, refusing to bow before anything, but this... wasn’t a matter of dominion or territory. It was something beyond that. It was like confronting the very origin of concepts she had always taken as absolutes.

Still, she answered.

"Scáthach." Her voice was firm, though it didn’t echo, didn’t reverberate; it seemed small in that space. "I am a Demonic Dragon... I think I can call myself that..."

Voralith’s golden eyes gleamed with something that could be interpreted as amusement.

"I know." She replied immediately, tilting her head slightly, her hair flowing with an almost liquid fluidity. "What I want to know is what you’re doing here." she said calmly, but Scathach felt her gaze, those eyes... they were those of a True Dragon. She felt her entire being tremble under those golden eyes analyzing her.

Her presence seemed to intensify, no longer scattered, but focused, directed entirely at Scáthach, like a sun that decides to concentrate all its energy on a single point.

"You carry something interesting." Voralith continued, slowly raising her hand, her delicate fingers extending until they stopped a few centimeters from Scáthach’s draconic snout. "An anomaly."

Scáthach narrowed her eyes. "Don’t touch me."

Voralith’s smile widened slightly.

And then... She touched.

There was no visible movement, no impact, not even a touch in the sense that any living being would understand, but the instant that hand approached Scáthach, something within her was violated on a level that transcended flesh, bones, or even soul. It wasn’t pain, it wasn’t pleasure, it wasn’t energy, it was access. As if a door that should never have been opened had been unlocked without permission, as if all the secrets that formed who she was had been ripped from their deepest hiding place and exposed to an infinitely superior consciousness.

The world around her seemed to disappear, not because it ceased to exist, but because it ceased to matter. Everything that Scáthach was, everything that had been, everything that could be, was reduced to something simple, something trivial, something that could be read, consumed, and understood in a single instant.

Her memories began to unravel.

Not in the sense of being erased, but in the sense of being opened, flung open, leafed through like fragile pages of an old book being turned too quickly, fast enough that no resistance was possible. She saw herself, but not through her own eyes; she saw her childhood, her fears, her achievements, her pains, her choices, all being observed by another presence, a presence that did not judge, did not feel emotion, only absorbed.

It was as if she were being read.

Every memory she tried to protect simply did not respond. Every fragment of will that tried to resist was ignored. There was no way to fight against something that was not attacking, something that simply... existed above the concept of confrontation.

And then, in the next instant, everything stopped.

Scáthach’s draconic body, gigantic, majestic, full of power, began to disintegrate. There was no explosion, no violent rupture, only an inevitable dissolution, like ice disappearing under the sun, as if that form were incapable of sustaining itself in the presence of that entity. Scales vanished into particles of light. Wings disintegrated into fragments that evaporated before touching the ground. Her colossal structure was reduced, compressed, forcibly recreated, molded without any consent.

And then, she fell.

Not like a dragon, but like something smaller, more fragile, more... human.

Her body slowly reconstituted itself, each detail being reconstructed not by her, but by that presence that had invaded her essence. Long, red hair emerged first, gliding like living silk down her back until it almost touched the ground. Her eyes, once fierce and draconic, were now green like deep emeralds, still carrying a gleam of power, but also a vulnerability that hadn’t existed before.

The dress came last.

A long, black fabric that trailed on the floor like a materialized shadow, embracing her body elegantly and silently, as if it had been there for a long time.

When Scáthach realized it, she was no longer a dragon.

She stood motionless, her body too light, too strange, too small.

And then, the voice came again.

"That’s better."

The darkness that had previously dominated that space had completely disappeared, replaced by an intense light, neither hot nor cold, just... absolute. There was no visible origin, no direction; it was a light that simply existed, filling everything.

And at its center, there she was.

The figure that had done all this.

Now, unlike before, her form could be understood. Not completely, never completely, but enough to be observed.

Voralith was seated.

Not because she had moved there, but because a throne had appeared beneath her, as if space itself had bent to accommodate her will. The structure seemed made of something impossible to define; it wasn’t metal, it wasn’t stone, it wasn’t energy, but it carried golden details that pulsed softly, as if each line there were alive.

Her humanoid form was... too perfect.

Snow-white hair cascaded down to the base of her back, with golden highlights that shimmered as the surrounding light reacted to her presence. Her eyes were the most unsettling feature, completely golden, with no defined iris, no visible depth, as if looking into them was to confront something that no mortal mind should comprehend.

Her skin had a pale, almost ethereal tone, like living porcelain, without imperfections, without marks, without apparent history. She didn’t seem like someone who had lived, she seemed like someone who had simply... always existed.

And yet, there was something about her that betrayed her true nature.

A silent pressure, an authority that didn’t need to be imposed, an invisible weight that made the very concept of existence around her seem unstable.

She rested her face in one hand, her elbow resting on the arm of the throne, as she observed Scáthach with a clear, but not emotional, interest. It was curiosity, but not human curiosity; it was analysis, study, something much deeper and more distant. "You’re quite interesting."

Her voice didn’t echo, didn’t vibrate; it simply appeared in Scáthach’s mind, clear, inevitable, impossible to ignore.

"A whole life marked by battles, extreme choices, difficult decisions..."

Her golden eyes narrowed slightly, not in judgment, but in focus.

"...and yet, you died of an illness."

There was a pause.

Not because she needed to think, but because she seemed to appreciate the concept.

"That’s rare."

Scáthach tried to move.

Not to attack, not to flee, just to regain some control over herself, but her body didn’t respond immediately. It was as if she was still being watched, analyzed, held in a state where any action needed permission, and that permission simply wasn’t coming.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out for a moment. Her mind was still trying to understand what had just happened, still trying to process the feeling of having been completely... read.

Nothing was hidden.

Nothing was safe.

And that was, by far, the most terrifying feeling she had ever experienced.

Finally, her voice came out, lower than usual, but firm enough not to sound broken.

"Who... are you?"

Voralith didn’t answer immediately.

She tilted her head slightly, observing Scáthach as one would observe a rare piece, something found by chance, but which deserved a little more attention.

"I could answer in many ways."

Her voice remained calm, stable, without any emotional variation.

"Survivor. Warrior. Prisoner. Goddess."

Each word seemed to carry a different weight, as if each one were true, but none were sufficient on its own.

"But none of them would make a difference to you."

She slowly uncrossed her legs, a simple movement, but one that made the space around her react subtly, as if even reality itself were attentive to her gestures.

"So let’s simplify this." Her golden eyes fixed completely on Scáthach. "I am the one you shouldn’t have met. In fact, you just entered my prison."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was heavy.

Dense.

Laden with meaning.

Scáthach felt something inside her contract, not from ordinary fear, but from instinct, a deep, primal instinct, something that screamed that the existence before her was not something to negotiate with, fight, or even understand.

And yet...

She was there.

And Voralith was... interested.

"Now," Voralith continued, leaning slightly forward, resting her chin on her clasped hands, "tell me, little dragon..."

A slight smile appeared on her lips, not gentle, not cruel, just... curious.

"Did you come to me by choice... or by destiny?"

Scathach looked at her, "Coincidence?" she said hesitantly.

Voralith looked at her, "Ah... seriously, nobody ever comes for me in this mess." She said, "KAZESS, YOU SHITTY KING, COME HERE. YOUR PRISON ISN’T A PRISON IF SOMEONE CAN FIND IT!"