Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!-Chapter 152: The Punishment For The Rebels

Morion threw a trembling woman into the center of the court. Her clothes were pristine—untouched by blood or wound—but her expression told a different story.

Eyes wide, body shaking, she looked as though she'd just stared into the abyss and barely returned alive.

"So!" Morion bounced with excitement, clasping her hands like a sweet and innocent child.

"You promised me more sweets, remember? The ones from the human realm? Can I have them now?"

Claude's gaze snapped toward the doors—just in time to see the anti-magic barrier shatter like glass.

A gust of mana surged through the hall.

His servants burst in with urgency.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty!" Vulture shouted, panting.

"It took longer than expected to break the barrier!" Relief washed over his face when he saw Claude unharmed.

"Your Majesty!" Sun followed close behind, eyes blazing. "Where is the enemy? I'll take them all down!"

Claude chuckled, calm amid the chaos. He turned back to Emmet, who now stood frozen in disbelief.

"What now?" Claude tilted his head, voice laced with mockery. "Any more surprises up your sleeve? Or is this the end of your pathetic little coup?"

Emmet's face twisted with rage. With a shout, he summoned a sword into his hand—his last shred of defiance.

The moment he moved, Claude's allies reacted instantly. Vulture stepped forward, Llyold shifted into a combat stance.

Morion's eyes gleamed red with anticipation as she floated off the ground, her dress swirling like smoke.

"Let's end this with a game of honor!" Emmet roared. He knew it was his final chance.

He would rather die in ritual combat than be remembered as a traitor who failed miserably, abandoned by the very people he trusted.

Claude exhaled in amusement, watching the once-proud man cling to scraps of dignity.

"A game of honor?" he echoed with a roll of his eyes. "You don't have honor."

Then his smile curved into something darker.

"But fine. Let's play."

He stepped forward, cloak billowing, his aura swallowing the room like a stormcloud.

'Maybe,' Claude thought, 'I can strip away even the last bit of shame he's clinging to—until there's nothing left of him but dust and disgrace.'

The hall fell silent.

Then, with a single flick of his hand, a surge of dark mana erupted beneath his feet.

A black claymore rose from the shadows.

The blade shimmered with violent red energy, as it wa alive and could devour anything.

The ground cracked beneath Claude as he took hold of it—effortlessly—like it weighed nothing.

Emmet staggered back.

"You said this would be a game of honor," Claude said calmly, walking forward. "But you and I both know… you don't even have anything left."

And then he moved. freewёbnoνel.com

It wasn't magic. It was speed, pure and raw—impossibly fast for a man without an ounce of mana reinforcement. The dark claymore arced through the air in a clean.

There was no clash of blades. No scream and resistance. Emmet didn't even realize what happened until something cracked.

His sword shattered, fragments scattering like dust across the marble floor. A sharp crimson line traced across both his forearms. And then—he dropped to one knee, breath hitching, eyes wide in disbelief.

His hands were gone. Cleansed in a single, merciless slash.

Blood poured from the stumps where they had been, pooling at his knees. He tried to scream but could only wheeze, the pain and horror sinking in all at once. Worse still—he couldn't regenerate.

The wound throbbed with a dark, lingering energy that rejected any chance of healing.

Claude stood tall, claymore resting on his shoulder. "I win."

Emmet gasped, breath shallow, staring up at him in disbelief. "You… kill me!"

"I don't kill trash," Claude said coldly, stepping past him. "You'll die as you lived—pathetically."

---

Three days later.

The sun hung high above the capital square, where thousands had gathered beneath the banners of the royal crest. Soldiers in dark uniforms lined the roads, their faces grim, their spears unmoving.

In the center of the square stood a raised platform.

On it, bound in chains and stripped of his noble garb, was Emmet—disgraced, bloodied, and pale.

His mouth was gagged, but the terror in his eyes was loud enough.

Claude sat on a high seat beside the stage, surrounded by his advisors and servants. Morion crouched beside him, eating a lollipop with bored interest.

"Are we done yet?" she mumbled through candy. "I want to go hunting…"

"Almost," Claude replied. His tone was calm, but his gaze was cold as steel.

Llyold stepped forward to read the charges.

"Emmet of House Varnaz, Rowan of House Rolvold, and Shan. For crimes of high treason, attempted regicide, unlawful imprisonment of royal concubines and heirs, and conspiracy to destroy the harem palace… all of you have been sentenced to death by decapitation."

A hush fell over the crowd.

Emmet, Rowan, and Shan didn't even dare to lift their heads. Their bodies bore no visible wounds—but their minds were shattered, dragged through Claude's "happy place," a realm of mental torment where they were forced to relive their worst fears, regrets, and failures over and over again.

Emmet trembled, his pride long stripped away. What stung more than the pain was the silence. Not a single voice had risen in his defense. No family, no ally, no plea for mercy.

He had gambled everything—his name, his bloodline, his ambitions—and now, not even his kin dared to acknowledge him.

They had abandoned him to rot, ashamed to be associated with his failure.

Rowan was no different. His own family had turned on him during the investigation, denying all involvement. They cast every blame on him, claiming ignorance, pretending they had no part in the scheme.

A lie, of course—some of them had known everything. They had even encouraged it. But now, faced with consequences, they chose self-preservation over loyalty.

And then there was Shan—utterly broken. He had believed, foolishly, that this was his chance to do something right. To prove himself.

Instead, he had failed so miserably that his own father had paid the ultimate price.

While Claude still as composed and cold. The investigation had already concluded. Every daemon who had participated in or known of the usurpation had been uncovered. None would be spared.

Claude had been tempted to strip House Rolvold of its titles and remove them from court altogether. But Llyold had stayed his hand.

"We cannot afford to weaken ourselves further," Llyold had said. "We're already lacking loyal manpower."

Reluctantly, Claude agreed.

In the end, only those daemons directly involved—those who had plotted, enabled, or turned a blind eye—would be punished severely. Their names were written, their fates sealed. Public trials awaited, followed by executions.

But the worst punishment for Emmet, Rowan, and Shan wasn't death. It was the silence.

The shame.

The abandonment.

They had tried to rise above the crown.

Now, they knelt beneath it.

Claude rose. "Let this be a warning," he said, voice projected by magic. "To all who would threaten my kingdom. I may be merciful… but I do not forget."

He gave a nod.

The executioner raised his axe. In a single clean swing, Emmet's head fell, rolling across the stage as blood pooled around the block. Then, continue with Rowan and Shan.

There were no cheers—only silence. This was the first known attempt at usurpation in centuries, and its failure echoed like a warning across the capital.

The Honorable Houses, long revered for their loyalty, stood tarnished. Their names were stained and while the common folk's faith in them wavered, their trust in Claude remained unshaken.

For Claude, that was enough.

He turned away without a second glance.

"Clean it up," he ordered. "We have a kingdom to rebuild."

Morion stretched her arms. "So, about those sweets...?"

Claude exhaled, a small smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "I'll get you two boxes."

"Yeeaahhh!! Thank you, Father!" Morion beamed, hugging him tightly. "Ah—but I have a playdate with my siblings now! I'm going!"

Claude blinked. "Alright, but don't go too rough on them… They're still babies."

"I know! I won't!" she chirped, then kissed his cheek and vanished in a flash of light, teleporting back to the palace.

Claude shook his head with a tired chuckle, only to be interrupted by Llyold leaning in to whisper, "That woman is ready for interrogation."

His smile faded. He nodded once. "Let's go."

***

Together with Llyold and William, Claude descended into the cold, torch-lit depths of the underground palace prison. The stone corridors echoed with quiet footsteps as they approached the secured cell.

Inside, Mahira sat on the far end of the room, wrists bound but otherwise unharmed.

Her tan skin glistened with sweat, and her short, dark-brown hair clung to her face.

Hazel eyes darted around in restless panic, flinching at the smallest sounds.

Claude stepped in and sat across from her, resting his gloved hands on the table between them.

"You're not from this continent, are you?" he asked calmly. "Tell me where you come from."

Mahira stiffened. For a moment, she couldn't breathe. His voice… his presence… it reminded her too much of that child. That nightmare. That monster who had tortured her soul.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

William slammed his fist on the table, the sound sharp as a whip. Mahira jolted, gasping.

"I-I'm from the Eastern Continent, Your Majesty!"

Tears welled in her eyes as she bowed her head low. "Please… please don't torture me. Just kill me already…"