Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!-Chapter 68: The Slaughter Pit

The Slaughter Pit had always been a place of blood and spectacle. Built like a Colosseum, its circular design ensured every seat had a perfect view of the violence below.

Its name was not a mere exaggeration—it had been one of Donovan's most treasured pastimes to throw holy warriors into brutal duels, forcing them to spill each other's blood for his amusement.

Sometimes, he would unleash his newest "pets"—twisted creations of his sadistic mind—to test their might against those same warriors.

And now, it was about to host something far more personal—the Game of Honor.

Claude sat comfortably in the VVIP section, wine in hand. On his right, Llyold looked as composed as ever.

On his left, William sat straight-backed, observing the combatants below with quiet focus.

And sprawled across Claude's lap—because, of course, she insisted—was Lilac.

She wasn't exactly subtle about it, either. Draped over him like a lazy cat, she rested her arm around his shoulder, sipping wine as if she belonged there. Not that Claude minded.

Claude swirled his drink, watching as the combatants adjusted their armor and tested their weapons.

"At the very least," he mused aloud, "Donovan had one hobby I can appreciate."

Lilac hummed, shifting slightly in his lap. "Hmm… If you enjoy it so much, why not make this a regular event? A battle every week, maybe every month?"

She glanced at him with a playful smile. "This Slaughter Pit is just gathering dust, and let's be honest—the common folk love a good bloodbath."

One thing about the Daemon race, they were born evil to another race but have great care for their kin. So something like pitting another race against each other was a good watch for them.

Claude raised an eyebrow. "Not a bad idea."

"Of course, it isn't." She leaned in, trailing her fingers down his chest. "My father said you'll make me your Queen—"

"Lilac!" Llyold's sharp voice cut through her words, his patience snapping. "Enough. Focus on the fight and get back to your seat!"

His frustration was clear. He knew his daughter had become the King's concubine, but knowing and seeing were two very different things.

Watching her drape herself over Claude like this—openly, shamelessly—was something he hadn't quite adjusted to.

And speaking so carelessly about queenship in public? Dangerous.

"Boo! Father, just let your daughter have a little fun," Lilac pouted, arms crossing.

Claude chuckled, unbothered. "Relax, Llyold. The fight hasn't even started yet."

His hand idly slid down her thigh, his fingers brushing against the slit in her dress.

Lilac's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Oh? Your Majesty, are you truly that bold? Right here? In front of my father?"

There was no warning in her voice—only a challenge.

Claude smirked, his gaze flicking from her lips to the way her dress barely contained her big breasts.

"Just make sure you move when the fight begins," he murmured. "I'd hate to be too distracted by those beautiful curves of yours."

Lilac giggled, lightly smacking his chest before wrapping her arms around his neck. "Oh, Your Majesty, you're terrible."

Llyold let out a slow, exhausted sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 'Why did I expect anything different?'

Before he could scold her further, William—who had been watching quietly—suddenly spoke up.

"Llyold, you usually enjoy gambling in places like this. Why not make a bet?"

"Oh, right!" Lilac perked up, turning to her father. "You love gambling! Who do you think will win?"

Llyold exhaled through his nose. "There's no need to bet. The outcome is obvious."

He leaned back, arms crossed. "Gambling isn't fun when the stakes are too low."

Claude chuckled. "I like your mindset." His crimson eyes gleamed.

"But you're underestimating the firstborn of Olvon. In a fight, even a 1% chance can turn into 80% in an instant."

William raised an eyebrow. "So, are you betting on Wren?"

Claude swirled his wine lazily before smirking.

"This match…" His gaze fixed on the two armored figures below, standing face to face, tension thick in the air.

"There won't be a winner."

***

The announcer raised a hand. "The Game of Honor shall now commence! Let the daemons of noble blood prove their strength!"

The hand dropped.

A flicker—then darkness exploded.

Wren was the first to move, vanishing into the shadows before reappearing behind Ezra, his blade coated in writhing black flames.

"I will win this fight and bring back honor to my family!" he shouted.

Ezra barely tilted his head, his expression one of mild annoyance.

A single twist of his wrist—CLANG!—and Wren's sword was deflected effortlessly.

A heartbeat later, Ezra countered.

"Not that easy kid," he murmured.

His own blade became a blur, cutting through the air with unnatural speed. Wren barely managed to twist away, but not before a deep gash appeared on his side. His dark armor sizzled as Ezra's attack burned through the enchantments.

The crowd gasped and booed Ezra. Because of the scandal of Algran House, the common folk didn't respect Ezra and his family anymore.

But Ezra didn't mind it, he focused on bringing his dignity back and became deaf ears to their mock.

While Wren staggered, his breathing heavy. 'Damn it… He's too fast... Is this how big the gap between our power?'

His eyes darted around his father, Eldrich who looked at him full of concern, 'No... I need to win this!'

Ezra exhaled, his gaze cold. "Is that all?"

Wren growled, dark energy crackling around his fingertips. He shot his free hand forward.

"Shadow Bind!"

The arena floor erupted with inky tendrils, slithering toward Ezra like hungry beasts.

But Ezra didn't flinch.

Instead, his own shadow twisted unnaturally—devouring Wren's spell in an instant.

"Void Reversal."

Wren's eyes widened. "What?!"

Before he could react, Ezra moved. In the blink of an eye, he was right in front of Wren, sword raised high.

"Midnight Execution."

A black arc of energy slashed downward.

Wren barely managed to parry, but the sheer force sent him crashing into the ground. Dust and sand erupted around him, cracks forming beneath his body.

The audience roared.

Claude chuckled. "Tch. This is more predictable than I thought."

Lilac, still lounging on his lap, pouted. "This is getting boring. He's just toying with him."

But Llyold frowned. "No… look at Wren."

Claude's gaze sharpened.

Below, Wren was struggling to stand—but there was something different about him now.

The air around him grew dense, his mana churning violently. His breathing steadied. His grip on his sword tightened.

Then—he smiled.

Ezra narrowed his eyes. "What are you—"

Wren pressed a hand to his chest, whispering a spell. The temperature dropped. The arena darkened. The shadows themselves recoiled.

Then, a voice—his voice—rang out like a death knell.

"Awaken, Olvon's Legacy."

A pulse of pure darkness erupted from his body.

The entire Slaughter Pit trembled.

The darkness that once obeyed Ezra now writhed unnaturally, resisting his control. The air became suffocating, as if the battlefield itself had fallen into a void.

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Wren's wounds closed, his aura twisting into something monstrous.

His sword, once crackling with weak dark flames, now pulsed with true darkness—a blade that devoured the very light around it.

His green eyes were gone, replaced by two empty voids.

Ezra took a step back.

Claude grinned, crimson eyes alight with amusement. "Oh? Now this… this is interesting."