Dungeon Overlord: Monster Girl Harem!-Chapter 128: Feelings Stuck in the back of his throat

The problem almost solved itself.

Zafira's legs gave out the moment she tried to climb off the barstool, clinging to Leonhardt's side with a soft whimper. Her body was flexible, heavy with a warm, sweet, cloying heat. She mumbled in his ear and incoherently babbled, her breath fruity and sharp with the drink's lingering spices.

"You're going to be punished for public seduction," Leonhardt muttered, slipping an arm under her knees and hosting her up like a newlywed.

The bar's air shifted once the sky turned dark, with murmurs and a few chuckles, but no one dared to make too much noise. "Hehe, I will seduce you more~ L—eon."

Leonhardt nodded to the redhead behind the bar.

The Queen gestured to the hallway, which led to their inn rooms, before tossing him some brass keys with a number five on them. "Second door on the left. Try not to break the bed," she said with a smirk.

He didn't answer her taunt. His boots thudded against the creaky steps as he carried Zafira upward, her arms lazily draped around his neck as she giggled into his collarbone.

"You're warm," she whispered.

Once again, he just gazed at her, not responding. The hallway was dim, flickering lights barely holding back the shadows. The scent of aged ale and cracked leather walls filled Leonhardt's keen nose, growing stronger with each step.

He stopped at the second door, with a rusted metal number five, twisted the key, and rammed it open when stuck.

Inside, he found a decent room with a double bed, basic nightstand, dented copper basin and an old oil lamp flickering beside a cracked mirror. But the moment the door shut, it became quiet. Private. Safe.

Leonhardt lowered Zafira onto the mattress, brushing her hair. She landed with a soft "mmpf," blinking up at him with eyes that glowed faintly golden in the low light.

"You're so... serious," she mumbled, pawing at his chest. "I thought demons were the scary ones."

"I'm not in the mood to argue philosophy with a drunk succubus," he said.

"Not drunk," she said proudly, blinking slowly. "Just a little... light-headed."

"Of course."

She sat up with her cheeks puffed out, reaching for him. Her hands—delicate, soft and tipped with claws as she cupped his cheeks. Her expression wasn't lustful. It was oddly innocent.

"Thank you for the date," she whispered. "It was... really special. I haven't laughed that much in forever."

The rare compliment from Zafira made Leonhart's lips curl into a smile. He looked down at her, this woman who could tear the hearts from knights and honoured warriors, smiling like an innocent girl after her first dance.

"Did you enjoy it, if so that's all that matters."

"Mmm... then I guess it's even better. No pressure. No pretending."

She leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn't a heated and passionate kiss, just warm, like a feather, a soft press touching his lips with a sense of fragility beneath. It lasted only a second, but the feeling lingered.

She pulled back and lay down, her tail curling under the sheets, her wings fluttering once before tucking close to her body. "I think… I'm falling for you…" she whispered, barely audible. "Even if you don't want me to."

Leonhardt froze. He knew her feelings from the moment she attacked him during her fit. Yet, when hearing her sat it so honestly.

Those words didn't come from her lips like a deadly weapon. Not her usual seduction. No manipulation. Just the girls' pure and painful feelings. He stood there a moment longer, watching her eyes lazily drifted closed, her breathing slowed. She became serene, a faint smile still resting on her soft lips.

Leonhardt moved to the window, pulling the thin curtain aside, staring out into the pitch black slums that resembled a void. The scent of her candyfloss and spiced berry breath still clinging to him.

'She's stronger than you. More refined. More free.'

The truth bit into his pride like a rose thorn, a beautiful flower with a sharp warning.

He could take her right now. Give in. She wouldn't stop him—hell, she would definitely beg him to keep going. But that would make him lesser. That would make her his crutch, not a partner.

And he wanted to stand beside her, not beneath her.

Leonhardt looked out the window, barely able to see the silver moonlight covered by the platform, before sighing as he touched his chest. Able to feel the throbbing beats of his chest pounding against his ribs.

"Maybe... as much as I try to resist it...

I've fallen for you too, Zafira."

With one last glance, he pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, brushed the loose hairs from her cheeks, and kissed her forehead before stepping out. He closed the door as quietly as possible behind him.

The dark hallway spread out before him, like a tunnel to another world, and at the end of it a man waited for him in silence: Joker.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.

"Meet me downstairs."

***

Leonhardt's boots pressed quietly along the worn floorboards, the flickering wall-lanterns humming with faulty coiled magic.

A cheap, makeshift copy. Signature of the slums. Behind him, the room's door clicked shut—soft, final. The warmth of Zafira's breath, the scent of her hair, her fragile smile… all of it tucked away like a dream at sunrise.

The stairway groaned under his weight as he descended back into the bar, but the tavern was quieter now.

No laughter like before. Fewer drunks. The light dimmed to a sullen amber. The Queen leaned against the bar, idly polishing a glass that already sparkled, her red hair falling over one eye. When she looked up at Leonhardt, the smile vanished from her eyes. No fear, only aggression and pity.

She jerked her head toward the iron-reinforced door past the back booths. "He's waiting."

Leonhardt remained silent, ignoring her. He adjusted his coat and strode past her. The click of his steel boots against the wooden boards was the only sound.

The hallway behind the iron door was narrow and long, lined with warped wood and again pictures on the walls drained of colour. He could smell it—blood and scorched metal. A faint tinge of oil used to clean torture racks. The kind of hallway built by men who didn't believe in mercy, only efficiency.

As he walked, his mind drifted to the fight with Enzo a few weeks ago.

Leonhardt might have held an advantage with his race, power, and speed. It wasn't because of these things he lost, but mostly his mindset and training. Enzo moved with such a clean and practised motion. A blur. His sword cut through Leonhardt like a ghost with inhumane elegance.

He remembered the sound his bones made as they cracked under the pressure of him overusing Tyrant Accel.

Yet even that only brought him a single blow, one lucky attack.

And yet Enzo walked away with a smug smile.

The only reason he didn't die was Erina. If he hadn't tried recruiting Erina, then Enzo would have killed him before he could recover.

But what about now? Could he fight Enzo?

Leonhardt stopped at the end of the hallway. The door before him was black iron, scorched at the edges, with the Joker sigil—an upside-down playing card—scratched into its surface. There was no handle. Just a slit along the edge.

He knocked once, then twice.

Silence.

BANG!

A hiss of air spread from the door after Leonhardt kicked it.

The door clicked and creaked open, revealing a room filled with cigar smoke and candlelight. Rich burgundy rugs sprawled across the floor, layered over steel plating. And a map of the city pinned across one wall with knives.

With a squeak, a broken chandelier swung slightly from above, causing the light to flicker over the curved leather couch against the wall and the man sprawled across it.

Enzo.

Blonde hair uncombed, loose strands covering one eye. A half-buttoned vest over a wine-red shirt. Boots kicked up onto a table scattered with papers and half-drunken liquor bottles.

He was playing with a coin between his fingers.

"Leonhardt," he drawled, not even glancing up. "I was wondering if you'd show. Was half-sure you'd end up tangled in a blanket with that woman."

Leonhardt stepped in without a word, letting the door shut behind him.

"I'm not that lucky," he said.

"Oh, no. You're very lucky. Just not in the ways that matter."

Enzo flicked the coin, catching it on the back of his hand without looking.

"Drink?"

"No."

"Pity."

Leonhardt stayed standing. He didn't bother taking a seat on the patched leather chair across from Enzo. The room was warm, far too warm, and smelled of clove, blood, and candle wax.

"Get to it," Leonhardt said.

"Such manners," Enzo said, finally raising his eyes.

They were green. Vibrant. Unlike before, now Razor-bright. The eyes of a gambler who already knew the dealer was cheating and didn't care—because he was cheating better.

He smiled.

"I'm just surprised you're still breathing, didn't Dia give you a hard time?"