QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 78: Fertility problems

Chapter 78 – Cedric POV

I never thought I’d say this.

But I’m tired of having sex.

Not in the "oh, I’ve had too much pleasure" kind of way. No. More like the "if I see another lace nightgown, I’m going to jump out the window" kind of way.

It’s every day now—except one.

The concubines rotate like it’s a shift schedule at a factory. Different perfume. Same dead eyes.

They’re all trying to get pregnant, of course. An heir for House Callum. A legacy. Whatever.

But people are starting to look at me funny.

The staff. The vassals. Even the kitchen maid gave me a pitying look yesterday when she handed me my tea.

Because it’s been months, and not a single one is pregnant.

The Duchess, ever so graceful, has sent me gifts—special drinks, concoctions, "fertility boosters."

One of them smelled like feet and burnt cinnamon. Another had an ingredient I swear to God was labeled "penis of a forest lizard."

A penis. Of a what?

It’s insulting on multiple levels.

I died a virgin.

And somehow in this world, I’ve become a prolific non-father with a multiple wives and performance anxiety.

And you know what makes it worse?

They just lie there.

Like decorative pillows.

Perfect posture. Blank stares. A few half-hearted moans, maybe. One of them literally said "you may proceed" last week.

Proceed?

I’m not a footman delivering letters, Lady Viola.

It’s gotten so clinical I could be replaced with a broomstick and a turkey baster and no one would notice.

At this point, the only thing I’m producing is existential dread.

So yeah.

I’m in a palace full of women, supposedly the envy of every man in the kingdom, and I’m starting to understand why my ancestors just went to war instead.

At least that was productive.

"Your Grace," one of the vassals says, interrupting my existential spiral.

I blink. Right. I’m in the council room now.

Seven old men, all with receding hairlines and judgmental eyes, sit around a long oak table. One of them coughs like he’s allergic to my authority.

I lean back in my chair, legs crossed, hands folded, trying to look like I belong here.

Trying to look like a Duke, not just the placeholder I know they still think I am.

"We’ve noticed," continues Lord Halberd—his real name, I swear to God—"that there’s been a rather... abrupt increase in spending on administrative restructuring."

He says "restructuring" like it’s a sin.

Because it is, to them.

"Correct," I reply coolly. "I’ve been removing corruption. Reassigning duties to those more suited for them."

Which is noble-speak for: I’ve been firing their spies and bootlickers left and right.

Lord Myron sniffs. "And replacing them with unproven commoners?"

"They do their jobs. Unlike your nephew, who confused the grain tax with cattle tolls."

A tense silence.

One of the older men leans forward, voice smooth and slow.

"With all due respect, Your Grace, perhaps such sweeping reforms should be... reviewed. By the council. Or by the Duchess, who has always kept the household stable."

There it is.

The threat. The veiled warning.

You’re making too much noise, boy.

And we’ll remind you who actually runs this house.

I smile.

I smile like a man who’s already picked out their replacement.

Because I have.

Unfortunately for these old crows, the Duchess isn’t the ally they hope she is. She doesn’t meddle in household affairs—not unless her authority is questioned directly.

All she’s ever demanded is that she’s shown proper respect, kept in her rightful place as the Lady of the House, and that the estate doesn’t fall apart under my leadership.

So far, I’ve delivered on all three.

Which means I have room to move.

Still—replacing vassals is a delicate matter. You don’t just toss out decades-old power structures overnight unless you want a rebellion on your hands.

But I’ve been patient. Calculated.

Slowly but surely, I’m gaining my foothold.

The servants now report to me before anyone else. The estate books are handled by someone who owes me their job. The captain of the guard was recently replaced—under "mutual agreement," of course—with someone who used to train under my father’s knight.

Small victories.

But they’re mine.

And one day, these stiff-necked relics sitting around me will find themselves obsolete.

I nod again as Lord Halberd drones on about protocol and decorum, but I’m not really listening anymore.

I’m thinking about the map I hid in my study.

The letters I’ve intercepted.

The information I’ve been quietly gathering, even on the people closest to me.

Especially them.

Because power doesn’t come from titles.

It comes from knowing things no one else does.

Another one of the vassals coughs—dry and deliberate.

Marquis Talbor.

Viola’s father.

A seasoned schemer with the same cunning glint in his eyes that his daughter wears like perfume. Unlike the others, he’s not interested in putting his claws directly into my reign.

No—he’s playing the long game.

He’s betting on a grandson.

His blood on the throne. A Callum heir with Talbor cunning and Callum bloodline. A noble alliance in its finest, most manipulative form.

Honestly?

That’s better than the rest. Had he been the type to grasp at my seat now, I’d be dealing with twice the pressure. Instead, he’s patient. Strategic. Smiling in every silence.

But he doesn’t respect me.

Not really.

Not yet.

Still, he doesn’t outright disrespect me either. There’s a mutual understanding.

He speaks now, voice smooth as aged wine.

"Your Grace, may I have a word... in private?"

A few of the older lords glance between us knowingly. The others feign ignorance.

I nod. "Of course, Marquis."

We step out into the adjoining study—one of the less formal rooms, still hung with too many hunting portraits and not enough air.

He doesn’t sit.

Neither do I.

He studies me like one might study a horse they’re not sure will survive the season.

"I’m told," he begins, casually brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, "that the Duchess has been quite invested in the matter of succession."

Here we go.

"Yes," I say evenly. "She’s been ensuring all household operations are... aligned."

A neutral answer.

He looks vaguely embarrassed—which is saying something, considering this man once ordered a public flogging without blinking—and reaches into his tailcoat.

From the inner pocket, he removes a small glass vial.

Clear. Sealed. Slightly glowing, which is never a good sign.

"I acquired this from a merchant," he says, voice lowered like we’re discussing national secrets

. "Apparently even the king uses this... It’s very effective."

There it is.

The royal-grade aphrodisiac-for-fertility-purposes.

Just what every duke wants to be handed by his concubine’s father.

I school my face into blank civility.

Inside, I’m screaming.

This is awkward for both of us. Deeply, painfully awkward. But neither of us flinches. That’s nobility for you.

He extends the vial like it’s some sacred offering. I take it with the same grace I’d offer to handling a live grenade.

It’s warm. Why is it warm?

"I... appreciate your concern," I manage.

"It’s in all our best interests, Your Grace." He nods like a man who believes he’s just done something noble. Like I’ve been blessed.

I want to ask what the ingredients are. I also don’t want to know. I’m pretty sure it glows in the dark. I’m going to pretend it’s... ginseng. Or hope. Or powdered embarrassment.

"It only needs a few drops," he adds helpfully.

"Of course."

I place the vial carefully into my pocket like it might explode. He gives one final, meaningful look—one that says, get your act together—and walks out of the study with his head held high.

I exhale the moment the door shuts.

Great.

Just great.

This is my life now.

Gods, please.

Just let one of them get pregnant.

Just one.

I don’t even care who at this point. Viola, Clarissa, Miriam—hell, give me triplets if you must. I’ll build a shrine. I’ll sponsor ten temples. I’ll stop making sarcastic comments during council meetings.

Just don’t let this be me.

Because if it is—

If I’m infertile...

Then everything I’ve been building, clawing toward, surviving for in this second life might be nothing but a slow march toward replacement.

If I can’t give them an heir, I’m done.

They’ll find someone else.

Another puppet. One with better genes. One with a working dick and politically convenient sperm.

And my uncle?

Oh, he’d love that.

He and his collection of bootlicking, power-hungry sons—each one more smug than the last—would scramble over each other for the chance to replace me.

I can already hear him.

"For the good of the duchy," he’d say with his pious face and greedy eyes.

And the worst part? He’d probably get away with it. Because if there’s no heir, and if my authority keeps threatening the comfort of these ancient leeches around me...

I press my palm to my forehead.

No.

No.

It has to work.

I won’t be made into a joke. Not again. Not in this life.

Please.