Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God-Chapter 16: The Demon in White

Tsk... how much would I have leveled up if slaying fools actually gave me experience points... Sylvaris complained in his heart, completely ignoring the shocked and fearful stares that followed him from every direction. The scent of blood clung heavily to the air, but Sylvaris barely noticed — his mind was still occupied with the annoyance of wasted effort.

Then, a sharp, invisible aura suddenly stung the back of his neck, precise and deliberate — a clear warning of danger. Instinct took over. Without sparing a glance, Sylvaris's blade swung behind him in a swift arc. The cold steel met flesh, slicing cleanly through the arm of a woman dressed in dark assassin's garb. A choked scream escaped her lips as her severed limb hit the dirt with a dull thud.

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Even though he had struck without hesitation, Sylvaris felt a pang of irritation twist in his chest. Damn it... why'd it have to be a woman... He shook his head, reminding himself that his so-called "gentleman" instincts meant nothing when his life was on the line.

I'm a nice guy... really... but if you're aiming for my neck, don't expect mercy.

His fingers tightened around his blade, and for a brief moment, a wicked smile crept across his lips.

The woman's eyes widened as her gaze locked onto the cold tip of Sylvaris's blade. Blood poured freely from her severed arm, staining her clothes and pooling beneath her as she clutched the wound in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. Kneeling on the ground, her body shook violently from the pain, but it was nothing compared to the terror that now consumed her.

She had never encountered someone who could predict her attacks so effortlessly. Her experience had always been one-sided — her blade striking true before her targets even knew she was there. But now, faced with someone stronger, someone faster, she realized too late that she had no idea how to react when things didn't go her way... and the price was her arm.

Sylvaris's blade, still gleaming with fresh blood, suddenly began to glow. The white light radiating from it should have been a symbol of hope — a beacon that promised salvation — yet to her, it was nothing but a death sentence.

The panic set in, cold and suffocating. Her breath quickened, her lips trembling uncontrollably.

"N-no... p-p-please..." Her voice cracked as she stammered through her fear. But before she could finish, the blade flashed forward.

Everything went black. Her body slumped lifelessly to the ground, her wide-open eyes still frozen in terror.

The leader had been observing Sylvaris the entire time, his expression darkening with each passing second. His clenched fists trembled at his sides. If he had known this brat was so powerful despite only being at level 20, he would have brought twice as many men. No — three times as many.

For someone like him, soldiers were nothing more than expenses, disposable bodies that could be replaced with ease. For every man that fell today, there were a dozen more waiting in the slums, desperate enough to fill their place.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in his throat. His fingers twitched near his blade, and a twisted grin curled across his face. Laughing to himself, he tried to mask the unease crawling beneath his skin, but no matter how much he grinned or chuckled, the truth gnawed away at him.

The reality was clear. He knew he would lose.

Sylvaris wasn't just some pampered noble who got lucky. He was the next prodigy, the rising hero people whispered about, the one destined to free the world from the Demon Lord. His reputation alone was enough to send a chill down any man's spine.

And yet, there was something off about him, something unsettling. The rumors spoke of a dark aura, a power so vile and corrupt that it sent shivers through even the bravest warriors. Yet here he stood, soaked in blood, yet radiating nothing but cold precision and ruthless technique.

There was no twisted power, no overwhelming demonic presence. Just a man cutting down his enemies with calm efficiency.

And that made it worse.

It felt like Sylvaris wasn't even trying, like he thought they were too far beneath him to bother using his true strength. That bitter realization struck the man harder than anything else. The idea that he, a seasoned warrior, wasn't even worth Sylvaris's full effort left a twisted knot in his stomach.

But the truth was that Sylvaris wasn't avoiding his void powers out of arrogance or disdain; he simply wasn't confident in using them yet. Despite his memories and ambitions as a villain, he knew that testing an unfamiliar power now could spell his own doom. His holy energy, however, was a different story. It was familiar, something he could wield with precision and confidence, and in truth, he didn't mind relying on it at all. Even if he intended to walk a villain's path, having holy energy on his side was an undeniable advantage. It meant that he was twice as powerful as a normal hero, making him feel untouchable under the heavens.

How cool was that? Dual-wielding both holy and demonic power. The idea alone made him grin, but none of that mattered to the thug leader. The fool didn't know Sylvaris's true capabilities — and that ignorance would cost him.

The man's grip tightened around his blade, his knuckles turning white as fear festered inside him, battling fiercely against his anger. His men were falling like insects, one after another, and all he could do was watch.

Sylvaris carved through them with ease, dancing across the battlefield in a rhythm of blood and steel. His face, smeared with crimson, twisted into a wicked smile as he licked the blood from his lips, only to spit it directly at the face of a nearby thug. The man instinctively shut his eyes, a reflex that lasted no longer than a second — yet that was enough for Sylvaris's blade to flash past him, severing his head in a clean arc. The body staggered before crumpling to the ground.

But Sylvaris wasn't here for sport. His true targets were the mages. They stood in the distance, hands weaving through the air as they poured their mana into a powerful incantation. Sylvaris didn't know what spell they were attempting, but he could feel the danger rising from their position like smoke from a fire. His instincts, honed from childhood, had never failed him — and right now, they screamed at him to act before it was too late.

A cold grin spread across his blood-stained face as his blade began to glow. White flames flickered along its surface, the air around it warping with heat as the holy light intensified. His eyes gleamed like embers.

Smite... he whispered in his heart, the energy surging through him. The powerful skill demanded a steep price of 100 mana, but for what it could do, it was worth every point.

His blade came down in a vicious arc — yet nothing seemed to happen. The mages blinked in confusion, pausing mid-chant as if the threat had vanished.

And then their vision went dark.

If anyone had been watching from afar, they would have seen three burning swords materializing above the mages, each blade descending like lightning to pierce them from skull to spine. Their bodies crumpled to the earth, lifeless and charred, the faint scent of burning flesh hanging in the air.

The entire battle had lasted no longer than fifteen seconds.

Thirty-four corpses lay scattered across the field, their blood soaking the dirt while their horses bolted in every direction, abandoning their dead masters. The only one left was the leader, still mounted on his horse, his face pale and drenched in sweat. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, and his wide, trembling eyes locked onto Sylvaris as if staring at death itself.

I'm so dead... The thought gripped his mind like a vice, the reality of his fate suffocating him.