Urban Harem God: Harem With My Ultimate Copy & Paste System!-Chapter 15: Harem God, $1M Mark

Jayden's eyes snapped open like he'd just been pulled from another world—and in a way, he had.

His breath was shallow at first, like his lungs were adjusting to something thicker than air. His skin prickled. Not from cold. Not from fear. From change. From something cosmic that had rewritten the rules of how people were meant to exist.

He sat up slowly.

And felt it.

It was in his posture. In the way his fingers moved like they were sculpted for touch. In the way his hair—longer now, textured in just the right way—framed his face without effort. His skin didn't glow, but it pulled light. Smooth, clear, the kind of complexion people spent fortunes trying to fake.

His body?

It wasn't just aesthetic anymore.

It was carved from temptation.

Jayden's face alone wasn't just handsome—it was the kind of beauty that didn't ask for attention; it demanded surrender. His jawline had that sculpted, model-perfect edge, but it wasn't harsh—it flowed into a neck that carried power without needing to flex. His cheekbones were sharp enough to imply danger, but not arrogance.

Balanced.

Deadly attractive.

His lips were looked sweet and delicate. Soft-looking. Naturally tinted with a pink hue that made them look freshly bitten. The kind of lips you didn't just notice—you remembered. They would move slow when he talks, deliberate, like every word deserved to be tasted. When he smiled, it didn't feel casual. It felt like a promise. When he didn't smile? It felt like punishment.

His eyes were the real trap. Delicate lashes. Dark irises with just enough glow to them—like they held secrets you weren't ready for. His stare lingered, hypnotizing, like he could see your fantasies before you did.

Anyone caught in it would feel the slow, aching pull of desire just from a glance. He didn't need to flirt—his face did it for him.

Chest full and sculpted, like it was built to be leaned on. Abs sharp and symmetrical—not overdone, but designed. Veins visible along his arms just enough to hint at intensity. His neck, jawline, collarbones—everything carried a low-grade eroticism, like it was painted by someone who knew too much about obsession. His scent—not a cologne, but his natural musk—was subtle, magnetic.

Like it would linger in someone's mind hours after they passed him on the street.

The final blessing. The sacred weapon.

Jayden didn't just look like desire—he carried it. His cock, even at rest, matched the divine narrative his body told. Long. Thick. Perfectly shaped. No exaggeration, no awkwardness—just the kind of size and curve that felt crafted. A weapon of pleasure and pride.

Something that would make exes doubt everything and strangers bite their lip in silence.

Even the weight of it at rest was different now—like his body adjusted to carry it with intention. Nothing about it was over-the-top or cartoonish. It was real. Dangerous. Divine. The kind of manhood that made the Harem God title feel justified.

But the real difference?

The aura.

It wasn't visible. It didn't need to be. But it hit.

Soft heat rolled off him. Not burning. Not holy. Just... pulling. Like standing too close to a flame that wanted to kiss you instead of burn you. It was primal. Almost chemical. The kind of presence that made people want to adjust their clothes, touch their neck, stare without realizing.

His eyes had changed too. They held weight. A lazy, heavy-lidded sharpness that made every glance feel personal. Like he wasn't looking at you—he was looking into you. Stripping you down without moving a muscle.

Jayden stood, body moving like silk over steel, and walked to the mirror.

His jaw slackened a little—not in ego, but in quiet awe.

This wasn't the body of a flirt.

This was the body of a temptation made real.

Every movement dripped quiet danger. Every breath made the room feel like it was holding back.

And when he smirked?

It wasn't just hot.

It was reckless.

"System..." His voice came out deeper now, smoother, with that fuckboy velvet edge. "You didn't just bless me... you weaponized me."

He blinked.

Paused.

Then laughed softly, eyes never leaving the mirror.

"This ain't fair at all."

****

Jayden stepped out of the steamy bathroom, towel slung low around his hips, steam still clinging to his skin like it wasn't ready to let go.

His body? Sculpted. Abs like he pissed off a Greek god and got cursed to be shredded forever.

And yeah, the Harem God Card didn't just give him a face that could make nuns rethink their life choices or a body you'd swear was AI-generated—nah, it gave him abilities. Real ones. Dangerous, seductive, overpowered shit that didn't just belong in fantasies but now lived in his damn DNA. And don't get started on the cock—it was the type of thing that'd make a pornstar retire out of respect.

One look and you'd know this man wasn't built for missionary nonsense. He was built to ruin lives—in the best, most sinful way. Dios mío.

But he was over being naked. Tired of it. The whole divine meat display thing got old real quick when you didn't even have clean boxers or a decent hoodie.

He dragged himself into the bedroom, body still dripping here and there, hair messy but sexy, and grabbed the tablet like it was his mission from God. It was time. No more walking around like an unclothed deity who forgot laundry day.

C'est fini—no more broke-boy vibes.

He hopped on some online stores and bam, clicked faster than a rich housewife on Black Friday. Gym clothes first—he was gonna train like a beast, and he needed gear that could keep up. Sleeveless shirts, compression joggers, oversized hoodies, that whole "hot guy at the gym who looks like he could deadlift your trauma" vibe. Then came the casual fits—ripped jeans, graphic tees with chaotic slogans like "I'm Not Sorry" and "Might Sin Later," a couple bomber jackets that screamed je suis le problème. He added some designer shit too, just for the flex—some Balenciagas, Louis belts, a couple shades that said "don't talk to me unless you got six figures or trauma."

"What's with all this designer stuff thingy?" He wondered but didn't stop buying them anyways.

Shoes? Fuck yeah. Sneakers, trainers, one obnoxiously expensive pair of boots that made him feel like the main character in a dystopian anime.

Hell, he even ordered kitchen stuff he didn't fully understand—air fryer, coffee maker, blender thingy? ¿Por qué no?

And yeah, electronics. A sleek black Mac laptop that looked like it could hack NASA if you glared at it hard enough, and two phones—one for regular use, and the other for Harem Affairs.

Because let's be real, business and booty don't mix. He needed organization. Man was building an empire and a fan club at the same damn time.

Final cart total: $150,000.

"Damn, these guys make money," he muttered, low-key impressed. "I just gave them a fuckin' hundred and fifty bands like it was a casual Tuesday. Whatever."

That's the thing, though—money came naturally when you knew how to attract it. And he knew. Manifested that shit like a wizard with a spending addiction. Il savait ce qu'il faisait.

Then it happened...

[DING! $1,500,000 from Copy and Paste!]

Time stopped.

He blinked.

Then blinked again, eyes locked on the holographic screen glowing above his hand like a divine prophecy just got texted to him. The number stared back. 1.5 million. Zeroes stacked like dominoes. Bro looked like he'd just gotten a phone call from Elon Musk saying, "Tag, you're it. You're the new me."

He didn't move.

"This shit ain't real, right, Jayden? Right?" he whispered to himself, voice cracking slightly like reality was a little too thin for comfort.

Nah. It was real. Muy real. He checked his phone. There it was too. The bank balance was laughing at him in rich person font.

He'd made a million and a half. In less than a day. Off vibes. Off vibes and digital wizardry. Off a system that basically said, "You wanna live like a god? Cool. Just tap 'Paste'."

And now?

Now he was that dangerous combo: rich, hot, and bored. The most lethal breed of man to ever exist. Cuidado.