Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!

The Central Church of Everbright was bathed in golden morning light, its vast hall steeped in silence as the faithful bowed their heads in prayer.

High Priest Orson stood at the rostrum, his long grey hair and beard illuminated by the sunbeams streaming through stained glass windows.

His piercing blue eyes scanned the sacred text of the Book of Essentia, his voice calm yet commanding.

"Goddess Eunomia teaches us kindness and selflessness," Orson intoned, his golden-white robes cascading to the floor, "but also resilience—to stand firm against infidels and the encroaching darkness."

A murmur spread through the congregation. Then, a sudden gasp shattered the tranquility.

Someone shot to their feet, pointing a trembling hand toward the grand statue of Goddess Eunomia.

One by one, others turned, horror dawning on their faces.

"What is the meaning of this?" Orson's voice rang through the chamber.

He slammed his palm against the lectern, his gaze following theirs.

His breath caught.

The statue of Eunomia—the holy beacon of their faith—was weeping blood. Crimson streaks ran down its face, dripping onto the pristine marble floor.

"Goddess…" Orson whispered, his pulse hammering.

Before he could react further, the grand doors burst open. A holy knight stumbled inside, panting, his face drenched in sweat.

"High Priest!" he choked out. "One of our clerics—her body—hanging in the town square…!"

A stunned silence followed.

Orson's heart pounded. "What?!"

He spun to his subordinates. "Escort the congregation home. Keep them calm." His voice was firm, but his fingers trembled as he clutched his robes.

Without another word, he strode past the pews, his knights following as they hurried toward the town square.

The sight awaiting them stole his breath.

Beneath the towering statue of Eunomia—a grand effigy of the goddess armored and astride her steed, sword raised skyward—hung a figure. A woman.

Her short brown hair clung to her bloodied face, her green eyes dull and unseeing. Her hands… shredded beyond recognition, severed as if by some ravenous beast.

Her cleric's robes, once white, were tattered and soaked in red, stretched over the sword's blade like a grotesque banner.

For a moment, no one moved. The gathered priests, knights, and common folk could only stare in horror.

"Don't just stand there—get her down!" Orson barked.

The knights scrambled, working together to lower her carefully to the ground. Orson knelt beside her, pressing a trembling hand to her chest.

The woman's lips parted, barely a whisper escaping. He leaned in.

"He is back…"

A shiver ran down Orson's spine.

"The Lord of Calamity is back…"

Orson's vision blurred. His hands curled into fists, but he forced himself to stay composed.

"Take her to the church. Treat her wounds," he commanded.

As the knights carried her away, he turned toward the holy church, his steps slow, deliberate.

His hands still trembled. But his mind was clear.

There was only one thing right to do.

***

Inside the Hall of Brilliance—the sacred chamber reserved for the most critical gatherings—all the high priests, cardinals, and Holy Knight Commanders had assembled.

The evening had settled over Euthymia like a suffocating shroud, and the city lay in an eerie silence.

The people had been urged to remain in their homes, to pray, though their prayers were laced with fear rather than devotion.

But within the grand hall, there was no solace, only unease.

The air was thick with tension as they awaited the highest authority of the Central Church—the most revered of the Seven Saints, Saint Magnus Regulus.

"That abomination cannot be back!"

Cardinal Brutus barked, though his trembling hands betrayed his words.

"He was vanquished a thousand years ago—erased from existence!"

"He speaks the truth! That cleric, Nadia, must have been delirious from her wounds!" another cardinal added, desperation creeping into his tone.

Murmurs filled the hall, some dismissing the claims, others unwilling to ignore the signs.

The Holy Knight Commander finally spoke, his voice measured but heavy. "That girl, Nadia… was a devout follower of Saint Aether."

He hesitated, then continued, "My subordinates in the church near Cortinvar reported that she teleported there, seeking aid against—him. None of them returned."

Silence fell like a hammer. Then panic erupted.

Some cried blasphemy, refusing to believe the impossible. Others whispered in dread, fear settling deep in their bones.

It was stopped when the grand doors creaked open. A hush swept through the hall as all turned to the man who entered.

Tall, imposing, his very presence commanded reverence. Draped in robes of white and gold like the rest, yet unmistakably different—this was Saint Magnus Regulus.

His long white hair gleamed under the light of the chandeliers, and his golden eyes, piercing and unwavering, swept across the room.

He stopped, gaze sharp, and spoke. "The Lord of Calamity has returned."

His words hung in the air, undeniable, absolute.

"That poor girl, Nadia… her wounds cannot be healed. The darkness has taken root in her."

His voice, steady yet grave, sent a chill through the room. "No darkness has ever been this strong before. Even I struggled to stop her bleeding."

The weight of his declaration silenced them.

"As followers of Eunomia, as the protectors of this world, we must do what is necessary." He stepped forward, his presence a beacon of unwavering resolve.

"We must erase him from existence."

A shudder passed through the assembly. Some swallowed their fear, others clenched their fists.

Saint Regulus's voice rose, commanding. "We must prepare for war against the darkness."

His words ignited a fire in the hearts of the gathered clergy.

"Just as our forebears did, we too shall rise against the darkness."

The hall pulsed with newfound determination. Though fear lingered, the presence of Saint Regulus steadied them, emboldened them.

The war had not yet begun. But they knew—it was only a matter of time.

When all the people had dispersed, leaving only Saint Regulus in the grand hall, he turned toward the veil before him. Slowly, he approached it.

Pulling it aside, he was met with the sight of a girl sleeping upon the throne. Her white hair shimmered in the dim light, mirroring his own.

Draped in robes far more exquisite than his, she lay in serene stillness, untouched by the weight of the world outside.

Regulus stepped closer, lowering himself to one knee before her. He gently took her hand and pressed a reverent kiss to it.

"Why, Your Holiness…" he whispered, his voice laced with sorrow.

"Why did you give us no warning? Even when the bloody moon hangs high in the sky, marking the awakening of that abomination, you remain silent—distant, as if indifferent to our fate."

His grip on her hand tightened slightly.

"Have you already foreseen this world's ruin? Is that why you refuse to speak?"

His voice wavered. "Have humans disappointed you so deeply that you've chosen silence?"

But she did not answer. Her eyes remained closed, her expression untouched by his anguish.

And in that silence, he found his answer.

***

The monster's eyes fluttered open, glowing like molten rubies in the darkness. Slitted, reptilian pupils contracted as she adjusted to the dim surroundings, their crimson light flickering like embers.

Slowly, she moved. Her black-scaled body shimmered faintly, the glossy surface catching the faintest glimmer from the distant, almost nonexistent light above.

A slow smile curled her lips, sharp fangs peeking through.

Then, with an eerie, childlike cheer, she whispered—

"He is awake! My father has awakened!"

Her voice, filled with glee, echoed through the abyss.