Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!

Dust coiled beneath Rhys's boots as he stepped forward, swinging his sword. Though one leg lagged behind—stiff and pained—his blade moved as if it had a will of its own.

Every time Hans tried to strike, he was met with the unforgiven clang of Rhys's steel.

"You've grown slow," Rhys said coolly, parrying a wild horizontal slash.

The impact made Hans recoil, his hands aching from the strength behind it.

"All that training in the chruch made you soft."

"Shut up!"

Hans bellowed. He even buff his stamina and speed, but still couldn't be on par with his ex- instructor.

He could see Rhys light mana covered his body, making his movement even more dangerous than usual.

They clashed again, and this time, Rhys used his limp as a feint—dragging his foot just enough to seem vulnerable, only to rotate and slice along Hans's flank.

The knight yelped, blood staining his armor as he staggered back, breath ragged.

"You can't keep this up forever!" Hans shouted, gripping his side. "You're injured!"

"And yet here you are, bleeding."

With a sudden surge, Rhys rushed forward, body twisting low. He slid under Hans's guard and drove his hilt into the man's gut, forcing the air from his lungs.

Hans crumpled to the dirt, coughing, his sword slipping from his fingers.

From the side, Richard's voice broke through the fray.

"Hans!"

The golden-haired knight took a step forward, but a group of villagers blocked his path.

Their faces were twisted with anger to protect Rhys and Aurelia, their hero, their savior.

"Stay where you are!" an old man roared, jabbing a hoe toward Richard's chest. "You'll not touch him!"

Richard scowled. "Out of my way. I don't want to hurt you."

Another villager, younger and stronger, swung a wooden pole toward his head. Richard ducked, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword.

"Don't be stupid! This is a serious violation!"

But they didn't stop. More came, grabbing at his arms, clutching his armor like children clinging to the last remnants of hope.

"You're protecting a witch!" Richard roared. "Do you know what she is? What danger she brings?!"

"She's done nothing wrong!" a woman, the mother of the son that Aurelia saved from the death door, screamed back, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Rhys and Aurelia saved all of us! While the chruch refuse to help us!"

The mother struck him across the temple with a stone. Richard's head snapped to the side, a snarl building in his throat.

Something in him broke. He didn't want to do this, he didn't want to hurt them, but this was for the sake of chruch! For his devotion!

"Tch! Don't blame me for this!"

With a growl, he shoved them off and drew his sword. The blade flashed once—twice.

Blood spattered across the ground as two villagers fell, gurgling. Another man stepped forward in disbelief, only to be run through the chest.

"You made me do this!" Richard hissed, his face dark with fury and guilt.

The rest fled, shrieking in terror. Behind him, Anne stared, frozen.

"Richard…" she whispered.

"I gave them a choice," he said coldly, then turned toward the fight.

"Go ahead," she whispered to Richard, lowering her staff. "I won't stop you… but I can't join you either."

Anne clutched her staff, her knuckles white. She had wanted to help Hans—to cast her blessings, heal his wounds, support her comrades.

But not like this. Not at the cost of innocent lives.

She couldn't do it.

Something inside her cracked as her eyes fell on the villagers lying motionless on the ground, blood pooling around their bodies.

They couldn't even fought back—just held on with trembling hands and desperate pleas, and now they were dead.

'Is this really justice?' she thought bitterly.

'Is killing all these innocent people, breaking my humanity and leaving me hollow, truly worth it… just to capture one witch?'

'Weren't these villagers the ones we were meant to protect, too?'

Her teeth sank into her lower lip as a cold, trembling hand reached up and clutched her ankle.

"H-help…" a weak voice whispered.

Anne's entire body trembled. She dropped to her knees and clutched her staff tighter, beginning a healing chant.

Magic pulsed gently from her hands, light flickering over the wounded villager. Her voice quivered and her lips trembled. But she kept going.

And then she looked at Richard.

He hadn't stopped. His sword kept swinging. Another villager fell at his feet. Then another.

Anne squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear it anymore. 'Please… let this end soon.'

While Rhys had seen it all—the corpses, the guilt flickering in Richard's face, and the way Anne, once so full of conviction, couldn't even meet his eyes.

His grip on his sword tightened.

"What the hell are all of you doing?!" he snapped, voice rising above the chaos.

"Screw all of you! This is my fight!"

But the villagers wouldn't stop. They kept attacking Richard, despite everything. Even the village chief had taken up a broken rake, swinging it desperately.

Their spirit didn't come from strength—it came from the will to protect the one man and a witch who had saved them.

Rhys knew what he had to do.

He turned back to Hans, who had risen once more, his sword trembling in his grasp, red soaking through his armor, fury twisting his face.

"I won't lose," Hans snarled.

"You've been tainted by that witch! You're no longer a man of the Goddess."

"You need to be punished in the name of Eunomia! In the name of the Everbright Church!"

Rhys scoffed, voice cold and bitter. "Punish me? The Goddess already punished me a long time ago—when she let me be born from the womb of a witch."

He stepped forward, the limp in his leg straining with each movement. "You don't get to punish me again."

With a roar, Rhys moved, ignoring the screaming pain shooting up his leg. His blade slammed into Hans's, knocking it aside, and his fist crashed into Hans's face with strong force.

Hans crumpled to the dirt, groaning.

Rhys raised his sword, the tip gleaming under the blood-soaked light of day.

"I'm sorry," he muttered coldly, "but a hypocrite like you doesn't deserve to live in this world."

But then—

A sharp clang echoed as another blade intercepted his own.

Richard had arrived.

Their swords clashed with a force that sent a jolt up Rhys's arms, nearly knocking him off balance. He gritted his teeth.

"Damn it…"

He'd hoped to finish Hans before anyone could intervene. Now it was too late.

"Richard," he spat.

"You left me no choice," Richard growled, face shadowed.

"I didn't want to kill them… but I won't let you protect her."

His once-bright smile was nowhere to be found. His eyes were hollow now, feverish. Blood was smeared across his face, dripping from his armor and staining his sword.

"This is all your fault…" he murmured, eyes darting.

"Not mine. This isn't my fault…"

He kept repeating it, as if trying to convince himself.

Rhys stared at him, disgusted. "You're pathetic."

But he barely had time to think—because Richard was already swinging again.