Demonic Dragon: Harem System - Chapter 397

Chapter 397: Dragon Promise
The mansion doors swung open with a dull thud, pushed by Strax’s massive claws, which were already shifting back into their humanoid form as he stepped into the grand entrance hall. The night wind followed him in, carrying the scent of a storm still fading in the distant sky.

Scarlet and Xenovia followed in silence, both wearing serious expressions. Neither spoke, as if something unseen lingered in the air… heavy, dense. A premonition.

Strax halted abruptly as he noticed the gathered figures in the room ahead.

Seated on sofas and armchairs around the large, intricately carved oak table were Cassandra, Belatrix, and Daniela. Near them, Samira, Cristine, and Beatrice. All wore tense expressions. The air among them was as thick as smoke after a battlefield.

Cassandra was the first to lift her gaze and notice him. Her eyes, usually calm, were shadowed by deep circles.

“You finally returned,” she said without rising. Her voice was low, devoid of blame, but edged with a quiet fire.

Strax took a few steps forward, his eyes scanning each face present. When he spoke, his voice echoed like a muffled thunderclap.”Where is Monica?”

Beatrice raised her eyes. The woman looked exhausted, her hair disheveled, her hands still stained with dyes and herbs.

“Upstairs. She’s with Kryssia… She…” her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard before continuing. “She’s gotten much worse.”

A glacial silence fell over the hall.

Strax didn’t answer immediately. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if processing the information with cold precision… but inside, his soul trembled. His chest grew heavy like lead. His heart—immense and fierce like a dragon—roared silently, choked by helplessness.

He had pride, and if Kryssia died now… he hadn’t repaid the support she gave him when he needed it most. Especially since she was a friend of Xenovia’s—and Xenovia would be devastated.

Samira stood up and stepped forward, her gaze steady. She stopped before him, her face tired, but resolute.

“The infected wound on her arm… it spread. Healing spells didn’t work. Her eye is completely gone, and the fever hasn’t broken in days. We’ve done everything we could… Beatrice even used herbs we bought with every last coin we had, but… she’s at her limit, Strax,” Samira said, blunt and honest—just the plain truth.

“Why didn’t anyone message me?” he murmured, and his voice made the floor tremble.

Cassandra crossed her arms. There was bitterness in her tone as she answered, “Because we knew you were dealing with something important. And because, deep down… none of us wanted you to see Kryssia like that. And she asked us not to call you.”

Xenovia, standing beside Strax, murmured softly, “I know her… a little. Proud… strong… She probably never wanted to be a burden to anyone.”

Daniela, who had been silent until now, ran a hand through her long red hair, eyes downcast.”Go upstairs. You’re not going to feel any better standing here listening to bad news.”

Strax closed his eyes for a moment. The air around him began to vibrate, as if the power within him was on the verge of overflowing. But he took a deep breath—once, twice—and held back the impulse.

“Where exactly is she?” he asked, already turning toward the stairs.

“Third floor, last room on the left,” Samira replied, returning to the sofa. “Monica hasn’t left her side for a single minute. She’s exhausted, but refuses to sleep.”

Cristine added, her voice barely a whisper.

“Kryssia calls for you in her delirium. Even when unconscious, she repeats your name. Like you’re the only reason she’s still holding on. I don’t know what’s gotten into her—you two barely know each other—but… it’s like she sees you as something.”

Her gaze lingered, refined and almost jealous.

Strax climbed the stairs two at a time, each step heavy with tension. With every landing, the weight on his shoulders grew. His face remained a mask of calm, but inside, the dragon howled in anguish.

Scarlet and Xenovia watched from below, choosing not to follow.

“I’ve never seen him like this…” Daniela murmured, eyes wide, her breath caught in her throat as she followed his shadow with her gaze.

“I have,” Samira said gravely, glancing sideways at Beatrice, who stood frozen, eyes locked on the staircase as if even the faintest sound could shatter something sacred.

“When Beatrice was kidnapped…” Samira continued, folding her arms. “An entire faction was wiped out in hours. There was no mercy. Not a single survivor. He killed three of his own brothers for her.”

A thick silence settled in the room, as heavy as iron and just as suffocating.

Belatrix, usually the most reserved, finally spoke up. Her voice came out dry, almost like an unwelcome suggestion.

“He’s going to do something reckless… if she dies.”

“No,” Cassandra corrected, her voice sharp as shattered glass. “He’ll destroy the world. Because if there’s one thing Strax has never learned to handle… it’s loss.”

For a moment, no one said a word—until a soft, almost musical sound broke the stillness. Scarlet, reclining elegantly on the couch, spoke as though she’d known the end of the story before the prologue was ever written.

“You’re wrong, dear,” she said with a voice laced with calm certainty and effortless charm. “Dragons don’t handle loss like others. They don’t accept it. They don’t weep. They don’t bury the past and move on.”

She rose with the grace of a bored predator and walked to the center of the room, her steps light, yet deliberate. She stopped before the others, her fiery gaze locked on the staircase where Strax had vanished.

“Real dragons take. They take what they love, what they care for, what they consider theirs. And if, by any chance, the universe dares to steal that from them… they go after it. They’ll cross continents, kill gods, tear through realities if they have to.”

She chuckled lightly, amused by the thought, and turned as if sharing gossip among old friends.

“The pride of a dragon is a primal, almost absurd force. That’s why they’re so feared… and why they were nearly wiped out. A true dragon, like Strax, doesn’t know resignation. He knows obsession.”

Scarlet sat again, lounging with lazy elegance among the others. With a mischievous smile on her lips, she added:

“Obsession fused with love… is exactly what we call a husband these days.”

A few of the women smiled at the remark. Others looked away, embarrassed by how true it was—at least in Strax’s case.

“So relax,” Scarlet said, leaning back, resting her chin on her hand. “He’ll fix it. He’ll heal her. He’ll find a way, even if it means turning time inside out or sacrificing half a pantheon to do it.”

She winked at Cassandra, her tone light and unconcerned.

“And get ready to welcome another one into the pack.”

The silence was broken by a few nervous chuckles. Daniela hid her face, blushing. Cristine bit her lips, trying not to smile. Even Samira, usually so stern, shook her head with a faint breath of laughter.

Scarlet glanced at the staircase again, her smile losing its mischief and gaining a certain tenderness.

“Because in the end, girls… when a dragon loves, he loves as if the whole world depended on it. And if he feels he’s about to lose what he loves… then the whole world better be ready.”

And upstairs, as the bedroom door slowly opened, a wave of hot, feverish air escaped, carrying the scent of sweat, blood… and despair.

Strax stood in the doorway, his gaze locking onto Kryssia’s fragile body on the bed. Monica was seated beside her, her eyes widening as she saw him.

“I see you’re back… alive,” Monica said without turning, her voice low, tired, almost bitter. She slowly rose from the chair by the bed and walked over to Kryssia, replacing the damp cloth on the young woman’s sweat-soaked forehead.

Strax didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His eyes, so used to visions of destruction and death, now stared at something far worse: the slow and silent departure of someone he cared about.

Kryssia, the fierce warrior, was unrecognizable. Her once vibrant and energetic body now seemed a twisted shadow of itself. Her sky-blue hair had lost its shine, faded to a pale, ghostly hue, as if life had begun to fade strand by strand. Her skin, once full of color, was now blotched with gray, her lips dry and bluish, like the cold breath of death creeping in. Her chest rose and fell with difficulty, each breath loud and labored, cutting through the room’s silence like a dull knife.

She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t move. The amputated arm was bandaged, but the infection had spread… the skin around it darkened, swollen, nearly putrid. The lost eye had left its own mark; even beneath the dressings, the subtle stench of necrosis lingered. She was… dying.

Strax took one step forward. Just one. And stopped. Something in his chest clenched, more violently than any blade or spell could inflict. It wasn’t physical pain. It was the kind of pain his kind — proud, ancient, dominating — didn’t have a name for.

Monica approached him then, and without a word, hugged him. Her arms wrapped in a light coat, her tired eyes met his for a brief second before closing.

“She doesn’t have much time,” she murmured, as if by saying it aloud, she was sealing her fate. “Her mana is running out… and her body is giving in. It’s starting to shut down from the inside out. Heart, lungs, liver. One by one. It’s just a matter of hours… maybe less.”

Strax remained still. The words crashed into his mind like a black storm. Unacceptable. Unthinkable.

Monica stepped back slightly, her eyes glassy, though no tears had fallen yet. She was the oldest among the humans there, the only one who truly knew the sound of a final breath. And unlike the vampires, who had walked through eternity without ever falling ill, Monica understood. She felt it in her bones. The fragility of a human life. The cruel weight of the end.

“She fought. Tried to stay strong. But the pain… the poison… the fever… she’s tired. And… when the body gets tired, Strax… sometimes, the soul lets go.”

Strax took another step, then knelt beside the bed. His massive hand, hardened by countless battles, gently touched Kryssia’s cold fingers. He didn’t say a word. He just remained there, staring at her. As if waiting for her to open her eyes and say something silly. Like she always did.

“I’ll take care of her for now… you can go down and rest a bit,” said Strax, his voice low, contained, unable to look Monica in the eye.

She hesitated for a moment, watching the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his claws clenched into fists beside his body. A giant trying to hold together the collapse of his own world. She knew that look — the look of someone who blamed himself for not being enough.

“Alright…” she murmured, taking two steps toward the door. “Call me if you need anything.” And then, with the care of someone leaving a minefield behind, she gently closed the door, leaving the room in silence.

Strax didn’t move for several seconds. The rhythmic — and irregular — sound of Kryssia’s breathing was the only sign that she was still there. Still tethered to this world.

But for how long?

“What am I even thinking…” he muttered to himself, eyes fixed on Kryssia’s fragile figure lying on the bed.

His entire body, his mind, his essence… everything inside him screamed for a solution. Something, anything that could save her. He couldn’t just accept this. He couldn’t watch her wither away. Not after everything. Not someone like her.

But he wasn’t a healer. He didn’t have restoration spells, didn’t know the ancient enchantments of healing, nor the divine chants of lunar priestesses. He was a destroyer, not a savior. His hands were made to crush enemies, not to mend broken flesh.

Even so, he tried.

First, he manipulated the blood inside Kryssia’s body, guiding his control into her bloodstream, trying to force circulation, purge the impurities, eliminate the infection. The result was minimal. The infection returned as if it had a will of its own — as if her body had already surrendered, rejecting any attempt at salvation.

Next, he focused on generating heat. He used his draconic aura to gently warm her body, trying to raise her temperature in a controlled way, fighting against the killing fever that consumed her organs.

But all it did was cause her veins to swell in agony, as if her body itself was begging for mercy.

Finally, he turned to the draconic runes. Ancient codes etched into his soul — runes that once shaped the skies and set oceans ablaze. He used them in an attempt to restore her vitality, summoning ancestral forces he barely understood.

But it was useless. The runes glowed for a few seconds… and then faded like sparks dying in the rain.

It was as if… her soul had already been marked by the final sentence.

As if Death had already placed its claws on her and was just waiting for the final breath to claim her.

Strax knelt beside the bed, his heavy hand gently sliding through Kryssia’s dull hair, searching for any trace of the light she once carried.

But there was nothing.

No reaction.

No response.

Only the fragile sound of strained breathing, and the suffocating weight of something he didn’t know how to fight.

“No…” he whispered, his rough voice cracking. “You’re not dying like this. Not now. Not like this.” He declared — and then… did something he never thought he would.

“Hades.” He spoke aloud, and a System window appeared, floating before his eyes.

[The God of the Underworld, ‘Hades’, gazes upon you.]

[Hades asks if this is truly your will. Once accepted, there will be no turning back.]

[Do you wish to become the Vessel of the Underworld God ‘Hades’? [Yes/No]]

“Will I be able to save Kryssia?” Strax asked.

[Yes.]