Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!

Rhys didn't wait.

He spun on his heel, despite the pain blazing through his leg, and brought his sword down like a crashing wave.

The air cracked as steel met steel—Richard blocked just in time, gritting his teeth.

"You are indeed a good student, Richard. Not even morality is in your way," Rhys said sarcastically in which making Richard emotion even more unstable.

"NO! Everything is not my fault!!!"

Richard scream as blow after blow rained down, tried to get to Rhys but with no avail.

That man was sharp, weakness didn't stop him at all since Richard swings were sloppy, just full of intense emotion in which making him an easy target.

Precision over power, as Rhys finally attacking back, in just one slash, Richard stumbled back showing their gap of power.

"Even the model cadet can't defeat a seasoned knight, especially with those erratic emotions of yours," Rhys commented, point out Richard weakness.

But then, Hans returned—his face bloodied, but his steps driven by fury.

"Traitor!" he snarled, launching himself into the fight.

Rhys pivoted mid-strike, parrying Hans's upward slash, his blade twisting to lock it.

Then he kicked Hans in the gut, sending him sprawling back again.

"Traitor? Look all around you. You are the one who did this." he pointed at Richard then at Hans, "You are the true traitor who hurt the innocent!"

Rhys hissed, his voice ragged. "You're not holy men. You're butchers!"

"You're the one who made us do this!" Richard barked, charging again.

Sparks flew in the dusky air. Rhys met him, parried, twisted, and ducked—his movements were slowing now, but still precise.

His injured leg buckled once beneath him, but he caught himself, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Blood already soaked through the wrappings at his thigh. Every motion dragged a tremor up his spine, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

For her.

"You're just blaming me so you don't have to look at your own hands!" Rhys growled, locking swords with him.

However, Hans came in from the side again, reckless and furious. Rhys spun and blocked him mid-swing, but the effort sent a white-hot jolt of pain lancing through his spine. His stance faltered.

Both knights pressed in.

For a moment, Rhys fought them both—limping, soaked in blood, his breath ragged—but his blade still moved with terrifying control.

A parry here, a counter there. He ducked under Hans's overhand strike, pivoted, and slashed across Richard's thigh, drawing a roar of pain and forcing the man to retreat.

Then with a twist of his wrist, he knocked Hans's sword wide.

His heart thundered in his ears like war drums. Every breath burned in his chest. His shoulders ached, his limbs numb—but he refused to stop.

Not now.

Hans surged again, shouting a prayer to the Goddess, buffing his attack and speed. Rhys twisted and drove his pommel into Hans's ribs, drawing another grunt.

His body screamed at him, but he moved, forcing it forward with sheer will.

"You're nothing but dogs for a false cause!" Rhys spat, voice hoarse with fury.

But time was eating away at him.

His legs trembled beneath him. His limp was worsening. Blood poured from his side and soaked his boot.

Then came the misstep.

He twisted too hard. His wounded leg collapsed beneath him.

Just for a second but that second was all it took.

"DIEE YOU TRAITOR!!!"

Hans lunged, screaming, blade thrusting toward his chest.

Rhys caught it with his own weapon, steel grinding on steel—but he couldn't anchor his stance.

Richard was already moving.

From the side, his blade rammed forward with force, low and fast, slamming into Rhys's side and tearing through flesh, muscle, and bone.

"Shit!!!"

The steel punched out his back, crimson gushing down his hip like a broken dam.

Rhys's eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat as pain exploded through him. Blood spilled from his mouth in thick bursts, running down his chin.

Still—he didn't fall.

"That small wound would never get me down!"

He roared through gritted teeth and drove the hilt of his sword into Richard's face.

The crack was sickening—bone snapping, blood spurting as Richard stumbled backward, dazed.

But it was too late as Hans was already upon him.

Hans raised his sword with both hands and brought it down—not once, but twice.

The first swing carved across Rhys's collarbone, slicing into his chest and breaking ribs in its path. Blood sprayed out in a red arc.

The second came straight down—cleaving into Rhys's shoulder, tearing through muscle until the blade bit deep into his chest cavity.

Rhys's knees hit the ground with a heavy thud.

"No... Not yet, this isn't over yet." he murmured, saying it over and over again.

He stayed upright for a moment, sword slipping from his hand.

His body swayed, trembling, a fountain of blood pouring down his front, soaking the earth below him.

"Hah! So this is it?! This is the end!" Hans mocked him, "I thought you are stronger than this, Rhys!"

Hans stepped back, panting, his sword slick and steaming. Richard was on one knee, nose broken, blood running down his face.

He looked up at Rhys like he was seeing a ghost that refused to die.

Rhys blinked through the haze of agony. His vision swam. The world tilted.

But somewhere… somewhere beyond the blood and the screaming ache in his chest…

He saw her, Aurelia.

Smiling and crying. Standing in the doorway of memory, reaching for him.

"Stay alive, Rhys… I'll wait for you."

His lips twitched. Not much, just a flicker. A sad, broken smile that cracked through the blood crusted on his face.

"I tried…" he whispered.

The image of Aurelia blurred, faded—and then shifted. It was no longer just her.

Behind her stood two more figures, bathed in golden light. Familiar and comforting.

His sister, young and laughing, waving like she used to when he came home late from patrol.

His mother, arms wide open, her smile warm and gentle, like the sun after a storm.

They looked just as he remembered them—untouched by time, untouched by pain.

"Mom? Sister?" he choked out, voice trembling, the sound wet and broken.

He took a shaky breath, his body barely holding together. Blood gushed from his wounds with every heartbeat, pooling beneath him.

And then—he moved, one arm dragged forward, then the other.

His hand stretched as he reached out—toward home, toward the warmth he had lost so long ago.

His limbs shook and hiis vision flickered. But still, he crawled.

Just a little more…

Just a little closer…

"Wait… I'm coming home…" he murmured, breath hitching as his chest seized up, as his muscles began to lock.

But then, the light vanished and the warmth disappeared. Everything turned pitch black and Rhys stopped moving.