Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!

Claude widened his eyes slightly, masking his tension. Even Emmalise lost her composure for a brief second before offering a calm smile.

"Ah, you are indeed sharp, High Priest," she said lightly.

"He is my new royal guard," she continued smoothly, nodding at Claude as he stepped forward.

"His name is Louis Lamborg, the youngest son of the Lamborg family. He was originally meant to become a hunter, but he returned to Cortinvar not long ago."

Her explanation was simple yet sufficient—Claude's new identity, carefully crafted by Emmalise, belonged to a middle noble family: not influential enough to draw suspicion, yet reputable enough to avoid scrutiny.

And more importantly, it gave Claude the perfect cover to infiltrate the court.

Claude bowed his head respectfully. "Greetings, Your Holiness. It is an honor to meet you."

"Oh my, what a surprise," Orson chuckled, though a glint of suspicion lingered in his eyes. "A man from Cortinvar giving such a polite greeting to me."

"I have traveled to many places and kingdoms, Your Holiness. Through my journeys, I have learned to be more open-minded about different customs."

"A thoughtful man indeed," Orson nodded approvingly.

"But... your hair color is quite unusual, isn't it?"

Claude understood the unspoken meaning: jet-black hair was rare in the West Continent, usually belonging to foreigners—or daemons.

"My mother hailed from the Eastern Continent, Your Holiness," Claude said smoothly. "She shared the same hair color as me."

"Oh, really?" Elias chimed in with a lazy smile.

"Strange, I don't recall ever seeing Lady Lamborg... nor anyone from the Eastern Continent, for that matter."

Claude cast a fleeting glance at Emmalise, who gave him a slight nod.

"My Mother passed away while giving birth to me, Prince Elias," Claude said quietly, his gaze lowering as if burdened by grief.

"My father was a former mercenary who traveled across many kingdoms. He met her in the land of the sunrise—Anburozu."

"Ah, I see..." Orson murmured, patting Claude's armored arm gently.

"Forgive me for stirring painful memories. As a servant of God, I must be ever-vigilant—enemies are everywhere."

Claude bowed his head slightly. "There is nothing to forgive, Your Holiness."

Orson studied him a moment longer before tilting his head.

"But it's your mana aura that's truly intriguing. I imagine it's what earned you the position of royal guard?"

Claude feigned mild curiosity. "Oh? Could you tell me more, Your Holiness? I'm afraid I cannot perceive such things myself."

"It's... too neutral," Orson said, frowning thoughtfully.

"Typically, someone with fire affinity would show a hint of red in their mana, and so forth with other elements. But yours... is pure white. Clear, like an untouched canvas. Strange, isn't it?"

'Noted, Orson,' Claude mused inwardly. 'I'll have the dark mages fix that immediately.'

Outwardly, he only smiled. "I see. But perhaps the only one who could explain such a thing is Her Majesty, Queen of Cortinvar."

Emmalise chuckled lightly, playing along. "Oh no, High Priest, I cannot see such things. He was chosen simply because of his overwhelming strength."

Orson laughed, shaking his head. "What a shame. I would have liked to study you further for the glory of the Church."

Claude simply chuckled along, nodding respectfully as the afternoon tea continued without further incident.

No direct conflict arose—but tension wove itself into every polite smile and carefully chosen word.

Claude leisurely glanced over the holy men seated near him.

'Enjoy your dessert and tea,' he thought darkly, 'since it might be your last.'

Most of them were already into their forties or fifties—easy prey once Red Slumber was unleashed.

The only real concern was Prince Elias. That man radiated vitality; he wouldn't die easily.

'No matter,' Claude mused. 'There's always a way.'

As the sun dipped lower and the tea grew cold, the afternoon gathering quietly came to an end.

***

Three days after the afternoon tea, the first case of Red Slumber appeared in the poorer districts of the capital.

A boy, not even five years old, fell ill—his small body too weak to fight the disease. He died within a week.

In the days that followed, the number of infections surged, reaching over two hundred confirmed cases.

Under Queen Emmalise's orders—guided by Claude's unseen hand—the court moved quickly.

A temporary hospital was erected outside the main city, and physicians from all strata of society were summoned to aid in treating the sick.

The capital gates were sealed; no one was allowed to enter or leave. Even midday, once lively, became eerily silent as fear gripped the hearts of the citizens.

By the end of two weeks, the infections had ballooned to over five hundred.

Nearly thirty percent had perished—most of them the elderly and children.

In the midst of the growing crisis, Aurelia had not stood idle.

Long before Claude's arrival, she had served as an assistant doctor for a noble family with the help of Emmalise.

Now, she worked within the temporary hospital, tending to the sick with the other nurses.

The wails of grieving families were a constant backdrop to her work.

"Nurse! Nurse! Help my child! Please!"

Aurelia rushed across the crowded tent toward the desperate voice.

A woman cradled her son, whose body convulsed violently with seizures. But by the time Aurelia reached them, the child's spasms had stilled.

The boy had gone limp. Dead in his mother's arms.

The woman's anguished sobs echoed through the tent as Aurelia gently pulled the white cloth over the small body, her hands trembling despite her efforts to remain composed.

It was a scene she witnessed countless times every day. Children, elders, mothers, fathers—all dying in agony.

Her chest tightened painfully.

'How much longer must I see this? I know the cure. I could save them. So why can't I?'

Tears blurred her vision as she stood motionless, grief and helplessness clawing at her heart.

'How could Claude let this happen? Is this truly for the greater good?'

She wiped at her eyes fiercely, hiding her pain behind the sterile mask she wore.

Even though she harbored resentment toward humanity for the cruelty they had inflicted on her and her mother, she could never have imagined standing idly by while innocents died.

'How... How could he...?'

A soft hand touched her back.

Startled, Aurelia turned to find her mother, Aubree, standing there. She too wore a mask and worked as a nurse, but the worry in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Aurelia," Aubree said gently, "if you can't endure this... it's alright. Let me take over. Please, go back to the palace."

Aurelia wiped her tears quickly, steeling herself.

"I'm fine, Mother," she said firmly, though her voice trembled slightly behind the mask.

"I can do this. You don't have to worry about me."

Without waiting for a response, she turned and hurried out of the tent, leaving her mother standing there, watching her retreat with deep concern.

The palace was not idle either.

The first cases of Red Slumber had finally breached its pristine walls—striking none other than Prince Elias and one of Orson's closest priests.

Both had been exposed during the fateful afternoon tea.

Though young and strong, it was precisely for that reason they had been targeted first—the disease taking longer to fell those with greater resilience, making it less suspicious that the two of them were in the event arranged by the Queen.

A tense meeting was called between Queen Emmalise, High Priest Orson, and some of the people of her court also present.

This time, the tea served on the table remained untouched and cold, mirroring the heavy atmosphere in the room.

"High Priest," Emmalise said, her voice measured but sharp, "please, lend us your strength against this plague. Your holy order, chosen by the Goddess herself, is said to cure any affliction, is it not?"

This was exactly the situation Claude had meticulously prepared for.

It was crucial for Emmalise to maintain a relationship just close enough to pressure them, without giving herself away.

"Of course," she added with a delicate smile, "I would never force you. If you cannot aid us, you are free to send your priests home, just as they have requested."

Orson's face tightened. A sheen of sweat broke across his brow as his trembling hands gripped the tablecloth.

"But... Your Majesty," he faltered, "your people harbor resentment toward the Church. Also, the Temple's reputation would suffer—"

Emmalise leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering.

"Then is this not your chance to change that?" she pressed.

"Show them the greatness of the Goddess's blessing. Perhaps then, my people will finally open their hearts to your teachings."

Cornered, Orson had no choice but to bow his head.

"Yes, Your Majesty... I will do my best."

He returned to his place and, with great reluctance, ordered some of his still-healthy priests to return to the Promised Land not knowing they they were already infected.

"No, Your Holiness! We will stay! We will serve even if it costs us our lives!" cried an elderly priest, his hair grey but his spirit unyielding.

Orson placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Peace, my brother. I am immune to this disease. You are not," he said gently.

"Some must return. Those who are immune—those truly blessed by the Goddess—may remain."

Of course, the so-called "immunity" was nothing more than surviving an earlier, lesser wave of the plague years ago—something the Everbright Chruch had spun into a myth of divine favor.

Thus, the first public blessing ceremony was organized outside the temporary hospital.

Emmalise and Claude were both present, overseeing everything personally—not only to ensure the ritual went undisturbed but also to strengthen Emmalise's image as a Queen who bravely walked among her ailing people.