Dungeon Overlord: Monster Girl Harem!

The dungeon air welcomed him like breath returning to lungs.

Cool. Damp. Quiet.

The throne room had changed since the first day he'd claimed it. What once was hollow stone now pulsed with living mana—veins of molten crystal ran through the walls, flickering with steady light, while obsidian torches burned with smokeless flame.

The floor beneath his boots rippled faintly as he walked—alive, aware, listening.

This place didn't feel like a lair anymore.

It felt like home.

Leonhardt stepped toward the raised platform at the centre of the chamber. His throne waited: carved from dungeon bone, inlaid with gold veining and crimson crystal. It didn't invite comfort. It invited command.

He didn't sit right away.

"Look at you," came Ifrit's voice—dry, sharp, teasing.

Ifrit hovered near his right shoulder, wings of ember light unfolding with a lazy flick.

She was small in this form—barely a hand span tall—with naked bronze skin that shimmered like heated metal. Her breasts were small and high, her curves sharp and tight, more elemental than human. Nothing clothed her but flame.

She smirked, folding her arms as she drifted in front of his face.

"Strutting like you haven't fucked up a single plan since this all began."

Leonhardt raised a brow. "You mean despite your commentary?"

Ifrit rolled her eyes and spun once in mid-air. "You're lucky I enjoy being bound to you."

A soft exhale brushed his ear.

Then a quiet hum.

Dravanna settled onto his left shoulder, legs curled up, chin resting against his collarbone. Her skin was pale slate, smooth like river stone, and her small claws curled against his cloak.

Tiny horns crowned her head, and her violet eyes shimmered behind silver lashes. Naked as well, but still delicate, like a doll of dusk and desire.

She stretched languidly, wings folding behind her back.

"You didn't stumble..." she whispered in a deeper, yet hoarse voice.

"Leon, you've done well so far."

"I'm not here to be praised."

"No," Ifrit replied, drifting down to float above the throne's arm. "You're here to open that."

It hovered above the throne—an envelope, sealed with black wax and pressed with a symbol he didn't recognise.

Honestly, he'd been ignoring this letter, wanting to put off meeting the other dungeon masters and getting a rank because he wasn't confident in himself.

Though he had conquered Astrea, most of that was on Dia, the goblins and Zafira.

Leonhardt reached out and took it.

The moment his fingers touched the wax, a thin crack split the seal.

No flames. No light.

Just pressure.

Like something looking back.

He broke it.

Unfolded the parchment.

And read.

The letter was brief.

Far too brief for something so loaded.

—

To the Dungeon Master of Embervale,

By the rights of conquest, expansion, and awakening, you are hereby invited to the Monthly Assembly of Core-Bearing Lords.

This invitation confirms your first recognition.

You are to appear before the Council of Masters in seven nights' time, beneath the spire of Glassworn Vale.

Bring proof of dominion. Bring control. Bring clarity.

Leave weakness behind.

—

There was no signature.

Just a sigil—etched into the bottom in dry, silver blood. An Ouroboros of chains. Faintly shifting.

"How pretentious!"

Ifrit's soft buttocks pressed against Leonhardt's shoulder as she sat down, the warmth of her body spreading through him and their link becoming more intense. He noticed... that she felt damp but decided to ignore it.

'The effects of my incubus pheromones even affect her...'

Yet desperate to resist and act like normal she remained calm, but the dragon beside him... well her actions were far too vulgar...

'Sitting on her tail and using it to...'

Suddenly, Dravanna turned to him with a grin on her lips. "Does my doing this make you hard?" In a sultry, teasing voice.

However, before he could reply...

Leonhardt folded the letter with two fingers, then flicked it toward the brazier.

It burned in an instant—no ash, no smell. Just gone.

"Cute," he said dryly.

Ifrit hovered near his temple, arms still folded, wings twitching behind her. "You're not surprised."

"No."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm never surprised by obligation that looks like praise."

"Hnnng.... They'll want something," Dravanna purred from his shoulder, stretching her arms above her head as she moaned beside him, still acting like an incarnation of lust.

"They always do."

Leonhardt walked to the edge of the platform, looking down at the throne room's lower level where mana pools still pulsed across the stone in pale arcs.

"Do you think they want to kill me?"

"No!" Ifrit protested. "Not yet..." She flared brighter. "They want to see if they can bend you first. And if they can't… they'll try again with sharper tools."

Leonhardt gritted his teeth in annoyance, although he knew this wasn't a reward. But a warning. It still pissed him off.

He'd gained too much ground. Astrea had fallen. Munat was his. The dungeon web extended past natural borders now—too quickly, making him the target of both the orcs and humans, somehow he wondered and second guessed himself.

However, looking at this glorious dungeon and the two fairies on his shoulders...

"This is fine."

'I can endure this.'

'For them... for a better future.'

The mystery of the archmage and his past... to uncover that he needed to be stronger, more renowned.

Maybe one day he could meet her.

"You'll meet others, though." Dravanna offered. "Dungeon Masters, you've only heard whispers about."

"Let me guess," he murmured. "One will threaten me. One will mock me. One will try to recruit me. The rest will try to ignore me while watching my every move."

"And they'll all pretend it's a family reunion."

Leonhardt scoffed.

The thing about monsters was—they didn't gather out of kindness. And Dungeon Masters were monsters given kingdoms.

This meeting would be more than a roll call.

It would be a judgment.

Not one passed from above.

One passed across.

From creatures like him.

Like worse.

"I'll go," he said finally.

Both spirits reacted at once.

Dravanna smiled widely, eyes alight. "You'll look beautiful in a tailored military style suit!"

Ifrit rolled her eyes. "Try to wear something without actual entrails on it."

He turned back toward the mirror that connected his throne to the citadel. This was no longer about one city or basin... the entire world was about to open up to him and change everything.

"Dravanna stop rubbing yourself... damn hussy!" Ifrit finally noticed that the dragoness was using Leonhardt's shoulder to get off herself.

Meanwhile, the pheromones started to become too much even for her. "Damned incubus..."

Leonhardt didn't care for their arguments, though he enjoyed their unique scents.

"Enough, we must prepare."

—

Leonhardt stood in the centre of his throne room again—eyes closed, breath still.

Seven days.

That was the time they gave him.

Enough to show up.

Not enough to prepare.

Unless you were always preparing.

He opened his eyes and moved to the lower levels, passing through a barrier of thin black mana. The air thickened with weight—the boundary layer between the throne's core chamber and the dungeon proper. His sanctum wasn't just a seat.

It was a proving ground.

"Goblins?" he said aloud.

Ifrit let out a low chuckle. "You'd steal the show."

However, this didn't mean positively, because goblins were the lowest of the low, like a kobold or horn rabbit.

'Horn rabbits... that huge black one—maybe I should ask if Zafira has seen her.'

Dravanna's tail coiled tighter around his neck. "But it would be funny watching their faces."

"No." Leonhardt reached the summoning basin and tapped the glyphs carved into its rim.

Images flickered across the shallow black surface—Zafira overseeing trade routes, Lina preaching at the cathedral steps, Snaggle snarling over merchant quotas.

Too mortal.

Too attached.

He wasn't taking anyone from Astrea. Not even his lovers.

He'd already reshaped the city with their help. That was enough for now.

If he brought too much power, they'd see him as arrogant.

Too little, and they'd smell weakness.

"Shadow troops?"

"Ice mage?"

Dravanna yawned. "She moans far too much."

He paused.

That narrowed it.

No nobles. No succubi. No goblins.

He would walk into the meeting as something clean and sharp.

One blade, freshly drawn. Nothing else.

Now Leonhardt couldn't help but want to take that big rabbit and wrap it around his neck... maybe Nyxara? Yes...! Yes!

'When she comes to report, I'll tell her to join me. I owe her a reward, and it's about time I tasted a dark elf's mana.'

"Hey! What's that lewd look on your face?!" Ifrit yelled.

"..."

Leonhardt watched her face, the slight twitch of her lips, the bright curve of her cheeks... he understood something that he might have missed a month ago.

"Ifrit," he said.

"Yes, yes, yes!" She raised her hand and appealed to him.

"You're staying here."

"What?"

Dravanna burst into silent laughter on his shoulder, curling into a ball and hitting his shoulder with a loud snort. Leonhardt turned his head slightly. "You're too loud. They'll sniff out your presence in five seconds."

'I just want to keep you safe...'

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is."

Ifrit couldn't hear his voice when he focused, and so she didn't notice his real feelings.

But that was fine.

She grumbled something vulgar in a language that hadn't been spoken in five thousand years.

Leonhardt ignored it.

"I'll go alone, with Nyxara and the black rabbit Zafira always uses as a pillow."

"I'm prepared."

For the next six days, he would prepare the dungeon and kingdom for his absence.

Training himself in the morning, sleeping with his lovers in the evening and everything else during the afternoon.

There was a lot to do.