Two days passed.
During that time, Kujo had done his best to keep things running. He delegated duties, signed off on food routes, confirmed shelter layouts, and handled five minor disputes before breakfast. But today, something very different sat on his plate.
Six women stood in front of him.
Dimara.
Fiore.
Kyrie.
Setara.
Zafira.
Chusi.
All of them had come together with one thing in common: marriage.
Dimara was clinging to his arm, cheeks glowing, her voice a constant coo of "Master~ let's do the ceremony already."
Fiore stood firm as always, but her presence was heavier than usual, the way her eyes lingered on him saying everything her voice wouldn't.
Kyrie looked nervous but determined, twiddling her fingers and shifting her wings.
Setara leaned against the wall with a smirk, clearly entertained by the tension.
Zafira's expression was elegant and composed, but there was unmistakable desire in her golden eyes.
And Chusi?
Chusi grinned wide, tail swishing behind her. "I brought wine in case this turns into a real celebration."
Kujo had tried reasoning with them. That hadn't worked.
So he turned to the only people he thought could offer real advice.
First, Maros. The vampire patriarch, always calm and calculated. "If peace is your goal," Maros had told him, "then give them what they want. A harem isn't scandalous among demons. It's stability."
Then Azar. She had shrugged and sat on a rock outside his office, sharpening a stick. "You're lucky, honestly. All six of them are hot and terrifying. Just don't screw it up."
So now, Kujo stood before them, rubbing his temples while Dimara hugged his side like a plush doll.
"Alright," he said at last. "I'll do it. I'll accept all six of you."
Dimara squealed.
Kyrie turned bright red.
Fiore nodded once.
Setara gave a half-smile.
Zafira exhaled softly, as if she'd expected nothing less.
Chusi pumped a fist in the air. "Knew it."
"But—" Kujo raised a hand to silence the noise, "there are rules."
The room stilled.
"Rule one: No fighting among each other. If you have a problem, bring it to me. Settle it like adults, not wild beasts."
They all nodded, more or less.
"Rule two: Respect one another. No one is above anyone else. You're all equals."
A few hesitant nods. Kyrie looked relieved. Chusi gave a playful salute.
"Rule three," Kujo said, slower this time, "You don't have to love me right now. But don't fake it. If you're staying with me, it's because you care. Not for power. Not for politics. I only want real affection in my life."
This time, they all nodded.
He sighed. "Then it's official."
Dimara jumped into his arms instantly.
Kyrie gently touched his sleeve, smiling shyly.
Chusi slapped his back like a comrade.
Fiore just stood there, arms crossed, eyes soft.
Setara leaned in and whispered, "Hope you're ready to sleep a lot less."
Zafira said nothing, but there was the smallest curve of a smile on her lips.
The harem was real.
Now he had to manage it.
Even now, the girls were making adjustments to the settlement.
Dimara wanted to carve out a cuddle-den with tendril-woven hammocks.
Zafira requested a shaded temple garden where she could meditate and prepare ceremonial meals.
The werewolves began expanding the hill region at the town's edge, preparing for more construction.
Fiore, ever practical, suggested building a proper armory.
Kyrie requested nothing but offered to help with sky patrols, which Kujo gratefully accepted.
Setara only requested "a warm room near yours."
Chusi asked if she could "paint her name on your bedroom door."
Kujo was barely holding it all together when the doors to his chamber burst open.
Maros strode in, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
"Prince Kujo," he said, his tone sharp. "There's drama."
Kujo looked up, deadpan. "What kind?"
"The public kind. There's shouting in the square."
Kujo pinched the bridge of his nose. "What now?"
Maros crossed his arms. "Several unmarried women from the town's factions are forming their own groups."
"Groups?"
"Factions. Arguing about who deserves to be added to your harem next."
Dimara blinked. "Wait—what?"
Fiore frowned.
Zafira tilted her head. "So the others are competing… for him?"
Setara rolled her eyes. "How predictable."
Chusi cracked her knuckles. "Should I go scare them off?"
"No," Kujo groaned. "Nobody scare anyone. Nobody fight anyone. We just set the rules."
Maros sighed. "You might need to update them already."
Kujo slowly slumped into his chair.
He had just finished forming a harem.
And already, the waiting list had begun.
By now, the town had become something real.
Not just a camp. Not just a refugee zone. But a working, growing home—built from blood, labor, and stubborn hope.
Kujo had finally started assigning roles. It was necessary. Every morning he'd wake up with a dozen reports, a dozen more faces waiting outside his door, and not enough hours to do it all himself.
He gave orders carefully.
Fiore and Dimara remained as his personal guards. Fiore was the shield. Dimara was the silent storm. Together, they escorted him wherever he went, never more than a few feet from his side.
Kyrie had taken charge of training the younger warriors. She ran drills for the dark elf youth and the wild werewolf pups, showing them how to channel their strength and instincts into discipline. Her voice was firm, but encouraging.
Setara became his secretary—something she took to naturally. Her precision, her calm tone, her ability to slice through pointless arguments with a single phrase made her the perfect one to manage schedules, diplomatic letters, and public meetings.
Zafira retained leadership of the dark elves, guiding her people with quiet authority. She coordinated food distribution, led rituals at night, and ensured her region of the settlement remained efficient and thriving.
And Chusi?
Chusi oversaw the outer wall. She and her family took shifts walking the perimeter, reinforcing blind spots, and setting up signal flares. Somehow, she managed to handle it all with one arm behind her head and a grin on her face.
Of course, despite their duties, most of the girls still found ways to sneak off and visit him.
Kyrie brought "urgent" training requests just to sit beside him and sip tea. Setara often "needed a signature" and leaned just a little too close when presenting scrolls. Dimara simply clung to him without excuse. Zafira made quiet observations about his posture. Chusi popped in through the window instead of using the door.
He didn't know whether to feel flattered or exhausted.
Then came the fourth day.
Kujo was walking through the southern edge of the town, helping with supply deliveries and checking on new housing developments. His sleeves were rolled up, his hands dirtied with honest labor, and a few children trailed behind him carrying fresh bread and giggling when he praised them.
That's when the sky darkened.
Shadows flickered along the rooftops. The wind shifted.
Dimara's head whipped up first, her tendrils flaring from beneath her cloak.
Fiore drew her blade in a single breath.
A dozen masked figures dropped from the trees and rooftops. Sleek armor, black cloaks, blades drawn. They moved like assassins. Because they were.
They didn't announce themselves. They didn't speak.
They just attacked.
Kujo barely turned before Dimara launched.
One of the assassins raised a knife—and lost his arm before the swing even began. A blur of tendrils slammed him into the ground with enough force to crater the earth.
Fiore appeared beside Kujo, her sword humming. She parried three strikes at once and kicked one of the assassins straight into the stone wall of a home.
"Assassins," she hissed. "Your father's finally moving."
The townspeople had begun to gather—watching in horror, some grabbing weapons, others shielding children.
Dimara landed with a hiss, six tendrils coiled around two twitching assassins. Her red-orange eyes were burning with fury. "They tried to hurt Master…"
Fiore stood over another, her sword pressed to his throat. "We should kill them for even drawing their weapons in front of him."
"Both of you," Kujo said calmly, "stand down."
"But—!" Dimara growled.
"Master—!" Fiore barked.
"I want to ask them some questions first," he said, his tone steady but firm.
Dimara looked ready to explode. Fiore's hands shook with the effort to hold herself back. But they obeyed.
The assassins, or at least those still conscious, were tied and forced to their knees.
Kujo walked forward slowly, arms crossed. His aura was calm—but cold.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
They didn't speak.
"I already know," he said. "But I want to hear you say it."
One of them spat. "The king."
Another, still clutching his bleeding arm, sneered. "You've lost all honor, consorting with filth."
Kujo's gaze didn't waver. "You mean the people I saved. The ones who work. Who live. Who chose to follow me."
"They're monsters," the third assassin said. "Half-bloods. Defects. You live among them now?"
Kujo said nothing.
He simply turned and looked at his people.
Children standing in doorways, watching. Young warriors clutching spears. A vampire child clutching their mother's hand. Azar standing nearby, silent, a grim look on her face. Maros watching from the edge of the crowd, unreadable.
"This town," Kujo said, voice louder now, "was built by those you call filth."
The assassins remained silent.
"I could kill you," he said. "But then I'd be no better than the house that made you."
He looked to Fiore and Dimara.
"Take them to the holding chamber. We'll interrogate them later."
Fiore frowned. "You're too soft sometimes."
"Maybe," Kujo said. "But I've survived because I know when to hold a blade… and when to listen."
Dimara huffed, her tendrils still twitching. But she obeyed.
As the crowd dispersed, Kujo stood alone a moment longer, hands clenched.
His past had found him.
And now, it would try to tear down everything he'd built.
But not this time.