My Taboo Harem!-Chapter 315: The Void Claims Its Due
[Ding! Spatial anomaly detected—]
Phei slammed back-first into the floor with a wet, meaty crack that echoed through his skull like a dropped watermelon. Pain detonated along his spine—sharp, electric, white-hot—as though every vertebra had shattered at once and then been ground into jagged shards by the impact.
Pain wasn’t localized; it was everywhere—a supernova detonating from tailbone to brainstem. His godly poise, that effortless, serpentine, predatory grace he’d worn like second skin, shattered along with it.
All that remained was a trembling teenager clawing at cold stone, gasping like a fish flung onto asphalt.
[Ding! Host has entered Near-Death State]
He sucked air in desperate, shredded gulps—each inhale a knife twisting deeper into ruined cartilage. Hands slapped the floor, fingers scraping uselessly as he dragged himself forward on elbows and belly.
Chest heaved violently. Lungs burned like they’d been filled with acid. Saliva and blood mixed in thick strings from his lips.
The death he’d just escaped replayed in brutal flashes: Sakura’s crimson smile, Elena’s oblivious skip away, the invisible hand squeezing until blackness swallowed him whole. Th way she’d just toyed with him just to see how long he could last.
The system hadn’t lied.
Even the legendary flash had happened as he flashed his entire pathetic life across his dying retinas like a warning reel. He’d almost been erased.
And the maid had let him feel every second of it.
[Ding! Healing Touch failed! Wounds of sheer scale can’t be healed by Lv1!]
He crawled. Kept crawling. Blind. This darkness wasn’t his old companion—the comforting black he wrapped around himself at night. This was void. Absolute. Infinite. No edges, no faint glow, no concept of distance or direction.
Only the hard, unyielding floor under bleeding palms and the wet rasp of his own ruined breathing.
Up ceased to exist. Time dissolved.
Reality narrowed to pain, stone, and the endless nothing pressing in from every side that he couldn’t help wondering how big is this place anyways?
[Ding! Chaos Level Entity Detected!
[0.000001% Survival chances, Host!]
"Infinity!"
The male voice detonated from nowhere and everywhere simultaneously.
Phei froze mid-crawl—palms flat, body trembling. The sound didn’t travel through air; it vibrated directly in his marrow, in the marrow of his thoughts.
Omnipresent.
The word snapped into his mind unbidden, and he knew—instinctively—that the voice had heard him think it how big the place is. Knew every terrified flicker in his brain.
"Nice to finally meet you... Phei Maxton."
Phei’s cracked lips peeled back in a bloody snarl.
"That’s not my—"
The protest ripped from Phei’s throat in a hoarse, shredded rasp—defiant even as fresh agony lanced through his cracked ribs like white-hot rebar.
Pride was all he had left.
"Ohhh... still prideful, I see." The voice purred—slow, syrup-thick mockery dripping from every syllable, coiling around his mind like black oil. "Very well. Let us indulge the little fantasy you cling to like a drowning rat to driftwood."
A deliberate, suffocating pause. Heavy. Cruel. The void itself seemed to lean in, savoring the moment.
"Phei Ryujin Tiamat."
Phei said nothing. Just breathed—ragged, wet, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth and dripping in thick crimson strings onto the stone.
His body shuddered once, violently, as though the name itself had struck him.
The voice snorted—then erupted into a low, rolling chuckle that vibrated through every atom in the darkness, thunder trapped in obsidian.
"If I were you, I would at least pretend to honor that name. What right does a weakling like you—sprawled here like discarded offal, bleeding and broken, waiting for me to decide the precise second your worthless heart stops—have to claim the Ryujin Tiamat name? What a grotesque, laughable disgrace.
"Tiamat herself must be howling in the abyss, watching her bloodline reduced to this whimpering, piss-soaked husk of a boy who can’t even stand."
[Ding! Another Attempt failed! Healing Touch failed! Wounds of sheer scale can’t be healed by Lv1!]
Phei stayed silent even to the system message. The voice was right. He was bleeding. Powerless. Disposable. A stain on the floor.
What could he say... the voice was right, he was weak and—
"Ah... still the same tired script, huh? Talking down from your high fucking horse like the rest of Legacy Boys puppets. You’re awfully chatty for a spineless, shadow-hiding coward who only picks on those who can’t hit back. A glorified errand boy playing god because the real ones won’t even glance your way.
Pathetic.
You’re not power—you’re leftover scraps pretending to be the feast.
"A sniveling parasite riding someone else’s coattails, too weak to stand on your own two feet. Even your threats sound rehearsed—like you practiced them in front of a mirror for centuries because no one else will listen to your whining.
Face it: you’re the cosmic equivalent of a hall monitor with delusions of grandeur. A petty little tyrant hiding behind borrowed authority because deep down you know the second the leash snaps, you’re nothing."
Then the words tore out anyway—raw, reckless, venomous, tasting of copper and fury, fast like he was a firing machine gun.
Silence.
Absolute. Crushing.
Then the void detonated.
"HOW DARE YOU!"
The Consort’s voice cracked through like a whip forged from lightning and hate—sharp enough to split stone, feminine fury given sonic form.
Phei laughed. A wet, broken bark that ended in a bloody cough spraying red across the floor.
"Ah... it’s the errand bitch herself. Still licking boots and calling it devotion? Still simping for a master who won’t even let you sit at the table? You’re not his right-hand—you’re a lapdog with delusions of grandeur. A yapping little thing on a very short leash, barking at shadows because that’s all you’re allowed to bite.
How does it feel knowing you’re just the help with better makeup and a fancier title? A glorified maid who traded her spine for a collar?"
"You’re courting—"
"Consort!" The male voice snapped—cutting her off with brutal finality.
[Host’s life is... in danger. You’re dying!]
Phei chuckled again—coughed more blood onto the stone, the wet splatter echoing in the nothing.
"I won’t complain..." He lifted his head toward the invisible source, even though there was none—eyes bloodshot, defiant, burning. "The weak have no right to complain, right? The weak can only blame themselves for being disposable. And I’m the perfect fucking example, aren’t I? A cautionary tale wrapped in arrogance and bad decisions."
A low, approving hum rolled through the darkness—slow, almost pleased.
"Glad you finally understand your position, little Tiamat scum. And since you’re so smart..."
A red door tore open in the infinite black—distance meaningless, perspective collapsing. Ten meters. A hundred. A thousand. Crimson light bled from its edges like fresh arterial spray, thick and pulsing.
The frame writhed with veins of molten gold and black lightning that arced like living serpents, hissing and snapping at the void.
"...you should also realize the powerful can kill you without ever needing to explain why."
The voice boomed—suddenly colossal, shaking the floor, shaking Phei’s fractured bones until fresh cracks spiderwebbed through them.
"GOODBYE, TIAMAT SCUM. NEXT LIFE, DO NOT EVER COVET WHAT’S MINE!"
A colossal white sword materialized above the door—pure, blinding radiance, its blade longer than mountain ranges, edge so sharp it seemed to slice causality itself. A sword aura erupted in cascading shockwaves: blinding white afterimages trailing in its wake like comet tails, each one a perfect mirror of the original blade moving at impossible velocity—hundreds, thousands of ghostly blades overlapping in fractal fury.
[Ding! Weapon manifestation detected — Celestial Judgment Blade (Replica Variant)]
[Ding! Sword Aura density: Lethal — Sword Intent level: Annihilation-grade]
[Ding! Afterimage count: 1,247... 3,892... increasing exponentially]
[Ding! Sword energy cyclones forming — Reality shear detected. Void stability dropping to 41%]
The sword began its descent—slow at first, then accelerating into something that defied physics, leaving comet-trails of fractured space behind it.
Sword energy coiled around it in spiraling cyclones of silver-white plasma that tore micro-rifts in the void—screaming with the sound of shattering dimensions, reality fraying at the seams.
White fire ignited along the edge—white flames that burned colder than absolute zero yet hotter than the heart of creation, devouring light and shadow alike. The entire abyss trembled as though death had taken physical form, given itself a hilt, and decided to swing.
The sword descended.
Fast.
Unstoppable.
Phei stared up—eyes wide, blood-streaked, defiant even in the face of annihilation—and watched his end rush toward him in a blaze of merciless white light that swallowed the red door, the void, and every last shred of darkness.
