Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God-Chapter 15: Battle God

Sylvaris scanned the crowd with an air of indifference, his gaze sweeping over the gathered thugs as if they were nothing more than insects beneath his boot. The restless horses pawed at the dirt, their uneasy snorts adding to the thick tension in the air. The beasts could sense it, that heavy and suffocating aura that clung to Sylvaris like a second skin. It pressed down on everything around him, an oppressive force that made the animals twitch and jerk as if they were seconds away from bolting.

"So... are we going to fight or what?" Sylvaris asked, his voice low and cold. His fingers tightened around his blade's hilt, and a faint smile curled at the edge of his lips.

These guys are mostly around level 20... some 30... but the leader...

A flicker of ethereal light danced in Sylvaris's eyes, the telltale sign of the Inspect skill activating. His gaze locked onto the man standing at the front, and a system window appeared before him.

[Gorath Stonejaw][Class: Slasher][Level: 35][HP: 590][MP: 325][Strength: 94][Magic: 48][Agility: 65.5][Intellect: 45][Defense: 92]

Sylvaris's eyes narrowed slightly. His blade shifted just enough to glint in the light, a silent reminder that he was ready.

The faint glow in his eyes lingered, clear proof that someone had activated Inspect, a skill designed to reveal enemy statistics to a limited degree. Skills, special traits, and hidden abilities remained concealed unless enhanced through a specialized class.

He's strong... a little stronger than me... Sylvaris's eyes narrowed as he studied the man before him. He might be a problem... but...

Energy swirled around Sylvaris like twisting serpents of white light, dancing and flickering as though alive. The aura slithered across his body, wrapping him in an intimidating glow that made several thugs exchange worried glances. Despite their numbers, they knew this man was no pushover.

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His long black hair swayed in the wind, giving him the presence of a god of battle. His blade rested lazily against his white clothes — a signature attire worn by heroes to symbolize purity and hope for those in need. But to Sylvaris, the color white meant something else entirely. He wore it for a different reason — not to represent hope, but because crimson blood stood out beautifully against it. He enjoyed seeing his enemies' blood splattered across his body, and over time, he had turned it into a twisted game. He challenged himself to see how little blood he could stain himself with during each kill, a skill he intended to perfect in the future.

"Kill him," the leader growled coldly, his voice carrying the weight of disdain.

Inspecting someone without consent was taboo, even among criminals. For a noble to stoop so low only fueled Gorath's rage. He had always despised nobles, but when a tempting sum of gold was offered to assassinate Sylvaris, he took it without hesitation. In the end, money always came first for men like him. The faster he completed this job, the sooner he could enjoy the spoils.

The thugs moved without warning. Dozens of men leapt from their horses, blades gleaming in the sunlight as they charged. Most carried swords, the most common weapon in this world, but among them were those wielding gauntlets and staves — brawlers and mages prepared to strike from both near and far. Hidden within the chaotic mob were shadowy figures — assassins lurking in the crowd, silently stalking Sylvaris like predators circling their prey.

Yet Sylvaris saw them all.

His years of training since childhood had honed his senses, and even though the memories of his past life had only just returned, his body remembered everything. His skills were sharp, his instincts deadly, and now... he was ready to paint the streets in crimson.

Let's see... my mana regenerates at about... 4 MP per second... Sylvaris's mind raced as his hand gripped his blade. If I conserve my strength and rely on Jab and Slash, I should be able to endure long enough to face their boss... Or... I could go raw and fight using pure strength alone, saving my mana entirely...

His thoughts flicked back to the earlier encounter when he'd used Jab to pierce the skull of the man outside the carriage. That skill, powered by a precise beam of light at the tip of his sword, had cost him 2 MP — an insignificant price on its own. But with so many enemies swarming him now, spamming skills would drain his mana fast. He knew this fight would be a delicate balance between aggression and conservation.

Decisions... decisions... Sylvaris smirked, his fingers curling tightly around his sword's hilt. Let's see how many of you can bleed before I break a sweat...

The first unlucky fool met Sylvaris's blade the moment he charged forward, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. A nasty scar stretched from the man's right eye to his lips, a twisted reminder of some unfinished battle.

"Let me finish the job somebody failed," Sylvaris sneered, his cold gaze locked on the scar itself. His blade flashed forward, aimed directly at that very mark, as if carving open the same wound a second time.

Blood sprayed in a violent arc, and the thug barely had time to let out a choked gasp before his body split in half, both sides hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

The surrounding thugs froze, their faces stiff with fear. Sylvaris didn't waste a second.

His sword flared with white light as he lunged forward, unleashing a flurry of Jab attacks. Blades of pure light shot from his sword's tip, each one streaking through the air with deadly precision. Skull after skull burst open, and chest after chest caved inward as his blade carved through bone and flesh with merciless efficiency.

Several thugs tried to rush him from the side, their blades slicing through the air in a synchronized attempt to overwhelm him. Yet Sylvaris didn't panic. His sword glowed brightly once again, meeting the oncoming steel with swift and calculated precision, deflecting their attacks just inches from his body.

In that same instant, his legs buckled, his body collapsing to the ground. The sudden fall looked clumsy, yet it was anything but. Sylvaris's movements were fluid and precise — a secret technique of the Elyndor family, one that allowed for complete control over the legs, enabling him to drop instantly like a puppet with cut strings.

The blades that should have sliced him apart sailed harmlessly overhead.

In one powerful motion, Sylvaris pushed himself off the ground, spinning his body like a deadly whirlwind. His blade swept in a perfect circle, its razor-sharp edge singing through flesh and bone as the bodies surrounding him collapsed like dominos. Blood sprayed in all directions, painting the earth red and drenching his white clothes in crimson.

As he stood amidst the circle of corpses, Sylvaris's figure seemed to change. His once-pristine attire, now soaked in blood, clung to him like a second skin. The white fabric, now stained and dripping with crimson, made him look less like a hero and more like a demon god — a figure born to revel in slaughter.

His smirk lingered, cold and unwavering, as the surviving thugs hesitated to take another step forward.