My Taboo Harem!

Chapter 441: Seven Years Old… Ancient or Fragile Kid?

Eira did not move. Did not speak. Only hovered, a quiet constellation against his shoulder.

“But nobody sees that part.”

His voice dropped to something below a whisper—into the territory where words are spoken for the first time and immediately regret being born.

“They see this.” He gestured loosely at his reflection: the tailored gray suit, the lean power coiled in every line of him, the myth-godly-beauty body. “They see the women. The body. The sex. The power. The harem. The boy who tore the sky open and walked out looking like something gods used to fear. And I get it. I do. That’s what’s loud. That’s what’s visible.”

His hand fell back to his lap.

“But there’s a version of me that’s seven years old.”

The sentence started strong. It ended fragile. The gap between beginning and end was ten years wide and filled with every locked door, every meal eaten standing, every Christmas gift that arrived with a reminder stitched into the wrapping: you are temporary nothing.

“He’s still in there. That kid. He didn’t leave when the system arrived. He didn’t leave when the penthouse was handed over. He didn’t leave when the girls came, when the power came, when the world started bowing. He’s still standing in that dark room he was sitting in when he was four and kidnapped and sometimes in when he was seven, rewatching his parents die in fire. And he hasn’t moved. In ten years.”

His hands—the same hands that had once lifted Harold by the skull and held him suspended like judgment—were trembling now. Not violently. Just enough.

The tremor of something trying very hard not to fall apart.

“From four, seven to seventeen. That’s not a bad week. That’s not a phase. That’s a decade of learning, every single day, that you’re not worth keeping. And I’m supposed to—what? Stack enough power? Sleep with enough bodies? Wear nice enough suits? And the seven-year-old

me just… stops crying?”

He tried to laugh. The sound died in his throat before it could form—turned into something raw and stuck.

“That’s the hardest battle anyone can fight. Not the One Above. Not Harold. Not any Legacy patriarch, entity, monster. Fighting seven years of yourself. The version that believes—really believes, down in the bones, in the marrow, in the part that existed before the system and will still be there after it—that he wasn’t worth keeping.”

His palm returned to his chest. Not pressing this time. Resting. Feeling the stubborn thud beneath like he needed proof it hadn’t already stopped.

“That’s a war that doesn’t end when you win. Because winning doesn’t feel like winning. It feels like Tuesday. And nobody outside can tell the difference.”

A small bump in the road jolted through the car. The city doing indifferent city things.

Phei used the interruption—swallowed hard, blinked once, resettled the mask just enough to keep breathing.

“And I can feel it coming, Eira.”

The words were almost nothing now.

“The snap. But not the kind I did with Harold. Not outward. Not the sky splitting. Not everyone watching.”

He turned to her fully. Those eyes—void-black now, bleeding at the edges, glacial blue holding on, frost-cracked irises that made him look like winter had birthed a son—were wet.

Not spilling. Not yet. But the water was there. Held in fragile tension. One open palm away from falling.

“This one would be quiet. Just… me going dark. Inside. Not dying. That would be—” He caught the word before it escaped. Chose another. “Worse than that. It would be me becoming the cold thing the awakening left behind. Permanently. And never finding the way back to the part that’s still… that still…”

He couldn’t say it.

Human.

The word sat heavy on his tongue, shaped but unspoken. Saying it aloud would mean admitting the part that had wanted—really wanted—to hold Victoria tonight could simply vanish. Not be stolen. Not be killed. Lost.

Like a name you forget mid-sentence, like a key you set down somewhere and now the drawer is empty forever.

“That’s what scares me,” he finished instead. “Not what’s outside. What’s in here that might one day just… decide it’s done trying. The more they push me to forget, to let them in… the quicker the snap arrives.”

Eira drifted closer. The faint winter radiating from her brushed his neck like a mother’s touch no one had ever given him.

She did not say it will be okay. She was ten thousand years old. She had watched stars born and stars die and empires do the same in between.

She knew better than to lie into uncomfortable silence just to fill it.

But in the quiet of the car—while his voice had thinned to breaking, while his hands had trembled, while the boy beneath the god had shown her every fracture he could never show the world—she had been remembering.

The awakening.

The exact instant the ancient thing inside him had finally opened its eyes behind his own. And looked out.

She’d rewatched it happen— the exact instant the void-ice had ripped through his body like frost claiming a dying tree. She’d seen his hair leach every last trace of colour until it was moon-white and spectral.

She’d seen his eyes flood black, pupils swallowing the blue until only glacial fractures remained.

She’d watched every soft remnant of the boy dissolve into something far older—something that had existed before human memory had words to name it.

And she’d been there when Melissa’s voice cracked through the chaos.

“Phei—baby—come back—please—”

What had turned to look at Melissa in that moment was not solely Phei anymore. Something ancient peered out through his face. Something colder than the vacuum between stars. Something that remembered being worshipped as epitome of existence, feared as the end of worlds—and now, after centuries of sleep, was waking up very, very angry.

That anger carried the full weight of every beating absorbed into the bloodline.

Every decade of anguish that had seeped downward like poison into groundwater.

Ten years of suffering it had passively drunk while it slumbered in the marrow—and now it was awake. It remembered every second. It had catalogued every scream, every bruise, every Christmas morning that tasted like ash.

It had seen Melissa standing there—small, terrified, reaching.

And in that heartbeat, it had chosen mercy.

But mercy is not forgiveness. And the fury—the glacial, patient, world-carving rage—had not departed.

Eira could feel it even now, coiled deep in the cold currents of his blood, sitting silent beside her in the backseat while he spoke of seven-year-olds and anchors and the terror of going permanently dark.

The thing inside him was not raging. It was waiting. Patient as stone. Coiled in the deep freeze of inherited memory like a predator that had long ago learned the most lethal anger never explodes.

It stays. It endures. It outlasts.

And she was afraid—in the quiet, ten-thousand-year-old way that ancient beings fear only the things they cannot repair—that the fury remained unquenched.

That every act since the awakening—the women, the conquests, the penthouse empires, the harem orbiting him like moons, the sky itself torn open for spectacle—had not even grazed it.

That the rage sat whole and undimmed, patient as mountain roots cracking bedrock over millennia, and that one day it would deem mercy an expired luxury.

She said none of this.

Instead, she did something she almost never permitted herself.

She landed.

Crystalline feet touched the leather seat beside him. Wings folded neatly against her back like frost-covered doors sealing shut. The faint, eternal hum that always surrounded her simply ceased. She settled—truly settled—in a way hovering never allowed.

Present. Grounded. Choosing, for once, to stop flying and simply be beside him.

The gesture was so far outside her nature that Phei went utterly still.

He did not turn to look at her. She did not turn to look at him.

They simply sat.

Boy and ancient companion. In the backseat of a car neither controlled. Moving through a city that had no idea—one of the most devastating forces it had ever birthed was quietly unraveling in its expensive upholstery.

The city kept melting past in streaks of gold and violet. Headlights painted brief, warm strokes across their faces.

And Phei sat there—seventeen years old—in his tailored gray suit with his trembling hands, his wet eyes, his power that could split the heavens wide, and he could no longer find a single place to set a feeling without it slicing him open from the inside.

Already running out of room for the weight.

Already running out of nights he could pretend the darkness was only temporary.

The only anchor he had tonight had wings, crystalline skin, and ten thousand years of silence behind her eyes.

She had not spoken a single word.

She did not need to.