NTR: Barbarian Harem Conquest

His first loss ever since he transmigrated into this game.

Stripped of his armor and wearing Tier III Mana-Sealing Shackles forged from cold Moon-Silver, Kane rode in the center of the formation.

Yet, he didn’t walk like a beaten captive. His head remained high, and his shoulders were set with such relaxed authority that the guards kept a ten-pace distance from his transport cart.

Riding a white warhorse beside the cage, Commander Myla stared at his face, her eyes locking onto the faint blue light pulsing in his pupils.

”Those shackles are designed to sever a mage’s core completely. Why are your eyes still glowing?”

”Because I don’t use magic, Myla,” Kane smiled faintly, leaning his shoulders back against the wooden bars.

”Your cuffs are trying to drain a pond that doesn’t exist. How is your shoulder?”

”Mind your tongue,” she snapped, though her left hand drifted up to rub the bruise where he had slammed her into the silver ingots.

”You are marching to the Silver City. The High Council does not show mercy to warlords who sack our borders.”

”Good. Mercy is boring.”

”I will enjoy torturing you.”

”My pleasure.”

’The mana-shackles are annoying; they are blocking my passive health regeneration, but my core system menu is fully operational,’ Kane thought, watching his internal map record every turn of the forest road.

’I can track the geographical coordinates of every mile we march deeper into their territory. They are drawing me a map of their inner defenses for free.’

Sunlight broke through the ancient forest canopy an hour later, revealing Sylvander, the border City.

Built directly into the trunks of colossal World-Trees, the capital rose in hanging silver bridges, white marble terraces, and cascading mana-waterfalls.

Trotting up to the other side of the transport, the greatsword vanguard gestured proudly toward the towers.

”Look closely, barbarian. This is what thousands of years of unbroken culture and architectural perfection look like.”

”I won the tournament and fucked almost every woman here. Of course I know how it looks.”

”You and your crass tongue.”

”You just have to ask.”

”Shut up.”

Kane scanned the suspended timber foundations supporting the lower residential rings. ”It looks like a giant tinderbox.

One good siege bombardment at the root systems and three of your noble districts slide into the river.”

”You have the manners of a mountain boar.”

”I am an engineer and a soldier. You built a castle in the clouds because you forgot men fight on the ground.”

’Firlia was right about one thing: this city is drowning in wealth,’ Kane analyzed, his system calculating the load-bearing capacity of the timber bridges.

’But their military doctrine is arrogant. They have never faced a conventional ground invasion because the forest always protected them. If I can negotiate, or force, a trade treaty here, Menual will dominate the southern continent’s economy within five years.’

Instead of marching him toward the upper administrative spires, the cavalry diverted toward the lower terraces.

Word of the border sack had outrun the caravan, and thousands of elves lined the hanging walkways.

Only a few months ago, these same citizens had showered Kane with flowers when he won the Sylvander grand tournament.

Now, they screamed curses and hurled rotting fruit at his cage, booing the Bloodfang Warlord who had cracked their treasury.

”Fickle crowd,” Kane remarked, dodging a thrown peach without standing up.

”They loved a champion,” Myla said coldly as the cart rumbled into the shadows of the lower ward.

”They despise a conqueror.”

They threw him into a holding cell below the root-line, where the air was cold and bitter. For three days, the Elves tried to break his spirit.

Guards withheld rations, poured freezing river water into his cell at midnight, and forced him to wear a second pair of Moon-Silver cuffs that rubbed his wrists raw.

’They want me exhausted and shivering before I see the Council,’ Kane thought on the third morning, ignoring the ache in his ribs as he did push-ups against the stone floor, the chains clinking with every repetition.

’They don’t understand that a northern winter makes this basement feel like a summer resort.’

When the guards finally dragged him up to the High Court of the Sun-Tree, Kane looked thinner, and bruises marked his ribs, but his stride remained steady.

Hundreds of Elven nobles, scholars, and generals lined the balconies of the living timber hall, whispering as the notorious prisoner was brought before the dais.

Seated at the center of the council table sat Minister Aeloria. High-ranking, blindingly arrogant, and harboring a bitter, personal hatred for the barbarian who had humiliated her border forces, she glared down at him with venomous eyes.

Beside her stood the Grand Chancellor and her remaining royal guards.

Two armored guards behind Kane kicked at the backs of his knees, trying to force him down before the council table.

Kane didn’t flinch. Locking his joints, he tensed his legs and planted his boots into the polished floor.

When a guard swung a hardwood spear-shaft across his calves to break his stance, the wood shattered against Kane’s muscle with a loud crack, leaving the barbarian standing tall before the minister.

Kneeling gracefully at the foot of the dais, Myla bowed her head. ”Minister Aeloria. I present the Warlord of Menual.

The customs fortress was breached, but we have secured the enemy commander.”

Aeloria leaned forward, her knuckles whitening against the edge of the council table.

”You sack my customs gates, slaughter my magical barriers, and yet you walk into this court standing upright. Do you not know how to kneel, Barbarian?”

Kane met her gaze directly, the blue light of his interface flaring to life in his pupils.

”I only kneel to bury my dead, Aeloria. And since my commanders are still breathing, I suggest we skip the theater and talk about how much your city is going to pay me for peace.”

Outraged gasps erupted across the balconies, but Aeloria raised a single hand for silence, her face tightening into a pale, furious sneer.

”No queen?”

”You aren’t worth her time.”

”You don’t know. We have quite some explicit history in war room.”