I AM A MAGE BUT WITH MILF SYSTEM

He gestured grandly toward the towering gate behind her, the words “Throne of Gods” gleaming in the light.

“Look at this place. I leave for a few… years, perhaps, and you’ve turned my humble creation into a divine sanctuary. I would say you’ve got my knack for making things extraordinary.”

Seraphine rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t quite hide her smile or the pleased flush that colored her cheeks at his praise.

“Flattery won’t get you past this gate, Father,” she said, stepping forward to match his boldness.

Now they stood close enough that Julian could see the faint golden flecks in her blue eyes. Close enough that her scent—that intoxicating blend of flowers and power—filled his senses completely.

“You may have created this world,” she continued, her voice firm, “but I’ve been guarding it. And I don’t let just anyone waltz in, not even sly, charming fathers who think they can sweet-talk their way through.”

Julian tilted his head, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary.

“Fair enough, Lady Seraphine,” he said. “But tell me, how does a daughter of mine end up ruling over a place like this? I think I deserve a story—and maybe a tour, if you’re feeling generous.”

She hesitated, as if unsure whether to trust this man who claimed to be her father. Her hand moved unconsciously to a pendant around her neck that he hadn’t noticed before—a small golden locket that rested just above her cleavage.

Eleanor’s locket, he realized.

“I could be lying,” he said softly, giving her an out. “Perhaps I’m just some traveler who happens to look like the stories describe. You’d be wise not to trust me so easily.”

Seraphine’s eyes snapped to his. For a long moment, she simply looked at him—really looked, as if trying to see past flesh and bone to the truth beneath.

Then, with a dramatic sigh, she stepped aside and gestured toward the path leading up the mountain.

“Fine,” she said, though her voice had softened considerably. “But don’t think you’re getting off easy. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, and I’m not half as forgiving as Mother is.”

Julian laughed. “Lead the way, my heart-breaking daughter. Let’s see what you’ve done with my world.”

With that, they began their ascent up the stone path that wound toward the summit of the great mountain. The path was steep but well maintained, surrounded by vibrant flowers that danced in the breeze.

Seraphine explained as they walked, her voice taking on a more serious tone as she recounted the past. Ever since he had summoned them so abruptly on that fateful day, her mother and her other mothers had never left the peak of the mountain. They had arrived traumatized, convinced that Julian was dead and that they were now trapped in a beautiful prison without him.

Seraphine had been barely one or two years old when it happened. Her earliest memories were fragmented things—her mother’s tears, the hushed conversations between the women, and the grief. She remembered being held, comforted by women who were themselves broken.

As she grew, the situation beyond the mountain peak became increasingly chaotic. The minor world that Julian had set up (the one where he transported all the creatures so that only the powerful could break through to the throne of gods) had begun producing results far beyond what he had anticipated. Creatures emerged from those realms, ascending to the main world through pathways Julian had established. At first, there were only a few. Then dozens. Then hundreds.

They were powerful beings, each one blessed with cultivation potential that far exceeded normal limits. They emerged confused, driven by instinct to seek out the source of power that called to them—the divine energy that radiated from the Throne of Gods.

But there was no one to guide them. No one to establish order or teach them the ways of civilization. His harem remained locked in their grief, unwilling to venture down from their sanctuary. And so the creatures roamed wild, sometimes violent as they competed for resources and space.

Seraphine remembered watching from the balconies as a child, seeing the chaos spreading throughout her father’s world. She remembered asking her mother why they didn’t help, why they didn’t go down and bring order. Eleanor had only held her tighter and said that without Julian, nothing mattered anymore.

But it mattered to Seraphine.

When she turned twelve, she made a decision. If the adults wouldn’t act, then she would. She descended the mountain alone, against her mother’s tearful protests, and ventured into the chaos below.

What followed were years of struggle. Seraphine was powerful for her age, but she was still just a child facing creatures who had lived for decades, who had cultivated their strength through conflict and competition. She couldn’t overpower them all, so she learned to outthink them instead.

She established territories, drew boundaries, and created a system of rules that the creatures could understand and follow. She built the first settlements and showed the creatures how to cultivate the land and how to harvest the abundant energy of this world without depleting it.

Most importantly, she taught them about Julian—their creator, the god who had made this world for them. She wove his story into legend and made him a figure of reverence and awe. The creatures, hungry for meaning and purpose, latched onto this mythology. Julian became their deity, and by extension, Seraphine became his prophet, his representative in his absence.

The creatures fell into line. They respected the boundaries she set. They began to organize themselves into communities, developing cultures and traditions. Some even began to worship—building shrines, leaving offerings, and making pilgrimages to the mountain to pay their respects to the Throne of Gods.

By the time Seraphine turned twenty, she had transformed a world of chaos into a functioning civilization. The creatures no longer fought for survival—they thrived. And through it all, Seraphine ruled with a firm but fair hand, always remembering that this was her father’s world, and she was merely its steward until he returned.

If he returned.