Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!-Chapter 131: Death & Deception

Naturally, not everyone in Cortinvar's court supported the Queen's decision to hold event for the Everbright Chruch especially when the Queen herself wanted to participate in it.

Because if Emmalise were to become infected… and if Prince Elias succumbed to Red Slumber…

The kingdom would crumble. There would be no heir, no stabilizing power to keep the realm from chaos.

But Claude had already anticipated all of this.

In fact, he had planned for it.

Cortinvar was to become the prototype—an example of how his disease protocol could work even in an era as unprepared as the Middle Ages.

And once his experiment was successful, the rest of the envoy would follow.

Of course, Emmalise's stubbornness made the blessing event possible—but under strict conditions.

She was heavily guarded and forbidden from getting too close to the patients.

At all times, one of her most trusted men stood by her side: Duke Archie.

"How did you manage to convince the Materia Temple to allow the Everbright Church to host this event?"

Duke Archie asked, his voice muffled through the thick white mask covering his face and hood.

He and Emmalise were both clad in the same protective attire—white from head to toe—designed by Claude himself to prevent exposure to the disease.

From their elevated vantage point inside a nearby observation tent, they watched the priests in ceremonial robes enter the main shelter with confidence, praying among the sick.

Those inside were a mix of patients, overworked medical staff, and volunteers.

No one resisted. They were far too exhausted to argue.

Even if salvation came from their enemies, it was still salvation.

"Nothing," Emmalise replied simply. "There weren't many of them left. Most were sick, dead, or already volunteering."

"So, even they still have some conscience," Duke Archie muttered.

Claude smirked behind his own mask.

'No matter the world, the same old rot lives in every religious institution.'

Suddenly, Emmalise stood up. Her voice rang out firmly.

"I can't just sit here anymore. I need to see the state of my people with my own eyes. I need to ensure their needs are being met."

Duke Archie immediately stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

"Your Majesty, you can't do that," he said.

"Your health is critical to the kingdom's future. What will we do if you fall ill?"

"And what am I without my people?!"

Emmalise snapped. "Do you think the throne holds any meaning if there are no lives left to rule over?!"

"Don't stand in my way, Duke Archie. Or are you afraid of a disease? You? A general?" she added with a bitter chuckle.

"I'm a queen now—not your little lady anymore."

Duke Archie sighed heavily.

"I know you've always been this stubborn… but if you fall, I'll follow you. No hesitation."

"You threaten me now?" she asked, softening. "I told you, I'm not a child anymore."

And yet… they both laughed.

Claude, watching from the side, said nothing. But it wasn't hard to guess the nature of their relationship—past or present.

Of course, Emmalise never once stepped inside the tent. She only stood at the threshold, speaking to the head doctors with firm resolve.

But even that simple act meant more to the people than the presence of any priest or healer.

It meant their Queen hadn't abandoned them.

Claude followed from behind, keeping a careful distance, when suddenly a hand gripped his arm and yanked him aside.

Before he could react, he found himself pulled into one of the smaller tents meant for resting medical staff.

He turned with narrowed eyes, only to find the culprit glaring up at him—Aubree.

She raised a gloved finger to her masked lips, signaling for silence.

Claude chuckled. "Oh? You missed me that badly?"

Aubree pinched his palm hard, making him flinch.

"I didn't drag you here for that," she hissed.

Claude sighed in disappointment. "Then what is it?"

Her fists clenched."How long… how much longer does my daughter have to live in this nightmare?"

Claude's smirk faded. He looked at her for a moment, as if measuring the weight of her question.

"Two weeks," he said evenly.

"In two weeks, the plague will reach its peak. Deaths will surge. So will recoveries. By then, public sentiment will be ripe."

Aubree's hands flew to his shoulder, gripping the cold metal of his armor. Her whole body shook.

"Why? Why let it get that far?! If we wait that long, there might not be anyone left to save!"

Claude gently took her wrists and pried them away, his touch surprisingly tender.

"That's exactly why it has to happen," he said, voice low.

"They need to know despair. They need to be suffocated by it—drowning in the weight of their helplessness."

"And only then, when they've lost faith in everything else, will they accept Aurelia."

Aubree's voice cracked. "There's no other way? No path where people don't have to die for your plan?"

Claude looked at her, confused. Genuinely confused.

Why did she care?

Why did someone who had been spat on, degraded, treated like filth by humanity… still mourn for them?

"You've suffered more than anyone. You've seen what they did to your kind. You know better than I do how this world works," he muttered, releasing her hands.

"You can answer your own question."

That was all it took. Her composure shattered.

Tears streamed silently down her cheeks as she looked away. She couldn't bear the fact that all of the people died because of her, the one who spread the plague, the one who knew the cure but decided to stay silent.

Claude reached forward and pulled her into an embrace, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back.

"Don't cry," he murmured against her hair. "You know I hate seeing my women cry."

But the comfort did little for her. Her heart still throbbed with conflict.

And yet…

She couldn't bring herself to hate him. Because deep down, she knew he wasn't wrong.

She had seen too many of her sisters—fellow witches—die trying to help humans. Begging for scraps of mercy. Hoping for change that never came.

All she could do now was pray.

Pray that this horror would end soon.

And that the images of these last two weeks—dying people, helpless cries, and the sound of death—would one day fade from memory.

***

A week passed. The number of infected swelled past a thousand. Over four hundred were confirmed dead.

The smoke rising from the furnaces no longer symbolized the productivity of craftsmen, but something far grimmer.

The fires now served a different purpose—burning corpses to prevent further spread of the disease.

The ashes were buried deep beneath the earth, hidden from the eyes of the living.

The economy crumbled under the weight of the crisis. Queen Emmalise had no choice but to open the emergency reserves—distributing food and supplies to the common folk to stave off hunger and riots.

Cortinvar's once-thriving capital, Haven, had become a ghost town. No one dared step outside—not even in daylight.

And yet, Emmalise remained healthy. She wore a solemn black gown in mourning, her steps silent as she approached her brother's chambers.

Prince Elias had not been spared.

The rumors were true. His condition had worsened. His survival now seemed unlikely.

Even the Queen's most vocal opposition had gone silent—snuffed out by the slow, creeping certainty of his death.

It wasn't Claude's doing, nor Emmalise's. They never had to dirty their hands.

The prince's decline came from the physicians themselves—through bloodletting, a traditional but misguided treatment to purge "bad blood."

When they entered the chamber, Elias lay on the bed, pale and trembling. Blood trickled continuously from his nose. Even the doctor warned them not to come too close.

Claude sighed heavily. 'Measles leading to thrombocytopenia... and they're worsening it by bleeding him out. Brilliant.'

"Brother," Emmalise said softly, standing beside the door. "It's me—Queen Emmalise."

Elias scoffed. His voice was barely more than a rasp.

"Even now, with death on my doorstep, you still call yourself Queen? Spare me the performance."

Emmalise raised her hand. The maids and doctors bowed and silently exited the room, leaving only the three of them behind.

"Ah. So you finally show your true colors."

"My true colors?"

Elias coughed, blood flecking his lips.

"This wouldn't have happened if you had ever once seen me as your brother. Instead of the bastard who dared to stand in the way of your precious crown."

"And yet, you proved me right," Emmalise replied calmly.

"You aligned yourself with the Everbright Church. You built a coalition to usurp me."

Elias trembled with rage but held his tongue.

She took a step closer. Her voice dropped, sharp as a dagger.

"Elias. Son of a palace maid. You were never my equal. You were always behind me. And you will never wear the crown that belongs to me."

Elias let out a mad, rattling laugh. "So it was you! You poisoned me! That afternoon tea—you laced it, didn't you?!"

He thrashed in bed, spitting curses.

"You're a monster! You let our people suffer, and you'll burn in hell for it! I'll tell them—tell everyone what you've done!"

"I will tell them all that you are a witch!"

Emmalise's lips curled in a smile, but her eyes stayed cold.

"Then go ahead," she said. "Let's see who believes the ravings of a dying man... if you live long enough to say it."

Elias screamed again, his fury echoing through the chamber as she turned away. Claude followed her silently.

Outside, he noticed how serene she looked, calm, and relieved.

The last thorn in her path had been removed.

Two days later, Prince Elias was pronounced dead.

And that very same night… Emmalise collapsed.

The Queen had caught the Red Slumber.