Dungeon Overlord: Monster Girl Harem!-Chapter 178: Throne of Fire and Ash

The gate to the seventh ring didn't break with a roar. It fell with a whimper.

Stone cracked. Metal twisted. And the great iron doors that once protected Astrea's nobles splintered like rotten teeth beneath the swing of Leonhardt's greatsword. Not magic. Not siege engines. Just him—and the weight of momentum.

Smoke bled through the breach, swallowing the clean marble roads in shadow. Behind him, goblins surged in waves. Armour mismatched. Eyes wild. Blades raised.

They didn't need orders anymore. They only needed his back to follow.

Leonhardt stepped through the ruined gate, boots crunching embers beneath his heels. A breeze blew down the boulevard ahead, carrying the scent of old coin, perfume, and blood.

The Seventh Ring.

Where the wealth fled when the city burned. Where the final roaches scurried into marble halls, clutching titles and names they thought still meant something.

His cloak dragged through the soot. He adjusted his grip on the sword.

[You've almost broken them!]

(Humans burn better than beasts~) Dravanna cooed.

Leonhardt didn't reply.

His gaze locked on the distant manor atop the central rise—Astrea's high seat.

Even from here, he could see the gold-inlaid banner trembling above the spire. He wondered if they'd try to parley. Offer daughters, bribes, oaths they'd break the moment his back turned.

His smirk was slight.

They were too late.

Behind him, Gobomir's shadow wolf let out a low growl. Gobbolas shouted something crude from a rooftop, loosing a volley of fire arrows into the air. The wind caught the flames, twisting them like ribbons before they fell into the streets.

It didn't matter.

No rally. No speech.

Leonhardt raised his hand.

Then dropped it.

And the goblins charged.

By midday, the Seventh Ring was no longer resisting.

It was watching.

The nobles didn't fight. They didn't beg. They just stared—eyes wide, mouths trembling—as goblins poured into their pristine courtyards and tore down centuries of bloodline pride in under an hour.

Leonhardt stood at the centre of a plaza, one foot resting on the toppled statue of House Mercia's patriarch—his stone eyes cracked, his beard cleaved down the middle.

Griv stood beside him, coat unwrinkled, blood on only one glove.

"They brought them," he said lightly. "Thirty-seven nobles. Five former ministers. Four dozen attendants. And every merchant we could drag from their cellars."

Leonhardt nodded once.

He forced the nobles to kneel in a half-circle, pressed down by goblin blades. Some whimpered. Others tried to look defiant. But none stood. Not when the archers lined the rooftops. Not when Gobomir loomed behind them, his shadow wolf pacing slowly in their wake.

A young noblewoman, maybe fifteen, clutched her father's coat as the goblins ripped rings from his fingers.

Leonhardt watched.

Then he stepped forward.

"You have two choices," he said, voice carrying across the square.

No shouting. No drama. Just the cold truth.

"You kneel, serve, and survive… Or you burn."

A merchant with trembling hands raised his voice. "W-we're kneeling already!"

Leonhardt's eyes didn't shift, but he couldn't help but chuckle at the man's words.

"You!"

The merchant shuddered, his mouth flapping as Leonhardt pointed at him.

The plaza reeked of smoke and scorched silk.

Nobles knelt in a ragged semicircle, some weeping, others staring in stunned disbelief. Commoners stood beyond them, held back by goblin spears. Merchants. Bakers. Blacksmiths. Servants. No one dared to speak.

Until one did.

"W-we're kneeling already!" a merchant stammered. His hands shook. He had dirt on his sleeves and rings missing from three fingers. "We don't want to die—"

Leonhardt didn't look at him at first.

Then he chuckled.

A dry, indistinct sound—like fire curling up wet parchment.

"You."

The merchant flinched as two goblins grabbed his arms—Gobbolas and Gobomir themselves—and lifted him forward like a child caught stealing. His legs buckled as he was dropped before the Dungeon Master.

Leonhardt studied him for a long second. Then asked:

"If I lowered the trade and income tax in Embervale to ten percent…"

The man blinked. "W-what?"

"Ten percent," Leonhardt repeated. "Flat. No hidden fees. No gate charges. No templar tithes. No guild bribes. Your caravans are guarded. Your losses are compensated by dungeon resources. You deal with one council. Mine. Those goblins there."

Leonhardt pointed to Griv and Snaggle, who was drooling.

He let the words sink in.

"Would you trade here?"

The merchant opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"That's… that's impossible."

"Answer the question."

The man swallowed hard.

"I-I'd move my entire house here."

Leonhardt turned slightly toward the commoners.

"For those who work," he said, "you'll be paid double the kingdom's average wage. And your food during labor hours will be covered by the employer—subsidized by the Embervale treasury."

Gasps spread through the crowd.

No fanfare. No slogans. Just math. And hunger.

Leonhardt let the silence build until even the nobles began to sweat.

He turned then toward a portly man in fur-trimmed robes.

The noble clutched his daughter tight. She looked no older than fifteen. Her dress was torn. Her face was pale.

"I'll give her to you," the man said suddenly, voice cracking. "She's pure. She's obedient. Please, I—"

Leonhardt raised a hand, silencing him.

Then he crouched before the girl.

"Do you want to keep living here?" he asked.

Her lips trembled. Then she nodded.

He tilted his head.

"Do you want to succeed your family?"

Her eyes widened. Sparkled.

The other noblewomen in the crowd leaned forward, suddenly alert. In the Kingdom, only men could hold titles.

Leonhardt stood.

"In Embervale," he said, "those who prove themselves will rise—man or woman. A daughter may inherit. A wife may rule. A servant may become a merchant."

The nobles erupted. Angry shouts. One man spat at the ground. Another screamed that this was sacrilege.

Leonhardt ignored them.

He lifted some of the dirty ashes from the ground and let them slip through his fingers... and spoke with a cold, calm voice.

"Your old world is ash."

Then with a charming, yet wicked smile, he spread both hands and pointed to the burning city, and instantly the flames faded... his mana spread through the city... before the huge tree before the citadel started to flicker.

Embers spread through the bark like veins of golden light before the branches turned to flame.

Despite burning, the tree looked warm, vibrant and... alive.

"I am the fire that guides your path into the light."

Leonhardt closed his eyes and placed his left fist on his chest.

"Follow me, and I will grant you all salvation."

The plaza didn't erupt.

It fractured.

Some fell to their knees. Others wept. A few nobles screamed. Most were silent—faces blank, spirits broken, or burning with something they didn't yet understand.

Hope. Hatred. Lust. Fear.

But above it all was his voice.

Steady.

Unshakable.

Leonhardt turned to Griv, Lina, and Gobbolas.

"Sort them," he said. "The useful live. The defiant... feed the flames."

And then he turned.

Not like a man leaving the room, but like a god stepping into his temple.

The embers swirled around him as he ascended the white marble stairs, cloak dragging ash behind him like a shadow.

He never looked back.

The throne room of Astrea was white. Too white.

Marble floors. Polished walls. The light poured in from every direction, as if the gods themselves had insisted it be seen. Judged. Remembered.

Leonhardt stepped through the tall white doors alone.

Ash still clung to his boots.

Behind him, the city burned in silence.

Not burning with flames... but the hope and fire of his words.

The throne was tall and far too grand. From the ground to the sky, a white throne of expensive and untouched marble. It was real—cold stone, carved with old crests and layered sigils. A symbol, once, of power inherited.

Adolf's first throne. The king's previous capital, used to achieve his goals.

He sat.

Not like a man claiming a seat, but like a flame taking root in dry wood.

The air thickened instantly. The mana swirled.

And then—

She appeared.

Zafira formed behind him in a shimmer of smoke and gold-threaded silk. Her hands wrapped around his shoulders from behind, her lips grazing the curve of his neck.

"You've done it, my love," she whispered. "The basin is yours."

[You've wasted enough time.]

Ifrit's voice rang through his core, her tsundere tone biting.

[Claim it. Lock it down. Expand.]

(Mmm~ such a dramatic little king~) Dravanna cooed.

(All that fire, and still you wait to burn the world.)

Leonhardt opened the Dungeon Interface in silence.

Flames danced across the empty map.

Dozens of Dungeon Points earned. Regions unlocked. Systems brimming.

He pressed his palm to the throne's sigil.

The map lit up red.

[You have claimed the Astrea Basin.]

[The Kingdom of Embervale has been born.]

That's when it happened.

A gust of wind that shouldn't have existed curled through the ruined stained-glass window.

And from above—

Something fell.

Not with force.

But like a feather.

A single envelope, dark red, stamped with a spiral crest and bound in mana thread, drifted down through the air and landed gently on the armrest beside his hand.

Zafira's breath caught.

[What is that…?] Ifrit asked, suspicious.

Leonhardt turned it over slowly.

The seal pulsed once. Ancient. Forbidden.

Dravanna laughed.

(Oh, darling… you've been invited.)

The Dungeon Master's Council had noticed.

And they wanted to see their newest contender.