Demonic Dragon: Harem System-Chapter 775: Reflection

A calm settled in the room like a soft, almost sacred veil.

The heavy curtains filtered the outside light, enveloping the space in warm, golden tones. The silence wasn't absolute—there was the rhythmic sound of Samira's breathing, the slight creaking of the old wooden bed as it settled, and, occasionally, the almost imperceptible rustling of the sheets when Strax moved.

He sat with his back against the headboard, one leg bent and the other extended. Samira rested on his chest, her body still heavy with fatigue, her white hair scattered like silver threads across his skin. There were marks from the recent fight—small bandages, residual energy in the air, that uncomfortable feeling that the body hadn't yet understood that the danger had passed.

Strax ran his fingers slowly through her hair, with an almost ceremonial care. There was no hurry. There was no tension. Just the repeated, constant gesture, as if it helped keep the world in order.

Samira was the first to break the silence.

"You're far away," she murmured, her voice low, still hoarse with exhaustion. "What are you thinking about?"

Strax didn't answer immediately. He continued the slow movement of his hand, watching the white strands of hair slide between his fingers. His gaze was lost somewhere undefined in the room, as if he saw something that was no longer there.

Then he smiled.

Not an open or light smile. A small, restrained smile, laden with memory.

"About my mother," he finally answered.

Samira slowly opened her eyes and lifted her face slightly, resting her chin on his chest so she could look at him. Her eyes analyzed his expression attentively, trying to decipher what that smile really meant.

"It makes sense," she said after a few seconds. "Thinking about someone who plotted against you… even more so in that way." Her voice hardened slightly. "Hurting his own son's wives to force evolution. That wasn't just wrong. It was cruel."

Strax let out a short, humorless laugh.

"It was," he agreed. "Cruel is an appropriate word."

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if reviewing scenes too old to be comfortable.

"She always believed that pain breeds strength," he continued. "That loss shapes character. That suffering is a shortcut to power." He opened his eyes again. "Maybe that was true in her world. Maybe it worked… once."

Samira frowned.

"And you?" she asked. "Do you think it worked for you?"

Strax didn't answer immediately.

His hand paused for a moment in her hair, just resting there, warm and firm. He took a deep breath before speaking again.

"I survived," he said. "But not because of her. Despite her."

Samira remained silent, allowing him to continue at his own pace.

"When I dealt with her…," Strax resumed, his voice lower, "I was cruel. Much crueler than she ever was to me."

Samira felt his body tense slightly as he said this.

"She was still confused," he continued. "Revived by force. Free from the mind control of those idiotic dragons, but without understanding the world she had awakened to. Without understanding who I was." He laughed again, this time bitterly. "Perhaps she didn't even know I was her son."

Samira took a deep breath.

"Do you regret it?" she asked carefully.

The question hung in the air for a few seconds.

Strax opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling, as if the answer were written there.

Then he shook his head.

"No."

The word came out firmly. Without hesitation.

He lowered his gaze to Samira again.

"No one is more important than you," he said. "No ideology. No prophecy. No blood ties." His hand closed lightly on the sheets. "Much less a woman who came back to life without even knowing who I am."

Samira felt a pang in her chest at that.

"She was just my biological mother," Strax continued. "She didn't raise me. She didn't protect me. She didn't teach me to walk, to fight, to survive." His tone hardened. "She didn't see me grow up."

He took a deep breath, and the next sentence came out laden with something deeper.

"She doesn't know what it was like to grow up without a mother… and without a father."

Samira closed her eyes for a moment, as if she could feel the weight of those words.

"Your father…," she began.

"He was trash," Strax interrupted, without raising his voice, but with a cutting certainty. "Physically present. Absent in everything that mattered." He laughed, briefly. "Sometimes, I would have preferred that he wasn't there."

Silence returned.

Strax resumed the movement through Samira's hair, slower now, almost meditative.

"I learned early on," he said. "That family isn't who gives birth to you. It's who chooses to stay. Who bleeds with you. Who suffers by your side." His gaze softened as it fell to her. "Who pulls you back when you're on the verge of losing yourself."

Samira moved a little closer, fitting herself more snugly against his chest.

"So you don't feel guilty?" she asked softly.

Strax thought for a moment.

"I feel… something," she replied. "It's not guilt. It's… grief." He sighed. "Grief for what never existed. For the mother I could have had. For the man I could have been if I had grown up differently."

He paused.

"But that doesn't change my choices."

Samira opened her eyes and looked at him.

"You chose us," she said.

"Always," Strax replied without hesitation.

She smiled slightly, tired but sincere.

"Then you did the right thing."

Strax tilted his head and touched her forehead with his own, in an intimate and silent gesture.

"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe I just stopped accepting that the world decides for me who deserves to suffer."

Samira closed her eyes again, relaxing completely.

The room was once again filled only with the sound of their breathing, gradually synchronized.

Strax remained there, silent, holding that fragile peace with the same care with which he held Samira.

Because, in the end, that's what mattered. Not the past. Not the blood. Not the shadows that tried to mold him by force. But the present and the people he chose to protect.

A few soft knocks echoed on the door.

Strax opened his eyes slowly, immediately alert. Samira's body still rested against his, warm, tranquil, finally surrendered to true rest. He didn't move immediately. First, he adjusted the blanket over her shoulders, making sure she wouldn't wake.

The touches were repeated, respectful. Patient.

"Come in," he said softly, even knowing that hardly anyone would open the door without direct permission.

Still, Strax rose carefully, sliding out of bed. He dressed quickly: simple tracksuit bottoms, a dark shirt fitted to his body, boots already worn from constant use. Nothing ceremonial. Nothing that suggested titles.

Just Strax.

He opened the door.

On the other side, a young maid stood motionless, holding a tray covered by a silver lid. Upon seeing him, she bowed immediately, impeccable posture, hands firm despite the slight tremor in her fingers.

"Lord Strax," she said, her voice restrained. "I'm bringing breakfast. Lady Monica asked that it be delivered directly to you, sir."

Strax raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Breakfast?" he repeated, more out of habit than surprise.

"Yes, sir," she replied, keeping her head down. "Prepared according to her instructions."

He observed the tray for a moment, then nodded.

"I understand."

He reached out and took the tray naturally.

"Thank you. Good work."

The maid looked up for a second—long enough to blush visibly.

"It's…it's an honor, sir," she said, before bowing again.

Without waiting any longer, she turned and practically disappeared down the hall, hurried footsteps echoing briefly before fading away.

Strax closed the door carefully and turned back to the room.

Samira was still asleep, but her eyes slowly opened as he approached. She blinked a few times, still somewhat lost between exhaustion and reality.

"Who was it?" she murmured.

"Breakfast," he replied, approaching the bed.

He placed the tray on the mattress, slightly pushing back the sheets to balance it better. As he removed the lid, the warm aroma of freshly baked bread, cut fruit, and mild tea filled the air.

Samira took a deep breath.

"Monica doesn't joke around when it comes to food," she commented, sitting up slowly.

"Nor when it comes to control," Strax replied with a slight, knowing smile.

He adjusted the pillows behind her to make her more comfortable.

"Eat," he said simply. "You need to."

Samira watched him for a moment.

"And you?"

"I'm going to exercise a little," he replied, taking a step back. "I'm not hungry."

She frowned. "You always say that when your head is full."

Strax paused for a moment, then turned his face toward her.

"Maybe," he admitted. "But today… I need to expend energy. Think about movement."

Samira sighed, picking up one of the cups.

"Don't destroy yourself too," she said, in a tone that was half serious, half teasing. "I just came out of an excessive fight. I don't want to switch places."

He chuckled briefly.

"I promise not to overdo it."

Before leaving, Strax approached again and lightly touched the top of her head, a short but meaningful gesture.

"Rest," he said. "When I come back, I want you better."

Samira nodded, holding the cup with both hands.

"Come back whole."

"Always," he replied.

Strax left the room, closing the door carefully.

In the hallway, the atmosphere seemed different. Too quiet. Each step echoed in a controlled manner, as if the castle itself respected his state. As he passed through the stone arches and descended the wide steps leading to the inner courtyard, the cool morning air touched his skin.

He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath.

Thoughts still echoed—his mother, the past, the irreversible choices he had made. But there, in that moment, his body craved something simple: action.

Strax took off his shirt, leaving it folded on a stone pillar, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, his gaze was focused.

Training wasn't punishment.

It wasn't escape.

It was balance.