Demonic Dragon: Harem System-Chapter 795: I am the strongest.

The mayor’s office was filled with a silence too heavy to be comfortable.

Strax sat in the central chair, the same one that until a few hours ago had belonged to the most powerful man in Athenion. He occupied the seat with irritating ease, his elbow resting on the carved armrest, his posture relaxed, as if he were in a routine meeting and not at the epicenter of a political rupture.

Sitting on his lap, Rogue seemed completely oblivious to the tension around her.

The tanned woman playfully ran her finger across his chest, drawing lazy circles on the fabric of his coat, her face illuminated by a smile too satisfied for someone who should be worried. Her legs were crossed to the side, her body nestled against his as if that position were not only comfortable but correct. There was something almost provocative in the way she settled there—not sexual, but intimate, possessive, a silent declaration of belonging.

Around the long table, important men and women exchanged cautious glances.

Main route merchants, leaders of smaller guilds, caravan chiefs, representatives of merchant banks, old merchants with too many rings on their fingers. Among them, some veteran mercenaries, recognizable by their visible scars and ever-alert posture, accustomed to reading rooms before drawing blades.

No one spoke.

No one smiled.

Everyone was thinking the same thing: what, exactly, is happening here?

An older merchant was the first to break the silence.

"Where is the mayor?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

There was a low murmur of agreement around the table.

Strax slowly raised his hand, a calm, almost lazy gesture, asking for silence. Rogue followed the movement with her eyes, still drawing circles on his chest, curious to see his reaction.

"He’s not coming," Strax said simply.

Their gazes narrowed.

"Is this some kind of extraordinary meeting?" "Or are we being coerced into something that hasn’t been explained yet?" asked a guild leader suspiciously.

Strax tilted his head slightly, as if appreciating the frankness.

"Neither," he replied. "This is a transition."

The word fell like a blade on the table.

"Transition?" someone repeated.

"Yes," Strax confirmed. "I’m going to take the city."

The effect was immediate.

Chairs creaked as some moved back. Hands touched magic rings, amulets, hidden weapons. One of the mercenaries uncrossed his arms, too attentive. A merchant visibly paled.

"Is that a threat?" asked a short-bearded man, trying to sound indignant.

Strax just smiled slightly.

"No," he said. "It’s a warning."

Rogue chuckled softly, resting his chin on his shoulder.

"You all make funny faces," she commented, amused.

No one answered.

Strax observed the faces around the table for a few seconds, letting the discomfort simmer. He knew exactly what he was doing. Pure fear breeds chaos. Fear with direction breeds obedience.

"I know what you’re thinking," he continued. "Coup. Usurpation. Civil war. Economic ruin."

He made a vague gesture with his hand.

"Breathe. None of those things are necessary."

One of the merchants, younger, ventured:

"So... what do you want?"

Strax raised his hand again.

"Five percent."

The silence was immediate and absolute.

"Five percent... of what?" someone asked, too cautiously.

Strax smiled a little more.

"Taxes."

For a second, no one reacted.

Then faces paled.

"What?" said a banker, almost choking. "That’s impossible. The city can’t sustain itself on—"

"I’m not finished," interrupted Strax, without raising his voice.

The man’s mouth shut instantly.

"Five percent on formal commercial transactions," explained Strax. "Nothing on basic production, nothing on essential foodstuffs, nothing on small local merchants. Only on major routes, relevant contracts, high-volume operations."

Some exchanged confused glances.

"That’s... less than half of what we pay now," someone murmured.

"I know," replied Strax.

Rogue leaned forward, smiling.

"He knows everything," she said proudly. "It’s kind of annoying, actually."

Strax ignored the comment, continuing:

"I don’t care much about money. Gold is useful, but replaceable. What interests me is loyalty."

He rested both elbows on the table.

"Support this ’coup,’ as some of you are already silently calling it," he said, without even looking at who had thought of it, "and I guarantee stability, real route protection, an end to arbitrary fees, and something you haven’t had for a long time."

"What?" asked a merchant woman with a firm voice.

"Predictability."

There was a stifled murmur.

"The mayor wasn’t killed," Strax continued. "I let him go."

Eyes widened.

"Go where?" someone asked.

"Crawling to the Monarch of the White Flames," he replied. "My target from the start."

The name fell like a muffled thunderclap.

"That’s madness," murmured a guild leader. "Getting involved with him is suicide."

Strax leaned back, relaxed.

"Perhaps," he conceded. "But not for you."

Rogue fiddled with his necklace now, distracted.

"The city doesn’t need to suffer," Strax continued. "It doesn’t need to burn, it doesn’t need to bleed, it doesn’t need to lose routes or population. I promise you that."

He scanned the table with his gaze. "Things will be better. Simpler. Cheaper. Safer."

A mercenary cleared his throat.

"And whoever objects?"

Strax didn’t smile this time.

"They won’t be remembered."

Silence returned, heavier.

"You have bills to pay," he said, now in an almost didactic tone. "Families to support. Employees who depend on the decisions you make sitting at this table."

He stood up slightly, just enough for Rogue to settle into his lap without getting up.

"I’m not asking you to love me," he concluded. "I’m offering you a better deal than any you’ll ever get."

Rogue leaned in and whispered in his ear, loud enough for some to hear:

"They’re already convinced. They’re just afraid to admit it."

Strax smiled slightly.

One by one, the bigwigs began to realize the obvious.

Five percent. Safe routes.

Real protection.

A clear external enemy.

And a man too powerful to be ignored, sitting exactly where he should be.

The first to lower his head was a veteran merchant.

"If... if this holds," he said slowly, "my guild supports it."

Another nodded soon after.

"Mine too."

The mercenaries exchanged glances, calculating future contracts.

Strax observed everything in silence.

The city hadn’t been taken by fire.

It had been bought with logic.

The murmur of agreement still hung in the air when a voice rose from the back of the table, harsh, laden with barely disguised contempt.

"This is madness."

All eyes turned.

He was a thin man, his clothes too rich to hide the insecurity in his body, magical rings shimmering on his fingers like fragile shields. One of the great ore merchants, known for making high-stakes bets when he believed he was protected.

He stood up, resting his hands on the table.

"Who do you think you are?" he snapped, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. "Here, the law is that of the strongest. It always has been. And the strongest in this region is not you."

Silence thickened again.

Rogue stopped toying with Strax’s chest. Cassandra and Daniela, leaning further back, exchanged a slow, almost... tired look. They had seen this movie before.

"The Monarch of the White Flames," the man continued, pointing an accusing finger, "will crush you. Will reduce this city to ashes just to make an example. You’re playing with something you don’t understand."

For a few seconds, nothing happened.

Then Strax began to laugh.

At first, it was low. A deep, almost restrained sound, vibrating in his chest like distant thunder. Some thought it was nervousness. Others, disbelief.

They were wrong.

The laughter grew.

The walls of the room trembled slightly, as if a seismic tremor had passed beneath the building. Wine glasses clinked. A crystal chandelier swayed from the ceiling.

"Hah... hahahah..."

Rogue slid off his lap unhurriedly, standing beside him, his eyes gleaming with expectation. Cassandra crossed her arms. Daniela smiled broadly.

Strax’s laughter had become something... wrong.

It wasn’t human. It wasn’t natural.

The sound seemed to occupy too much space, pressing against their ears, vibrating in their bones. Some of the bigwigs unconsciously clutched their chests, their hearts racing in instinctive panic.

The man who had spoken took a step back.

"W-what...?"

Crack.

A dry sound echoed.

Then another.

Horns began to emerge from Strax’s head, tearing through the air like living obsidian, curved, black, marked by incandescent veins that pulsed with ancient energy. They grew slowly, deliberately, as if his own body were reminding the world what he was.

The aura exploded.

There was no blinding light. There was no visible explosion.

There was pressure.

The air became too heavy to breathe properly. Some fell to their knees without understanding why. Others felt nauseous, dizzy, a primal urge to flee, to hide, to become small.

Strax’s presence expanded, dominating, overwhelming—draconic.

Carpets began to tear slightly at the edges. The candle flames curved away from him, trembling like living creatures trying to escape.

The opposing man stumbled backward, his face completely pale, sweat dripping freely.

"S-stop..."

Strax stood up.

When he stood fully upright, he seemed larger. Not physically—but existentially. As if the room had been made too small to contain him.

He walked slowly toward the man, each step making the floor creak under an invisible force.

The laughter ceased.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Strax stopped a few steps from him and tilted his head slightly, observing him like a curious predator observes prey that dared to growl.

"The Monarch of the White Flames..." he repeated, with a crooked smile. "A worm with borrowed power."

He took another step closer.

The man fell seated, unable to stand.

"I am a fucking Dragon," said Strax, his voice now deep, reverberating straight into the bones of everyone there. "Do you really think I should be afraid of something I was going to kill anyway?"

Fear exploded.

Not as emotion. As instinct.

Some of those present vomited. Others wept silently. A veteran mercenary—a man who had survived wars—trembled like a child.

Strax looked around the table.

"Here, the law is that of the strongest," he agreed. "It always has been."