Champion Of Lust: Gods Conquer's Harem Paradise!-Chapter 397: Five Targets

The seating arrangement was like some twisted game of political chess, each piece placed with meticulous intent—though, if you looked closely, some of them were just begging to be taken off the board.

Lekiza sat near the front, the picture of effortless grace, her dress flowing like spilled ink over the chair. She wasn't trying to look regal—it was just in her blood, her movements so smooth it made other nobles look stiff as hell. Her blond hair caught the light just right, and the way she held her chin—yeah, you could tell she had that whole I'm-a-princess-bow-before-me aura down to a science.

But damn, if that wasn't the perfect setup for an attack.

The air shifted. Subtle. Silent. The kind of movement no human eye could catch.

The first arrow materialized mid-flight, aimed straight for her heart from the back. No warning. No sound. Just death, whispering towards her like a lover's breath.

Alexander, Alexa's twin brother wasn't far from her, but his whole energy was different.

Less like a royal in the presence of both his eldest siblings and with the crown prince the now chosen champion, Alexander was more like a guy who had way too much shit running through his head. His hands were clenched under the table, his posture just a little too tense, his eyes flicking—again and again—to the seat of the Human Crown Prince.

And damn, if that look wasn't complicated as fuck.

Jealousy? Admiration? Resentment? Hell, maybe all three, tangled up into some mess even he didn't know how to sort through. Whatever it was, it ran deep. Like years of built-up something that no one had ever bothered to address. The kind of gaze that spoke of a brotherhood that wasn't quite whole.

And because fate had a fucking sense of humor, the second arrow locked onto him as it's other target.

Right between the ribs. A precise shot, designed not to kill instantly, but to ruin—to let the pain sink in, to let the blood pool before the body realized it was dying.

But then, shift away from the humans. Because the real players in the room? They had sharper teeth.

The Vampire Crown Prince sat like he owned the place—which, to be fair, he kinda did.

The guy oozed confidence, all long legs and sharp edges, dressed in something dark that made his pale skin stand out in that I'm-too-pretty-to-die kind of way. And his name? Alistair.

Alistair Vanthaire Dracula!

The name itself carried weight, like a whispered threat. He didn't just exist—he commanded attention. The air around him felt heavier, like darkness itself bent to accommodate his presence and a subtle scent and aura of blood around him. A slow, deliberate sip of red wine slipping through his throat reminding him a sweet taste of blood.

A glance so casual it might as well have been a blade to the throat.

And damn, if he wasn't another prime target.

Isolated. No one too close yet not too far. Even his own guards lingered at a polite distance, like they knew better than to crowd him. Which, you know, made it stupidly easy for someone to line up a shot. If anyone wanted to make a statement—wanted to send the entire vampire hierarchy into a downward spiral—this was the shot to take.

The third arrow found him, aimed at his throat. Not his heart, not his head—his throat. A message. A statement. A fucking power move.

His sister, Valarie, sat a few seats away. Not too far, but enough to show the hierarchy. He was the heir, the king-in-waiting. She? A power in her own right, but not him. The way she watched him, there was something knowing in her eyes. Like she saw what he saw, like she knew the weight of that seat but had no intention of sitting in it. Smart girl.

And then, at the far end—so far it was almost disrespectful—sat Drakon.

No last name. No need for one. He was the fucking dragon crown prince. If Alistair carried himself like he owned the room, Drakon sat there like he could burn it down and not lose sleep over it.

Broad shoulders. Clear golden eyes that flickered with something otherworldly. He didn't fidget, didn't glance around, didn't need to. He wasn't just in the room—he was above it. Different.

And yet…

Even a dragon could be made to bleed.

His positioning? Almost too secure. Like he wasn't expecting anything. Like no one would dare come for him. No immediate guards pressing in, no shields raised. Just him, sitting there, powerful and open—an invitation waiting to be answered.

And the fourth arrow?

Aimed right at his temple.

A kill shot. A challenge. A goddamn declaration.

The stage was set. The pieces were moving.

And death was already in the air but no fifth arrow was more hidden and more silent going faster to the stage.

The assassin grinned, his teeth gleaming under the dim lights. He had done it. The perfect shot. The kind that would be whispered about in the underworld for centuries. His fingers still tingled from the release, but his focus was locked on the arrows.

They were more than just weapons. They were executioners, streaking through the air with a force that bent reality itself. A pulse of raw, unfiltered destruction coiled around them, making the very air hiss as if recoiling from their presence.

Five arrows. Five deaths.

The first screamed toward Lekiza, its form twisting, shifting, almost alive. It closed the gap in a blink, the lethal tip aimed straight for her heart.

The second drilled toward Alexander, the air parting in its wake, leaving a trail of shimmering distortions. It would punch through ribs, pierce flesh, and leave him gasping.

The third was a whisper of death, honed and precise, slicing through the air toward Alistair's throat. Silent, unseen—unstoppable.

And the fourth? A god-killer in its own right, spiraling toward Drakon's temple with the weight of a thousand executions behind it. A death sentence forged in motion.

No hesitation. No mercy.

At that moment...

Anastasia strode in the middle of the stage, her gown catching the light like molten fire. She barely needed to raise a hand before the crowd quieted, all eyes locked onto her with the weight of expectation. A smirk tugged at her lips—she knew exactly what she was doing.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she drawled, voice dripping with authority. "Tonight is about power, innovation, and the future. And who better to represent that than the man behind Obsidian Tech?"

The murmurs began, the tension thick. Some had been expecting this, others looked downright intrigued.

The fifth arrow as if had an absolute order it flew faster...

"Pyris Obsidian."

Spotlights swung, illuminating a figure rising from his seat—calm, unreadable, as if he already knew the world would bow to him. The applause erupted, filling the hall like a crashing wave. But amidst the celebration, hidden from all but a select few, the world was already unraveling for those who dared to challenge him.

Fifth arrow materialized from thin air for an instant and then disappeared and—

And then—

Impact.

The moment stretched, the world holding its breath.

And the arrows struck all at once.