My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 251 - 251: The Wind and the Dragon

The assembly ended.

Students poured out of the auditorium like rats fleeing a sinking yacht—chattering, filming, already turning the morning’s public execution into premium Paradise gossip content. Phei had the balls to challenge the starting five. Brian flipped teams like a hooker switching johns. Derek folded faster than origami in a windstorm.

And Phei Maxton had stared straight into Marcus Heavenchild’s silver spotlight and refused to fucking kneel.

But Phei had bigger, sharper problems.

He slipped his Samsung out as he walked, thumbs moving with the cold efficiency of a man composing ransom notes.

[PHEI’S HAREM — Private Group]

The name still dragged a dark chuckle out of him every time he saw it. Melissa had downgraded it from Phei’s Harem and Complaint Department to the stark, possessive Phei’s Harem. No explanation. No vote. Just done.

The other girls had no idea who the phantom admin was. Just knew there was a woman who’d come before them, someone Phei kept in a locked drawer, someone whose shadow still loomed large enough to rename group chats at 2 a.m. like she owned the fucking moon.

Sometimes he wondered, with genuine academic curiosity, how they’d react if they ever learned the truth: That the mystery woman is my aunt. That she’d been my first. That I am currently balls-deep in rewriting the family tree with every thrust.

And now—delicious irony—Sierra had added Delilah this morning.

Four living, breathing members. Five if you counted the ghost who lurked in the metadata. The same ghost who knew that her secret lover—her brother’s son—was planning to fuck her daughter too.

And maybe, just maybe, entertain the truly depraved fantasy of having them both at once. Mother and daughter. Side by side. Writhing.

A taboo harem in full, glorious, incest-adjacent bloom.

Phei: Fire pit. Need some help.

The replies hit like gunfire.

Sierra: On my way

Maddie: already walking babe 😘

Delilah: Is everything okay???

Sierra: He said he needs help. Move your ass

Delilah: MOVING

[Unknown]: Be careful.

That final message hung there like smoke after a gunshot. Phei stared at it for half a heartbeat, then pocketed the phone.

Always watching, he thought. Even when she’s not here. Especially when she’s not here.

The fire pit.

At this point, given how much he was using this place, the clearing might as well have had a brass plaque bolted to the nearest tree: RESERVED FOR PHEI AND ASSOCIATED DEPRAVITY.

He found it without thinking—path memorized, steps automatic. The stone-ringed pit sat cold and expectant, log benches worn glassy by generations of horny teenagers looking for somewhere to lie about their virtue.

Phei dropped onto his usual throne of charred pine.

Emily stood beside him.

Not sat. Stood.

Spine rigid as a drill sergeant’s, hands clasped in front of her like she was waiting for inspection, the living embodiment of I am your executive assistant and also mildly unhinged.

Phei tilted his head up and gave her the slow, lazy smile that usually made girls either melt or panic.

She’d trailed him from the auditorium without invitation. Simply fell into step like locker manager had quietly expanded to include full-time shadow with concerning levels of devotion and zero chill.

Cute, he thought. The kind of cute that makes you want to test exactly how far devotion stretches before it snaps.

He didn’t tell her to sit. She wouldn’t have obeyed anyway.

Instead, he let his mind slide back to the real meat of the problem—the reason he’d summoned the harem cavalry.

The summons wasn’t random. It reeked of Marcus. That silver-eyed little prince had almost certainly run crying to Daddy—or straight to the Dean herself. Why waste time with intermediaries when your last name could bend institutions like cheap rebar?

Either way, the timing was surgical.

If Phei didn’t flip the board in the next few hours, the Dean held every card she needed to end him quietly: Cancel the challenge on some invented regulation. Suspend him for disruptive conduct. Expel him outright if she woke up feeling especially spiteful.

And no one—not the faculty, not the board—would dare question a decision backed by Heavenchild money and menace.

The basketball game would die stillborn. His momentum would fracture like cheap glass. Everything he’d clawed together—the fear, the worship, the slow bleed of power from Marcus clenched fists—would collapse before it could even learn to stand.

Unless.

The mission.

That Is the knife in the dark, isn’t it? The system hasn’t bothered with a timer. No countdown. No guillotine deadline.

Just the quiet, amused suggestion that he should probably go fuck with the Dean personally—because what better way to prove you’re a dragon than by eating the woman who thinks she holds your leash?

Phei had noticed the pattern over these past weeks—the cold, cruel logic buried beneath the system’s carnival of notifications and glittering rewards. When the bastard gave him a timeline, it meant the mission was progressive.

A slow roast.

Room to breathe, to scheme, to circle the prey like a patient shark tasting blood in the water long before the bite.

But missions without deadlines? Those were kill-or-be-killed. Finish it now, those ones snarled, or watch the window slam shut and whatever fragile upper hand you’ve clawed together gets ripped away in the next heartbeat.

This Dean mission had no fucking deadline.

Which meant he didn’t have the luxury of playing the long game. Whatever fallout came from walking into that office empty-handed—no leverage, no angle, no narrative flip to turn the executioner into the mark—would be biblical.

Catastrophic.

The quiet, permanent erasure that left no body, no trace, just a suddenly vacant seat in the auditorium and a rumor that the charity case had transferred.

Challenging the basketball team? That was theater. Popcorn drama. Bread and circuses for bored trust-fund spawn who needed something to gossip about between yacht weekends and coke-fueled after-parties.

But challenging Marcus Heavenchild? The Prince of fucking Paradise? A Heavenchild with a capital H and divine entitlement dripping from every silver-eyed pore?

That was war. Personal. Irreversible.

You don’t poke a beast that’s never once been questioned and expect it not to turn your entire world to ash.

The Dean would handle the cleanup. Quietly. Efficiently. With the surgical, emotionless precision that generational wealth had honed over centuries of making inconvenient people simply… stop existing.

Unless he gave her a reason not to. Unless he completed the mission first.

The problem was, Phei knew jack shit about the woman.

He caught glimpses of her maybe once a week if the stars aligned. A distant silhouette crossing the quad.

A shadow behind tinted glass at formal events. She didn’t do assemblies—never had, not once in his entire miserable tenure at Ashford. Games, occasionally, but always sealed away in those private booths, separated from the rabble by bulletproof glass, armed security, and the invisible forcefield of untouchable power.

Even his cameras—his beautiful, paranoid little eyes that blanketed the academy like a second skin—barely touched her.

That bothered him more than he’d ever admit out loud. He’d spent years building that network, piece by obsessive piece: hallways, common areas, the dark corners where secrets got made and broken.

A safety net woven from pure, desperate paranoia and the bone-deep knowledge that the world had never once been kind to boys like him.

But the Dean moved through it like smoke through a keyhole. Like she knew exactly where every lens was pointed and simply chose not to be there when they looked.

Not invisible. Not hiding. Just… absent. A presence so heavy it bent reality around itself, made cameras glitch, made attention slide away like oil on wet stone.

The few students who’d gotten close enough to feel it—the rare summons to her office, the unlucky bastards who crossed her path by accident—all described the same thing.

Suffocating.

An aura that pressed down like deep ocean-fire pressure. Like standing at the lip of a cliff and feeling the void tug at your lungs. Like being in the same room as something so far above you on the food chain that your lizard brain couldn’t decide whether to fight, flee, or just stop breathing and pray she didn’t notice your pathetic little heartbeat.

Phei had never felt it himself.

Never been close enough.

Never been important enough to warrant the attention of someone who could erase you with a signature and a phone call.

Until today.

And the system was telling him to make a move on her.

Not observe from afar. Not gather intel over weeks. Not build some meticulous, multi-layered seduction op with contingencies A through Z.

Make a move.

Today.

Now.

In whatever razor-thin window existed between this moment and the moment his life got professionally terminated.

Death sentence only the foolish would attempt—or the boldest move only a Dragon would dare to make.

What are you: Dragon or fool?

Reminder: Some people also manage to tame or kill dragons.

The system giveth the ego stroke and the system taketh it away in the same sadistic fucking breath.

But those rewards…

Five thousand EXP. Fifty percent main quest progress. Fifteen charisma points. Five thousand regular points. Hunger Touch.

The system wouldn’t dangle that kind of payload unless it was a suicide run.

Would it?

Phei stared at the cold fire pit, jaw locked tight enough to ache, mind racing through angles he didn’t have, intel he couldn’t access, leverage that didn’t exist.

The Dean.

The shadow. The wind. The suffocating gravity well that most students never encountered and the few who did never came back quite the same.

He was supposed to seduce that.

Right now.

Today.

And every single thing he’d built—every plan, every revenge, every burning dream of watching Marcus Heavenchild bleed for what he’d taken—hung on whether he could pull it off.

Fuck.