My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 411: Every Right You Never Had

Chapter 411: Every Right You Never Had

Phei floated in the centre of the ruined hall, the colossal void-hand still crushing Harold Maxton’s skull like a fragile egg. The storm of absolute darkness around him pulsed — a deep, cosmic heartbeat that made the mansion’s walls bow inward like living flesh, the marble floor ripple like black water, and the very air bend and stretch until it screamed in protest.

Eira shot forward, crystalline wings blazing with glacial fire.

“Master!” she cried, voice slicing through the howling void. “Whatever you do — do not kill a Legacy! Not until the Destined Day!”

Phei’s void-black eyes — twin abysses ringed in glacial white — flicked to her for one heartbeat.

Then he smiled.

The smile was not human. It belonged to something that had spent a very long time in a very small cage and had just remembered it could break the bars whenever it wanted.

Had always been able to.

Had simply been waiting for a reason.

He closed his fist.

The void-hand vanished.

Harold dropped three metres and slammed onto his knees, cracking the marble in a spiderweb of black frost.

The impact drove through his legs like a hammer through glass — kneecaps hitting stone, joints compressing, a sound that was less a crack and more a wet, structural failure.

The patriarch’s mouth opened but the scream hadn’t reached his throat yet when —

Phei was already there.

His first punch landed like the fist of a falling god.

BOOM.

The impact pulsed through reality itself. Harold’s head snapped back so violently his neck cracked audibly — not breaking, not yet, but the vertebrae grinding against each other in a protest of bone against force that bone was never designed to absorb.

Blood exploded from his mouth in a crimson geyser that froze mid-air — each droplet crystallising into a black-ice shard that hung suspended for one impossible instant before shattering into dust.

The entire mansion throbbed.

The chandeliers glasses detonated into glittering powder. Walls cracked from floor to ceiling in fractal patterns of void.

The sky outside tore open another jagged black rift, and three more stars winked out — not dimming, not fading, simply ceasing, as if the universe was deleting them one by one to fuel whatever was happening inside this house.

Phei’s voice rolled out like thunder from the bottom of an abyss, each word making the void pulse harder, each syllable bending the air into visible waves.

“You dared to lay your hands on what is mine.”

He grabbed Harold by the throat — one hand, fingers sinking into flesh and fat and the rope-thick tendons of a man who’d spent sixty years believing his neck was untouchable — and lifted.

Harold’s feet left the ground.

His hands clawed at Phei’s wrist — scratching, tearing, accomplishing nothing, like a mouse trying to pry open the jaws of a trap that had already closed.

Phei slammed him downward.

The patriarch’s body cratered the marble floor. Stone and concrete erupted upward in a geyser of debris — chunks of three-hundred-year-old marble spinning through the void-storm, catching the glacial light, casting shadows that fell in directions shadows shouldn’t fall.

The impact didn’t stop at the floor.

It pulsed through it — concentric waves of black ice radiating outward like ripples in a frozen pond, racing across the hall, climbing the walls, covering everything in a thin, glittering skin of void-frost that hummed with each beat of Phei’s heart.

The ceiling groaned and bowed inward, the crossbeams sagging, the plaster raining down in sheets, as if the mansion itself was trying to collapse around them in surrender.

Phei mounted him.

Fists raining down like meteors from a dying star.

BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.

Each punch carried the full, unfiltered weight of his awakening — not controlled power, not measured force, but raw, star-devouring energy that had been building in his blood since before he was born and had finally found an outlet it considered worthy of its attention.

Harold’s ribs caved inward with wet, sickening crunches —one, two, three, four, each collapse producing a sound like green wood being stamped on, the bones folding into the chest cavity, puncturing things that should never be punctured.

His face became a topography of ruin — split flesh peeling back from cheekbones, orbital ridges cracking, nose flattening into a mess of cartilage and dark blood.

Each geyser of crimson that left his body froze the instant it hit the void-saturated air, crystallising into jagged black-ice spikes that stabbed upward from the floor around them like a crown of frozen violence.

“How dare you beat HER!” Phei said between blows.

His voice was calm. That was the worst part. The fists were cataclysmic but the voice was conversational — the tone of a man discussing the weather while his hands unmade a human being.

“Even I — her man — never dared raise a hand to her.” Another punch. Another rib collapsing. Another spike of frozen blood joining the crown. “And you… you dared?”

Harold coughed up a mouthful of blood and shattered teeth. The fragments scattered across the black-ice floor like dice rolled in a game he’d already lost.

But Harold Maxton had not survived years at the apex of Legacy politics by knowing when to quit.

He’d survived by refusing to. By being the man who kept talking when other men were on the ground. By believing — truly, pathologically, in his marrow — that the words coming out of his mouth mattered more than the fist going into his face.

His eyes were wild with defiance. Blood poured from his split lips. One eye was swelling shut. Three ribs were broken and he could feel the edges grinding against his lungs with every breath. And still — still — he forced the words out.

“She’s… my daughter…” The voice was raw, broken, a wet rasp that bubbled through blood. But unyielding. “I have every right to discipline her—”

Phei’s fist exploded into the side of Harold’s head with world-shaking force.

CRACK.

The impact launched the patriarch like a ragdoll — not sliding but stumbling, but flying, the trajectory low and fast and terrible, his body carving a trench through the black-ice floor before smashing through the far wall in a shower of brick and void-shattered stone.

He embedded halfway into the next room — shoulders and head punching through plaster and lath and three centuries of construction, legs still dangling in the main hall, body folded around the breach like a man half-swallowed by a building.

The collision sent another violent pulse through reality. The entire estate shuddered — a structural groan that was less a house settling and more a house dying, the sounds a building makes when its skeleton cracks.

Trees outside bent as if a hurricane had been born in the entrance hall and was trying to escape through the walls.

The night sky ripped wider. Stars vanished in a spreading black wound that was starting to look less like damage and more like an eye — opening, slowly, patiently, as if whatever lived behind the sky had been waiting for this moment and was finally peering through.

Phei was already there.

He followed through the hole in the wall — stepping over the debris, hair whipping in the storm of his own power, void-frost blooming under each footstep — and drove both fists into Harold’s chest, pinning him to the broken wall.

The bricks pulsed and cracked wider around the impact points, turning to black dust, the mortar dissolving, the structure failing.

“Every right?” Phei’s voice was soft. Almost gentle. The gentleness of a blade being pressed against a throat so slowly the skin dimples before it splits.

The night sky above the mansion tore more open in a jagged black rift — wider than before, wider than the estate, the edges ragged and bleeding void-light. Stars winked out in clusters now, not one by one but in handfuls, as if someone was running their fingers across the sky and smearing the light away.

“What right does a man who faked and lied about his own family have to call her his daughter?”

Harold’s bloodshot eyes — the one that still functioned — widened. Something in the defiance cracked. Not broke. Cracked. A hairline fracture in the certainty that had been load-bearing his entire life.

“What right,” Phei continued, voice dropping lower, each word a nail being driven into a coffin, “does a man who killed his own infant girl — the true twin — and replaced her with his bastard boy to fake the birth have to call them family?”