Reincarnated as the Dragon Who Needed a Harem

POV: Aren

“Remove his Dragon Bone.”

The words fell with no anger in them. No cruelty either. They were spoken the way one might order a table cleared or a candle extinguished—an administrative necessity, nothing more.

Aren Valen was forced to his knees as iron-bound hands slammed him down onto the cold obsidian floor of the Azure Pact’s judgment hall. The sound echoed, sharp and final, rippling through the vast chamber where elders sat in a perfect arc above him. Their robes shimmered with layered sigils of cultivation authority, symbols Aren had once traced with reverence during sleepless nights of study.

Once.

Now, none of them would meet his eyes.

Chains tightened around his wrists and throat, suppressing what little spiritual energy he still possessed. Aren’s breath came slow, controlled—not because he wasn’t afraid, but because panic would give them something they did not deserve.

Above him, Elder Qian leaned forward slightly. His face was carved with age and discipline, expression serene to the point of indifference.

“Aren Valen,” the elder said, his voice amplified by the hall’s formation. “Outer disciple. Age nineteen. Cultivation stage: stagnated. Three consecutive years without advancement.”

A pause, deliberate.

“Verdict: failure.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered disciples lining the hall’s lower tiers. Aren could feel their gazes on his back—curious, satisfied, relieved. He recognised some of them. Boys he had shared meals with. Girls who had borrowed his notes. Faces that had smiled at him when his future still looked useful.

Elder Qian continued. “The Azure Pact does not nurture dead roots. A cultivator who cannot advance is not merely weak—he is a drain.”

Aren clenched his jaw.

Dead root.

He had heard the term whispered before, usually reserved for those born without spiritual affinity. To hear it spoken about him, here, publicly, felt like a blade sliding slowly beneath the skin.

Another elder rose, this one younger, sharper-eyed. Elder Lin. He held a jade tablet in one hand.

“Investigation confirms irregularities,” Lin said. “Excessive spiritual consumption. Unstable meridian response. His Dragon Core remains sealed and unresponsive. All resources allocated to him have been wasted.”

Wasted.

Aren lifted his head despite the pressure on his neck. “Elder,” he said calmly. “You approved my last trial. The fluctuation wasn’t rejection. It was—”

“Silence,” Lin cut in, irritation flickering at last. “A failed disciple does not explain doctrine to his superiors.”

The chains pulsed. Pain flared white-hot through Aren’s spine, forcing the air from his lungs. He bit it back, refusing to cry out. The hall watched. They always did.

Elder Qian raised a hand, and the pressure eased. “Enough. The matter is concluded.”

A third elder spoke then, her voice cool and precise. “There is another matter to resolve. His engagement.”

Aren’s breath caught before he could stop it.

He turned his head instinctively, eyes finding the familiar figure standing among the inner disciples. Lian Yue stood straight-backed, her pale blue robes immaculate, her expression composed. She did not look at him.

They had been betrothed three years ago, a practical match arranged when Aren’s Dragon Core had first been discovered. Promising talent. Future asset. Worth investing in.

Worth investing in.

Elder Qian gestured toward her. “Lian Yue. Step forward.”

She did.

The sound of her footsteps echoed far too loudly in Aren’s ears. Each one landed like a quiet farewell. When she stopped, she bowed with flawless etiquette.

“Do you acknowledge the tribunal’s findings?” Elder Qian asked.

“Yes, Elder,” Lian Yue replied.

“Do you accept the annulment of your engagement to Aren Valen, effective immediately?”

There was a pause. Barely a heartbeat.

“I accept.”

She did not hesitate. She did not glance at him. Her voice did not waver.

Something in Aren’s chest shifted—not pain, not quite. More like the quiet confirmation of something he had already known but refused to name.

The tribunal clerk struck the chime. The engagement sigil dissolved in the air, threads of light unravelling and vanishing like smoke.

Just like that, the future he had been promised ceased to exist.

Aren lowered his gaze.

Inside him, deep beneath flesh and bone, something stirred.

The sealed Dragon Core—an ancient presence that had slept since the day it was discovered—pulsed faintly. Once. A dull, distant throb, like a heartbeat remembered rather than felt.

For a fraction of a second, warmth spread through Aren’s chest.

Then the Core went silent.

Not dormant. Not sealed tighter.

Silent.

As if it had withdrawn its attention entirely.

Elder Lin frowned. “Did you sense that?”

Elder Qian’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “A reflex. Nothing more.”

Aren felt it then—the emptiness left behind by the Core’s retreat. It was colder than pain. Colder than despair. It was the sensation of being judged and found irrelevant by something far older than the men who now condemned him.

Elder Qian rose from his seat.

“Traditionally,” he said, “a failed disciple would be expelled and stripped of all protections.”

Aren’s shoulders tensed. Expulsion meant exile. Exile meant survival by one’s own strength—or death.

But the elder’s next words did not follow tradition.

“However,” Qian continued, “given the unusual nature of his constitution and the resources already expended, the sect will not simply discard this asset.”

Asset.

Aren looked up sharply.

Elder Lin’s lips curved into a thin smile. “Outer disciples are property under sect law.”

The murmurs returned, louder this time.

“The tribunal has decided,” Elder Qian said, his voice final, “that Aren Valen will be sold.”

The word struck harder than any chain.

Sold.

Aren stared, disbelief breaking through his control. “Sold… as what?”

“Bond-compatible material,” Lin replied. “Marital contract stock. His sealed Core may yet be of use to another party.”

The hall buzzed with open interest now. Calculations. Curiosity. Speculation.

Aren felt something tighten around his heart, not fear but a sharp, burning clarity. Expulsion would have been mercy. This was something else entirely.

Elder Qian raised his hand once more. “Prepare him for auction.”

The gavel struck.

Judgment concluded.

As guards dragged Aren from the hall, his feet scraping against stone, he did not struggle. He did not shout. He did not beg.

But somewhere deep within the silence of his chest, something ancient stirred—unseen, unacknowledged.

Not in anger.

In recognition.

And far beneath the Azure Pact, where no elder dared to look, the Dragon Vein slept on—waiting.