QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)
Chapter 199: The new system?

Chapter 199: The new system?

Chapter 199 — Daphne POV

It’s been... a time.

And by "time," I mean a stretch of days so ridiculous even the talking mirrors have stopped commenting.

First came the Frog Prince.

No, not the romantic, green-skinned charmer from the songs.

This one flat-out refused to return to human form.

Why?

Because he had fathered a small brood of tadpoles while cursed, and—his words, not mine—"royal duties feel less fulfilling when your children have gills."

I might’ve understood... until I learned what his mother, the Queen, did.

She summoned a sacred koi—an ancient, glimmering beast from the royal temple pond—and had it devour them.

Yes. She fed his frogspawn to a fish.

I arrived just in time to stop him from throwing himself into the moat in grief.

I turned him human again, against his will. And yes, I sided with the Queen.

He might be grieving, but we can’t have a crown prince hopping around in lily pads, fathering pondlings, and refusing to speak in full sentences.

The argument was legendary.

"You killed my children—your grandchildren!"

"They were frogs!"

"I was a frog!"

"You were cursed!"

I left them in separate towers with orders to reflect on their choices and not try to hex each other in the meantime.

Naturally, no eligible noblewoman wants anything to do with the Frog Prince now. Word travels fast in this realm, especially when it involves royalty and amphibian lineage.

And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get worse—

Three bears marched into my office.

Yes. The Bears.

And they were furious.

Turns out a golden-haired girl named Goldilocks broke into their home again. Ate their food. Slept in their beds. Left muddy footprints on the carpets.

And when they returned, she tried to claim squatter’s rights.

Papa Bear wanted her tried for breaking and entering.

Mama Bear demanded reparations for emotional distress and ruined porridge.

Baby Bear, bless him, simply wanted a door that locks.

I ruled in favor of the bears. Naturally. Because that’s some level of self entitled I can not even fathom.

And then there’s the Surviving the Wolf docu-play.

It’s a dramatic retelling of the wolf’s rampages—hosted by three very theatrical pigs and Red Riding Hood herself, who is now a stunningly competent public speaker in a red power suit and heels, which is jarring because this is a fairytale world is it not?

They’re leaning into the survivor narrative—and honestly? Good for them.

The boy who cried wolf was invited to join the production but politely declined.

Said he didn’t want to relive "those dark days" and was happy now selling artisanal goat cheese by the cliffs.

As for the wolf himself?

Plot twist: he’s a werewolf.

He didn’t have to do any of that.

He just did it.

For vibes. For giggles. For carnage.

I mean, commit to the bit, I guess?

I can’t bring it in myself to hate a genuine diabolical villain.

Honestly, I’m tired.

And more than that—I’m lonely.

I sit beneath a sunless sky, in a castle full of odd creatures and half-baked love stories, and I think of her.

I miss my wife.

***

I find myself back in the office.

Or—what passes for one.

That same cold, sterile chamber with walls the color of hospital gray. Quiet, humming with static. No windows. No warmth. Just endless emptiness and the faint stench of bureaucracy.

In front of me sits that unsettling figure again.

Humanoid in shape, faceless except for two glowing purple eyes that pulse slowly, like they’re breathing.

[Did you enjoy your vacation?] it asks.

I don’t answer.

Just as abruptly as I was hurled into the last world, I was yanked back out. One second I was sipping tea on a hilltop, the next I was here, in this monochrome limbo with my shoes still wet from bear-tears.

[No?]

A pause.

[Well, I have completed my alternative solution.]

With a flicker, the faintly glowing blue orb from before is gone.

In its place hovers a pulsing purple core, darker, denser, and... sharper. Like it could cut you if you stared too long.

[Welcome to new System 404: Harem-DestroyingSystem.] the figure says.

It tries to sound enthusiastic, but it falls flatter than Snow White’s glass coffin pillow. Was that a fairytale reference? I internally shudder, I’ve been corrupted.

"...Harem destroying?" I echo, raising an eyebrow, fingers tapping my thigh.

[You were already performing the function. Consider this a reclassification. Optimized. Elevated.]

I snort. "Optimized, huh? So what—now I just run around torching everyone’s romances and key-smashing love triangles into oblivion?"

[Correct. With caveats.]

"Of course," I mutter.

[The Harem-Building System was designed to plant world seeds in unstable spaces—like clay, you mold them with potential. Sometimes you get perfection. Other times? Cracks.]

[You... were a crack finder.]

"You make it sound noble."

[System 404 is now assigned to worlds that are completed, but developed internal structural faults. Imperfections. Favoritism. Imbalance. You are not to kill the male leads, of course—world anchors require them.]

I raise an eyebrow.

[You’ve seen it yourself, sometimes these leads they have favorites, who’s to say that favoritism won’t topple over to the offspring in happily ever after. You intervene before it gets too drastic.]

I lean back slowly, letting the weight of that sink in.

Honestly? It sounds... satisfying.

I think of all the smug, self-centered male leads I’ve met—who played victim and saint in the same breath. Honestly I’m just glad I get to punch them in the face, the figure not kill but that doesn’t mean other aspects of body harm are impossible.

"Good. Then I’m in."

[Excellent. System 404 is still calibrating, but a cracked world is already pinging. You’ll be sent in directly.]

Purple light flares.

The floor beneath me begins to vanish like fog burning off under moonlight.

Honestly, as glad as I am that the whole system is resolved, I’m more excited—curious, really—about what version of my wife I’m getting this time.

But no matter the world, the plot, or the rules—she’s mine.

And I’ll find her again.