Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1495  Shocked Silence

Silence.

Then the dwarven chanting resumed.

It came back different. The funeral hymn was gone. What replaced it was raw, guttural, and triumphant, a roar that erupted from thousands of throats at once, swelling across the field like a wave crashing against cliffs. Fists struck breastplates. Boots hammered the earth. The dwarven artillery crews, who had been loading their next volley with grim professionalism seconds ago, abandoned their stations to scream at the sky.

They were cheering, cheering because they had just witnessed a single man do what their entire war machine was designed to spend days accomplishing.

And he’d done it in one hit.

General Thorga stood behind the main battery line with her arms crossed and her mouth hanging open. She closed it. Opened it again. Closed it a second time. Then she turned to her aide, a young dwarf with ink-stained fingers who was supposed to be recording the bombardment timeline.

His quill was on the ground. His ledger was blank.

“Write that down,” Thorga said.

“Write what down?!”

“Exactly.”

…

On the ridge, Serelis had not moved.

Her rangers had. Three of them had dropped to a knee. Two had drawn their bows on pure instinct before realizing there was nothing to aim at. One had sat down on a rock and was staring at the smoke with the blank expression of a woman whose understanding of siege warfare had just been rewritten.

Serelis’s fingers were white around the grip of her own bow. She loosened them one by one.

The golden dome that had covered Whisperfield was gone. Just gone. Where a barrier had shimmered moments ago, there was now open sky and a column of smoke rising from the city center. Fracture lines still glowed faintly in the air, the ghost of a structure that no longer existed, fading like embers.

One attack.

She had watched many sieges in this campaign. The dwarven bombardments had ground for hours against barriers far smaller than this one. She had watched the Covenant’s tunneling strategy play out across a dozen settlements, each one requiring careful coordination between surface and underground forces.

This city’s barrier was the largest they had encountered. A county capital. Over a hundred thousand inhabitants. The barrier should have lasted days under sustained assault.

The black figure above the city had erased it between one heartbeat and the next.

“Commander.” The young ranger’s voice cracked. “Just… ‘What’ is he?”

Serelis did not answer. She did not have one.

Behind the elves on the ridge, the reaction was different.

Very different.

Seraphiel was smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.

Vex was simply laughing manically, far too proud of her husband.

Blossom’s tail was wagging so hard she nearly took to the air.

The rest of Quinlan’s women watched the destroyed barrier with similar reactions. Some were grinning, some were pale, but one thing was the same no matter the girl one observed.

They were far too amazed at what Quinlan, their Quinlan, had become.

“He keeps getting further ahead…” Ayame grumbled, crossing her arms beneath her chest.

“Having a primordial succubus act as a guide might not be as redundant as we first believed…” Kitsara murmured, for once not offering any sly remarks.

“Can you blame us? She looked like a sex maniac…” Aurora sighed. “But I must admit. She might not be useless.”

“Don’t just give this achievement to her!” Kaelira spoke up. The tomboy elf raised her voice for once, a truly rare moment. It seemed she felt very strongly about this.

The girls looked at the elf, and the correction hit home.

Whether there was a little noise in his head giving some tips mattered little.

The feat was his and his alone.

“Can we ever reach him…?” Serika whispered, then she shook her head. “No, that’s not what matters.”

“Right!” Lucille cheered. “Girls, we trained with ‘them’ for a reason! We’ve also gotten much stronger! Don’t lose hope!”

The girls looked at the harem head.

Lucille stood with her hands on her hips, chin raised, blonde hair catching the wind. She was grinning with the confidence of a woman who had spent the last several weeks training harder than she ever had in her life and refused to let anyone mope about it.

She was right, too.

Quinlan was ascending at a pace that defied reason. That was true. It had been true since the day they met him, and every single one of them had known it would only accelerate. The gap between his power and theirs would stretch wider with every passing week. That was the reality of loving an anomaly.

But that was never the point.

Every woman standing on this ridge had put in the work. They had bled in training. They had pushed past limits they didn’t know they had. They had stood in front of primordials during the trial and absorbed their teachings.

Quinlan grew stronger every day.

So did they.

And the smiles that spread across their faces as they looked at Lucille said everything words couldn’t. She was the head of this harem for a reason. When the doubt crept in, when the scale of Quinlan’s power made them feel small, she was always the first to grab them by the collar and drag them back to what mattered.

While the rest of the girls were discussing this, Blossom padded over to Kitsara.

The dogkin’s tail had finally slowed from its frantic wagging to a more manageable rhythm, though it still swayed with enough force to rustle the grass behind her. Her expression, however, had shifted. The wide-eyed amazement was gone. In its place sat the solemn, contemplative look that Blossom wore when processing information that troubled her deeply.

She leaned in close to the foxkin’s ear.

“Blossom is worried,” she whispered.

Kitsara blinked. Her three tails, which had been swaying lazily behind her, paused.

“Worried?” The foxkin glanced at her. “Lucille just told you it’s fine. We’re all getting stronger. There’s no need to-”

“One finger.”

Kitsara stopped.

Blossom’s eyes were enormous. Round and grave and utterly serious.

“That much destruction,” the dogkin continued in a hushed tone. “With one finger.”

She held up her index finger. Studied it. Then thrust both hands outward toward the smoking ruins of Whisperfield’s barrier, fingers splayed wide.

“Bam!”

Her tail drooped as her arms replicated the manner in which the large barrier was destroyed.

“Blossom is very concerned about the bedroom implications.”

The foxkin’s mouth opened. Then closed. Her tails, all of them, went rigid.

The image arrived in her mind uninvited.

Vivid. Detailed. Extremely specific.

Kitsara’s cheeks flushed. Then her neck. Then her ears, which was impressive given that they were covered in white fur. A slow, creeping heat spread across her entire face as her imagination, always her most dangerous weapon, ran calculations she had not asked it to run.

“Lady Kitsara has just realized,” the foxkin murmured to herself, “that the next time she shares a bed with her Quinnie, the encounter may be… significantly more intense than prior engagements.”

Her tails curled inward. Blossom nodded while rubbing her thighs together worriedly.

Kitsara swallowed.

“Blossom.”

“Yes?”

“Let’s tag team him the next time. We have to distribute the damage among the two of us.”

She was already fanning herself.

“Okay!!” Blossom agreed eagerly, happy to have a woman on the same wavelength.

…

On the walls of Whisperfield, no one was cheering.

The soldiers who had been manning the battlements stood frozen at their posts. Archers held empty bows with nocked arrows they had forgotten to fire. A battlemage’s hands still glowed with the spell she’d been channeling, the light flickering and dying as her concentration shattered.

The barrier was gone.

Their barrier. The thing they had built their entire defense around. The shield that was supposed to buy them days, weeks, enough time for Duke Tharion’s army to arrive and crush the invaders. The foundation of Aldren’s strategy, the reason they had stood firm and cheered and beaten their swords against their shields.

Gone.

A young soldier near the gate dropped his sword. The clang of steel on stone was the loudest sound on the wall.

Nobody told him to pick it up.

Aldren stood at the eastern battlement. His hands were on the stone. His knuckles were white. His eyes were locked on the figure above his city.

The buzzing fly.

The vulture.

The weaker version of Morgana Ravenshade.

His own words echoed in his skull, and each one landed like a slap.