Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1580  Rampaging Villain

Quinlan killed dwarven elite fighters one after the other.

His vision was still fractured. Three overlapping images that refused to merge, blood crusting in the corners of his eyes, and a ringing in his skull that turned the battlefield into a wall of noise with shapes moving through it.

The concussion had done something to his mana regeneration too. The steady pulse that usually refilled his reserves between spells was stuttering, cycling in fits that gave him half of what he needed at twice the interval.

He didn’t care.

Wind tore through the formation in concentrated blasts that hit plate and caved it inward. The first four went down clutching their chests as crushed armor drove into their ribs. Morgana’s hands rose beside him at the same instant, the puppet queen’s fingers crackling with voltage, and the lightning that leaped from her palms struck the soldiers the wind had knocked off balance before they could recover. Two died on impact. A third caught the arc as it jumped between their armor.

He was fighting with two bodies and one ruined brain.

She was an extension of his will, her channels slaved to his intent through the subjugation bond. When his stone hand swept left and raw heat flooded through the gaps the wind had opened, Morgana’s lightning followed into the same gaps half a heartbeat later. Fire and lightning in the same wound. The dwarves who survived the heat died to the voltage, and the dwarves who survived both were already burning when the next gust of wind hit them.

A dwarf with a tower shield braced against the wind and held for half a second before a root punched through the ground beneath his boots and dragged him under.

Rosie’s contribution was silent and relentless. The little dryad on his shoulder moved her fingers in small twitches and the earth answered. Roots rose behind dwarven lines and tripped the rear ranks into the path of Quinlan’s wind. They sealed escape routes, channeled the panicking soldiers into tighter clusters where a single spell could cook a dozen at once. When a dwarf tried to flank Quinlan from the left, a root the width of a man’s torso rose from the dirt and swatted him thirty meters through the air.

Three weapons. Wind and fire from his hands, lightning from Morgana’s, roots from the earth beneath. His vision was garbage, his reserves were draining faster than they filled, and the fractured skull pulsed with every heartbeat hard enough to white out the edges of his sight.

He was still the most frightening thing on this field.

“[Eternal Damnation].”

[Soul Reaper] drank the dead.

The pitch-black saber’s ghostly flames flared with each kill notification that flooded through Quinlan’s mind, and the souls of sixteen dwarves rushed into the blade in a torrent of pale light.

“[Awaken].”

Sixteen spectral soldiers rose from the scorched earth in dwarven armor, their eyes burning with blue-white light, and the blacksteel formation that had been pressing inward suddenly had its own dead standing in the gaps it had left.

The screaming changed pitch.

A dwarf swung his axe at the spectral copy of the man who had been standing beside him thirty seconds ago. The soul soldier parried, drove a ghostly blade through the dwarf’s visor, and Quinlan harvested that one too.

Another rose.

The cycle fed itself. Each kill became a soldier. Each soldier created the next kill. The dwarven line was being eaten from the inside by its own casualties, and Quinlan stood at the center of the grinding wheel with [Soul Reaper] trailing pale flames and his red eyes burning through the blood on his face.

Three more soul soldiers. Dwarven mages this time, their spectral forms still crackling with the mana they’d held in life, and they turned that mana on their former comrades with the efficiency of men who knew exactly where the weak points were.

“He’s raising our dead!”

The cry ran through the dwarven ranks and what had been organized pressure became panic.

“Hold formation! Hold!”

Aelindra’s voice cut across the chaos. The black-haired elf had pulled her elven loyalists into a strike force on Quinlan’s western flank, and they hit the soul army’s perimeter.

Curved blades carved through two soul soldiers in a single pass. An elven archer put three arrows into a spectral mage’s core and the summon dissolved. Aelindra herself cut a path toward Quinlan with her twin swords blazing white, and the elven line surged behind her.

Blossom dropped on Aelindra from above.

The void-phase deposited her directly over the elven commander’s head, gauntlets descending in a strike aimed at the gap between Aelindra’s shoulder blades. The elf’s instincts fired in the last fraction of a second, twin blades came up in a cross-guard that caught the claws an inch from her neck, and the impact drove Aelindra’s boots into the dirt.

Their eyes met for a heartbeat. Aelindra’s purple gaze held the cold fury of a woman who had just been ambushed by a fly she’d long ago dismissed.

Then the twin blades uncrossed and the counter came, a horizontal slash fast enough to bisect.

Blossom was already gone.

She phased backward and materialized on a root near Quinlan’s flank, crouched low, gauntlets raised. Her throat was still bruised black and purple. Her voice was a rasp.

“Blossom won’t let you attack Master from a blind spot.”

“Learn to speak like a normal person, mutt!”

Aelindra didn’t slow down. She closed the distance with her twin swords blazing white, and the intent behind it needed no explanation.

“Badmouth Blossom all you want,” the words came just as she dashed forth, phasing behind the backline.

The first archer didn’t hear her. Blossom’s claws took her through the back of the neck and the elf dropped without a sound. The second spun with an arrow already drawn, but the dogkin had phased again, reappearing three meters to the left and driving her gauntlets through the gap in a third archer’s cuirass.

Two dead.

Aelindra’s head turned.

“Elites! Concentrate on the Primordial Villain! Ignore his damned dog! I’ll take care of her!”

Twelve elven archers drew simultaneously.

Blossom was not the only vigilant girl watching Quinlan’s back.

The volley hit Rosie’s root network like siege bolts.

Twelve arrows, each one trailing condensed mana that turned the shafts into piercing lances. The first root Rosie threw into their path exploded on contact, the arrow punching clean through the wood and continuing on with enough force to split a second root behind it. A third tendril caught the shaft and died holding it.

Three roots to stop one arrow.

Rosie’s amber eyes snapped open and her fingers twitched rapidly as she rerouted her network. Roots surged from the ground in layered walls, not single intercepts but stacked barriers, three and four deep, sacrificing dozens of tendrils across the volley’s path. The arrows chewed through them in bursts of splintered wood and silver light, each shaft consuming everything in its trajectory before the final layer caught it.

The volley died. Thirty-six roots didn’t.

The archer who had fired first lowered her bow. Her face was pale.

“Commander, that’s a young nature spirit! We just attacked a child of the Verdant Mother.”