Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 745: Burning the Masses

I collected my mana into my hands, and then, I…

Burned.

Flames erupted from my palms in twin streams of molten orange. With one arm aimed to the left and one to the right, I raked fire across the battlefield as we soared above it like a mythological beast. The screams that followed were guttural and animalistic. Utterly desperate and full of misery.

A squad of lionkin who had broken through to threaten Lucille’s flank disintegrated in the blaze. Fire kissed their skin before devouring them whole. Some tried to dive away. They didn’t make it far. One of the elder warriors managed to weather the initial wave, with his armor glowing red but not yielding, until I focused a full column of my fire on him alone. He boiled in his armor, dropping with a metallic thud that echoed even over the chaos.

[You’ve slain Lazhur (Level 39). You’ve gained 80,000 XP.]

[You’ve reached level 33.]

I instantly summoned my status window and spent the points.

[Name: Quinlan Elysiar]

[Race: Primordial]

[Level: 30 -> 33. XP 2814/442779]

[Health Points: 1350 -> 1406]

[Mana Points: 1912 -> 2250]

[Vitality: 90 -> 94]

[Strength: 81 -> 85]

[Agility: 95 -> 99]

[Magic: 128 -> 150]

I invested all 15 Free Attribute Points from my three level-ups into the Magic stat, knowing that while I was indeed a hybrid, my best chance at matching with the strongest opponents was through usage of the arcane.

And just like that, the city turned its eyes to me. My elemental display had earned both the ire of the pre-programmed automated defenses and the manually controlled turrets as well. It was quickly becoming apparent that being overly flashy in large-scale wars would not make my life easy.

The mana cannons lit up.

Enchanted ballistae realigned.

A chorus of targeting systems locked onto my magic signature the moment my mana surged.

I didn’t need to shout for my pink-haired tanker to know it was her time to shine. She wasn’t here to sightsee.

Her fingers moved with grace, dancing in the air as if they were performing in the theatre. One sigil. Two sigils. Five. Nine. Each symbol burned into existence in glowing pink flames, orbiting her. Then, with a resolute cry, Lyra formed and final sigil and slammed her palm into her shield. ṟÂƝò𝔟Ęȿ

“[Sacrifice of the Willing]!”

The spell didn’t just shield me: it outright claimed me.

Threads of radiant mana lashed out from her form and wrapped around me, weaving a protective link that turned my very existence into her burden. In that instant, I felt it: every lock-on, every targeting system, every projectile fired toward me was redirected.

Claimed.

The first wave hit her like a hammer wielded by the giants.

Dozens of mana cannon blasts curved mid-air in synchronized arcs, slamming straight into the arcane aegis that materialized on the surface of her tower shield, making the already large item turn into a radiant, transparent shield of mythical proportions. It pulsated with light as it absorbed the brunt of the assault.

Lyra grunted from the pain assaulting her body, but didn’t flinch.

Ballista bolts followed, their enchanted tips glowing with magical imbuements. Just like the previous wave, these also swerved unnaturally, twisting away from me and crashing into her shield with a deafening thunder. She tanked them. Each one landed with an impact that should’ve flattened a house.

But Lyra stood.

Her boots ground against my back, with her heels digging in for leverage as she kept her balance mid-air like she was defying heaven itself. She knew perfectly well that should she falter, should she lose her balance, I would cease my assault on the lionkin to catch her, which could result in her allies and friends dying.

As such, she gritted her teeth and allowed her body to tremble, but her spine remained straight. Shoulders square. Head high. She wasn’t just a tanker any longer—she was a monument.

A bloodied titan.

A protector born of will.

More spells came. Arcs of lightning. Spears of pure energy. Crimson lances formed of cursed mana from the Covenant’s rear lines. Each one twisted unnaturally in the air, caught in the gravity of her aegis, and collided with that radiant shield again and again and again.

Cracks webbed through it.

Lyra spat blood but roared through the pain.

For the first time since I met this girl, her shy, polite persona was nowhere to be seen as she screamed, letting her battle cry echo across the chaos of war like a battle horn, “Is that all you’ve got?! You’re nothing! NOTHING!”

The enemies accepted her challenge.

And she took it with a sick, manic grin forming on her usually serene and kind face.

Every blast. Every bolt. Every ounce of punishment was redirected from me to her, and she endured it all through pure force of will and defiance in her bones.

My fire raged, sweeping through another column of lionkin as their front lines buckled beneath the weight of my onslaught. But the stronger ones… they endured. Burnt. Scarred. Smoldering, but still fighting. Despite my Magic stat reaching 150, I was still not capable of one-shotting those in the late level 30 with my non-concentrated AoE attacks, and those in the 40s and above kept tanking my fire blasts. Those I believed to be in the 50s had barely gotten scarred, even.

What’s worse was that they weren’t alone.

More came.

More always came.

The gates vomited warriors in waves, lionkin in golden armor and crude pelts alike, all screaming, all charging. Thousands upon thousands of combatants still surged forward like they had no end.

I glanced down again, searching for signs of hope.

Ayame’s sword blurred through flesh. Kitsara’s illusions twisted the air into a mirage of madness. Sylvaris’s moon constructs were doing the job of ten warriors. Blossom was little more than a streak of void between necks and spines. Seraphiel slaughtered with clinical efficiency while swapping to healing magic as soon as a single injury occurred. Lucille was sweeping through vast herds of lions as if she were a butcher slaughtering pigs. Aurora was casting so many supportive spells that she looked ready to faint from magical exhaustion.

Even the newcomers were doing admirably well: Poppy was an assassin-style fighter like Blossom, while Natalie was an archer. Natalie seemed to be in her level 30s while Poppy was in her 20s.

But even with all our valiant efforts…

It just wasn’t enough.

The dogkin and wolfkin lines were breaking, no: shattering, under the sheer tidal wave of lionkin throwing themselves into the grinder. Veteran warriors, the same ones I’d seen laugh in the face of death, were getting overwhelmed, dragged down beneath claw and blade. Screams of pain and fury echoed across the bloodied field. Limbs flew. Armor cracked. Blood soaked the dirt, turning the green plains into hell.

And I couldn’t even help them.

Not even for a single second.

Because if I left my girls, they would be the ones to fall. They’d be the ones torn apart by this storm of steel and madness. My magic wasn’t killing the strong ones fast enough. The lionkin elites were tanks, soaked in mana reinforcement and physical prowess. They resisted my flames with sheer Vitality, pushing through damage like real monsters.

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