Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 819: Blazing Tyrant Fist in Action

Flesh tore. Bones cracked beneath fists wreathed in heat.

Quinlan moved like a storm of combustion, heat bleeding from his skin, every breath thick with smoke. The air itself wavered around him, rippling from the waves of internal Qi building in his limbs.

The outlaws had formed ranks, but it did little to help them.

Form I: Initiate the Blaze.

He stepped into a grunt’s guard and unleashed a flurry of rapid punches: one to the ribs, another to the gut, a third to the throat. Each strike was shallow but incredibly fast and perfectly timed.

The moment one landed, another followed. The pressure inside him surged with every connection, his speed rising exponentially with each heartbeat. Steam hissed from his pores. The last punch detonated against a man’s chest with a sickening crack, and the bandit dropped like a sack of meat; eyes wide, mouth frothing, ribs caved inward.

”H-he’s just one man!” a bandit screamed, backing up.

”No—he’s a devil!”

Form II: No Escape.

Quinlan twisted his body mid-motion as a sword slashed past his side, the near-miss igniting another burst of flame beneath his feet. He flipped over the next attacker, rebounding off a shielded shoulder, and brought his heel crashing down on a man’s collarbone. The bone shattered. The man screamed. Quinlan never stopped.

Another dodge followed by another Qi burst. His movement became a blur of feints and redirection, leaping from back to shoulder to skull, each evasion feeding the next attack.

Then came the technique he’d devised in his head during this battle.

He lunged, mid-air, his knee crashing into a shield before it could rise, a burst of internal Qi igniting upon impact. This attack of his launched the defender backward like a broken puppet, shield bent, bones shattered. Fire licked the air.

”Stand together!” the one-eyed boss bellowed from behind his lines. ”He’s just a pest! A 9th Meridian insect! Many of you are near his level, while some are even higher! Stop running and fight! Together you are much stronger! Shield wall! Now!”

The remaining men stumbled into formation, shoulder to shoulder with their shields raised.

Quinlan stopped moving. He breathed in and out, making steam escape from his mouth. His stance shifted.

Form III: Sovereign Breaker.

The heat condensed. Gathered. Focused.

He stilled.

For just a breath, Quinlan became a furnace with a sealed lid. The swirling fire Qi inside him coiled tight, drawn from his limbs and channels, riding the network of his meridians like molten iron through narrow pipes. He drew it inward, first to his core, the dantian beneath his navel pulsing red-hot as it accepted the weight of his fury.

Then, he made his move.

Qi surged outward again, a reverse torrent from dantian to shoulder to arm to wrist. His right fist clenched as the fire overflowed, screaming through his veins, not as wild combustion but as refined, compressed force. A hammer strike wearing the skin of a punch.

With his preparations done, he surged forward.

The step cracked the ground.

His fist met the shield wall with the weight of a volcanic eruption behind it.

Qi ignited on impact, deep inside the point of contact, crushing shields inward, ripping steel from leather, sending men hurling backward with bones shattered and blood flying. 𝘳𝘼ℕՕ𝐁ЕꞨ

It was not the blaze of a torch. It was the detonation of pressure: internal fire, shaped and forced through flesh until it broke the world apart.

No fire raged outside his skin—only tight bursts of flame around his fists and feet, each one precise, surgical, fatal.

The formation crumbled.

Form I again: fists moving so fast they blurred. Blood sprayed. A jaw shattered. A neck twisted the wrong way.

Form II: a dodge, a pivot, a counter-kick into a man’s side that caved his ribs and sent him flying.

One by one, they fell. Screaming. Gasping. Dying.

And then...

Only one remained.

The boss. Big. Ugly. Covered in sweat. His jagged saber trembled in his grip, but not from rage.

From fear.

His eye twitched, darting from corpse to corpse.

Quinlan turned to him.

He said nothing.

He just smiled again. With that ominous, sinister, creepy smile of his that made the experienced warrior shudder from head to toe.

”W-what do you want?! Money? Power? Women? Riches? I can give all of that and more to you! All you have to do is stand down-”

His speech was interrupted when the black robed warrior, drenched in blood, lifted his two fists and examined them.

”Blazing Tyrant Fist, huh...?” the black-robed warrior muttered, lifting his blood-soaked fists and studying the faint trails of heat rising off his skin. ”It’s certainly amazing, but...”

He reached for the pitch black saber hanging at his side. The weapon slid free from its scabbard with a metallic whisper, catching the firelight on its edge.

”...what about my saber?”

The bandit boss—hulking, scarred, and still dripping blood—visibly flinched. But he forced an awkward laugh. ”Haha! That’s certainly a question worthy of deliberation, but don’t ignore me. I don’t see a benefit to me fighting you. So what will it be? Money? Power? Women? Riches?”

Quinlan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He looked at the saber. Then, at the man.

And smiled.

It was not the smile of a man. Not the smile of a warrior.

It was the smile of a creature that didn’t view its opponent as an equal, but as disposable trash.

”Every empire, every advancement, every glorious breakthrough humanity boasts... was built on the backs of those it crushed beneath its heel. The nameless. The broken. The used.”

He rested the saber on his shoulder, eyes gleaming.

”Because every laboratory needs rats.”

He playfully twirled his saber a few times in his hand, displaying extreme skill when it came to wielding the blade.

”And you? You’ll do just fine.”

The boss’s eye twitched.

”Y-you dare?! I’m in the Core Formation stage! I only tried to spare you because I see no value in crushing you! You’re only at the Ninth Meridian! You shouldn’t even be able to stand in front of me!”

Quinlan chuckled lowly. ”The old man was right,” he said, tapping the hilt of the saber. ”A rock-solid foundation is everything.”

Then he moved.

The first strike was experimental; he tried to channel the Form I aggression through the blade, using shallow bursts of Fire Qi to accelerate the swing.

It failed.

Sparks erupted. His stance faltered. The saber wobbled mid-arc.

The boss lunged in with a wide cleave. ”Burning Tiger Slash!”

Quinlan barely moved aside in time, the searing edge grazing his ribs and cutting through the outer robe. Heat scorched his skin. Pain flared.

He hissed and adjusted.

The second attempt was better, but still clumsy. He tried adapting Form II’s leaping mobility with the saber, trying to dash in midair and slash.

The midair Qi burst destabilized his posture.

The boss howled, slamming down with another martial technique: ”Fiery Fang Cleave!” and this time Quinlan was thrown back, flying through dirt and blood.

His body throbbed. A cracked rib. A burned shoulder. He coughed once. Blood hit the ground.

But his eyes were shining now.

Burning.

The fire wasn’t just in his Qi anymore: it was in him.

He stood. Steady.

And that was the exact moment when everything changed.