Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1350  Broken Concentration

Quinlan cut through the smoke-stained sky while the city burned beneath him.

The pressure in his core had dulled slightly, making him feel slightly sluggish.

His breathing slowed despite the pace of his flight, chest rising in controlled intervals as he adjusted altitude and course with small shifts of his shoulders.

His voice slipped out under his breath, filtered by the helm of Synchra. ”Iʼm almost tapped out of mana again… Massacring whole cities sure is hard work.”

While he killed Archmage Harel in one move, it was not a simple one; he had to exert force to override the manʼs authority over the wind element. It took more effort than the fightʼs duration mightʼve suggested.

Still. He didnʼt have any regrets about it. In fact, he felt great. Overpowering a man like that at level 67 was a real feat of power.

One could, however, argue that Quinlan was the natural counter to elemental mages, for he was one but better. He had manipulation powers over all four basic elements, which meant that if his enemy used one of those elements, he could begin wrestling them for control over their own spells.

Harel lost control; thatʼs why he was cut apart by his hundred wind blades.

Quinlan let his speed drop a fraction and straightened his posture in the air. ʼLetʼs give that a go again, shall we?ʼ he mused inwardly while his hands loosened at his sides and fingers flexed once before settling. The roar of fire and collapsing stone shouldʼve been drawn out, but he did not allow his senses to relax.

Instead, he forced himself to focus down toward the slow churn at his core, but also at his surroundings.

The first breath did nothing.

The second brought a faint response. A thin trickle, reluctant, like water pulled through cracked stone.

Quinlan frowned behind the visor.

Regenerating mana while stationary was simple. Sit. Breathe. Close the world out. Let the senses dim until only the internal flow remained.

This was nothing like that.

Heat brushed against his armor from below. Pressure shifted with every gust of smoke-laden wind. Distant movement tugged at the edge of his perception, too many signatures scattered across too many streets.

He could not afford to stop watching.

His senses stayed wide open, stretched thin across every direction. Upward for airborne threats. Below for spell formations. Sideways for the subtle distortions that preceded long-range attacks. Each one demanded a sliver of attention, and each sliver scraped against the concentration he was trying to hold.

His jaw tightened.

Mana stirred, then stuttered.

He adjusted his breathing again, slowing the rhythm further. Inhale through the nose. Hold. Exhale through the mouth. He forced the pattern to remain steady even as a distant surge of magic flared to his left. His head turned without thought, visor locking onto the source until it faded back into the noise.

The flow inside him wavered, nearly collapsing.

He had already managed to move and regenerate at the same time once, before his pleasantly surprising exchange with Scar. Back then, due to his competent assassinʼs presence, the only threat was gravity, which he had to keep fighting while moving.

This was different.

Here, every second demanded readiness. Every breath shared space with vigilance. The act of calming his mind felt like trying to still water while standing in the middle of a storm.

A dull ache crept up behind his eyes.

He held the course anyway.

Another breath. Another fragile thread of mana answered, winding back into place with stubborn slowness. It was inefficient, uneven, and far from comfortable, but it was something.

Quinlan let out a controlled exhale and kept flying.

*Shh!*

A ripple passed through the air behind him, thin and sharp. His senses caught it an instant before sound followed. Dozens of trajectories rose from a cluster to his rear left.

Arrows.

Quinlan twisted sideways in the air. His body slid out of the path with minimal movement as shafts screamed past where his head had been. One clipped the edge of his shoulder plate and shattered, fragments spinning away into smoke.

The moment his balance shifted, the careful rhythm inside him collapsed.

The fragile thread of mana snapped.

He exhaled through his nose and clicked his tongue once.

”Tch. I truly need to work on this.”

He rolled his shoulders, letting the irritation settle, and turned midair to face the source.

A dozen archers spread across three rooftops, spacing clean, stances low, bows already resetting. They were not panicked, not firing blindly. They had timed the volley to catch him during movement, probably noticing that he was slowing down and not attacking, letting them know he might be up to something.

Smart.

Yet too weak.

Quinlan raised one hand.

No chant left his lips. No wide gesture followed. His fingers merely flexed, subtle as thought.

The air around his hand tightened.

Compressed.

Then it snapped forward.

Blue rounds tore through the space between him and the rooftops in rapid succession. The sound came after in the form of sharp hisses layered so tightly they blurred together. Heads jerked back. Helmets split. Visors punched inward. They were all shot through the head, killed instantly.

Silence returned to the rooftops.

Quinlan lowered his hand and resumed forward motion.

He inhaled again and forced his attention back inward.

Mana answered.

But it didnʼt even take five more seconds until his concentration slipped a second time.

But now, it was not from threat but the sound his ears picked up.

Thin, sharp, uncontrolled. It cut through smoke and heat and rang against his senses in a way steel never did.

”Help!! ”Please!” ”Anyone!”

”Weʼre stuck!”

Screaming.

Quinlanʼs flight slowed. His head turned east.

A building leaned there, its upper floors partially collapsed, roof jagged but intact. On top of it, clustered together like birds trapped on a ledge, were children. Dozens of them. Boys and girls pressed shoulder to shoulder, faces smeared with soot, mouths open in raw panic.

At the stairwell entrance stood two women in gray habits. ʼAre those nuns?ʼ Quinlan wondered.

They had their sleeves rolled up, and their hands were wrapped around broom handles. They were not intent on using them to dust the rooftop; however, these brooms were handled as if they were tools of war.

The pair of women had their backs to the children. Their legs shook, but they did not move aside as they faced down an empty stairwell.

Quinlan hovered, watching.

ʼHmm…ʼ

The answer as to what was going on arrived a heartbeat later.

Bone scraped stone.

A skeletal figure climbed into view with its rusty sword dragging against the steps leading to the roof. Empty sockets fixed upward. Another followed behind it. Then another. Their movements were stiff, methodical.

Undead minions, made by a Covenant Corpse Animator.

The women screamed as one. ”Get back, you monsters!” one of them shouted. ”Leave the children alone!”

The fifty or so children broke upon seeing the sight of the skeletons coming for them.

Sounds exploded. Crying. Wailing. Small bodies pushing against each other with nowhere to go. One boy at the edge turned, looked down, and made a choice without another breath.

He jumped, plunging to his death instead of facing such a nightmare.

Quinlan lifted a single finger.

Wind surged upward in a tight column. The falling boy was caught mid-drop with his ragged clothes snapping violently as the force flipped him sideways and carried him back up. He landed hard on the roof, rolling once before stopping.

He lay there, stunned.

Then he sucked in air and stared at his hands.

”I… I unlocked flight?” he gasped with a voice that was thin and disbelieving.

For half a second, his mouth stretched into something that didnʼt belong on a battlefield. He was excited.

Then the screaming pulled him back.

The nuns were still shouting. The skeletons kept coming. The children pressed together again, the boy scrambling back into the group, shaking now as reality caught up to him.

Below Quinlan, the summons of his allies advanced without hesitation, following orders long given by someone who did not hear screams the way he did.

”Damn it,” he sighed quietly. ”An orphanage full of innocent children and motherly women.”

He knew this would await him and was the result of his own actions, but that did not mean he was a cold bastard who would watch this group get massacred by nasty undead minions with an unfeeling heart.

Perhaps he was contradictory, a hypocrite, an arrogant, greedy bastard. But Quinlan did not care.