Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1603  Grinding Time

”RUN!”

They ran.

The woodland archers broke formation and fled into the trees with the desperate, graceless speed of prey. Quivers spilled. One woman caught her foot on a root and went down hard and the two beside her hauled her up without slowing.

Quinlan watched them go.

Theyʼd reach the nearest outpost within minutes. The report would reach the capital within the hour.

He could have killed them in the time it took to think about it.

But dead archers delivered no reports.

Terrified archers delivered masterpieces of psychological warfare.

…

[Necromantic Tier Ascension — Tier III]

[Requirement for Rank Up: Possess 1,000 Elite Souls of Rank 5.]

[Progress: 778 / 1,000]

Seventeen thousand dwarves, and only thirty-six qualified as Elite Souls. Officers, veterans, the handful of defenders whose levels and stats had been high enough in life to matter in death. The rest were Lesser Souls, raw material too weak to register as anything more than fuel.

That was fine.

[Soul Fusion].

The Lesser Souls collapsed by the hundreds, crushed together and fed into the Elites. Rank 3s climbed to 4. Rank 4s pushed to 5. The saberʼs pale flames flared as each fusion completed, burning brighter with every soul that was refined.

[Progress: 814 / 1,000]

Thirty-six new Rank 5 Elites, and thousands of Lesser Souls spent as fuel to get them there. The dwarves whoʼd died screaming in their own mountain now existed as compressed power sitting inside his weapon, waiting to be called.

A good haul. His Lesser Soul reserves had swollen massively on top of the new Elites.

The ratio was lopsided, but that was how it worked.

The next time he harvested a battlefield full of high-level fighters, ranking them up would burn through Lesser Souls at a rate that he had to prepare for beforehand.

Quinlan dismissed the window and turned west.

Wind wrapped around him and Thordakʼs floating body, compressing, accelerating, and Quinlan shot across the sky like a bolt fired from the Greymount itself. The border peaks shrank behind him. The forests blurred beneath. Miles vanished in minutes as he pushed deeper into the Allianceʼs interior.

The border was behind him. Ahead lay the heartland.

He crossed farmland, rivers, stretches of old growth that elven communities had tended for centuries. The scale of the Alliance unfolded beneath him, vast and green and utterly unaware of what was coming from the east.

Then he saw the smoke.

A fortress carved into a mountainside, built on the same dwarven principles as Kharn Moldur. Sheer walls, deep tunnels, cannon ports cut into the rock face. It was already burning.

Magma poured into the upper levels from three separate angles, each stream originating from a figure stationed at a different elevation on the mountainside. Morganaʼs work.

The Elemental Sovereignʼs output was devastating, but her streams were finite. They pulsed and thinned as her mana cycled, each burst followed by a visible pause as she recharged.

She couldnʼt do what heʼd done. Couldnʼt sustain a continuous flow that outlasted the mountain itself. Her class operated on the same budget every Elemental Sovereign did, powerful but bound by conventional mana and cooldown economics.

His girls compensated with numbers.

Soul soldiers poured into the breaches Morganaʼs magma had opened. Hundreds of spectral constructs pushing through the molten corridors. They flooded the tunnels, overwhelmed chokepoints, and drove the defenders deeper and deeper into the fortress with the relentless patience of a tide that didnʼt need to breathe.

His women moved with them. Flashes of golden light where Seraphiel fought at the vanguard, healing and destroying in equal measure. The sharp crack of hexes detonating against dwarven wards. Solar-bright detonations in the lower tunnels where someone was punching through reinforced gates the old-fashioned way.

Quinlan descended.

...

The fortress fell within minutes.

Seraphiel and Liora worked side by side in the main hall, golden light pouring from their hands into the broken bodies of three dwarven commanders. The healing wasnʼt kindness. Conscious prisoners answered questions. Unconscious ones were furniture.

Quinlan stood at the center.

His red eyes swept the room once, then settled on the three commanders as Seraphielʼs light pulled them back to consciousness.

”Black Fang. Where is she?”

The first commander blinked. An old dwarf, beard singed to stubble, one eye swollen shut. His mouth opened and the answer came without resistance, pulled from him by the subjugation bond.

”I donʼt know. I received no intelligence on any prisoner.”

The second shook her head. Same vacant honesty. ”We were told to hold the fortress. Nothing about a captured human.”

The third said nothing useful either.

Seraphiel wiped her hands on her thighs and looked at Quinlan.

”Weʼre in the middle of the Alliance, Quin. Maybe they didnʼt retreat all the way to the capital. Maybe theyʼre still near the Ravenshade border.”

”Where would they hold a prisoner of her value?” Quinlanʼs gaze returned to the commanders. ”High-security locations. Name them.”

They answered, listing mountain holds with deep dungeons and suppression wards built for containing high-level threats. The kind of places a joint council would use for a prisoner they couldnʼt afford to lose.

All of them far more difficult to rush than these unprepared forts.

His fist tightened.

”Quin.”

Ayameʼs voice came from behind him.

Sheʼd been silent through the interrogation, standing near the hallʼs entrance with her katana sheathed and her arms crossed. Her crystal blue eyes were fixed on him, and when he turned to face her, her expression was fighting itself.

”I want Black Fang rescued as fast as possible.”

She paused. Her throat moved once.

”And I hate myself for saying this.”

The hall went quiet. Seraphielʼs hands stilled. The others turned.

”But I think...” Ayameʼs voice faltered. She forced it steady. ”I think we should get stronger before we go there.”

Quinlan said nothing.

Ayame kept going. Each word came out like she was pulling it from somewhere that didnʼt want to let go.

”Our home hasnʼt been attacked. If Elvardia and the Covenant had enslaved Black Fang and ordered her to lead them to the stronghold, they wouldnʼt have given us a full day to recover. They would have been on us immediately.” She swallowed. ”That means she hasnʼt been enslaved.”

Silence.

”So sheʼs either dead...” Ayameʼs composure cracked for a fraction of a second. She caught it. ”Captured but resisting. Or out there somewhere, fending for herself.”

Her hands dropped to her sides. Her fingers curled into fists.

”If sheʼs dead, rushing wonʼt bring her back. If sheʼs captured, Black Fang is...” Her voice thickened. ”Sheʼs the most badass woman I know. She will not break in a day. They can throw everything they have at her and she will still persevere. That is my belief.”

She was looking at the floor now.

”The best way to honor what she did for us is to destroy our enemies. Tear the Council apart. Take everything from them.” Her jaw worked. ”But to do that, we need more. Just a few levels. Just a few more days.”

Ayame lifted her eyes. They were red-rimmed and furious, aimed at herself.

”The girls and I talked. We felt like we were getting close, that weʼd become relevant in the fights that mattered. We held our own against Level 60 enemies in the battle. But weʼre fighting uphill, and so are you.”

Her voice steadied. The second-in-command was speaking now.

”A few more levels, Quin, and youʼll be near untouchable. And Elvardia just spent itself. Their strongest fighters were called south for the war. Whatʼs left in the interior is millions of low-to-mid level soldiers. We can gut this nationʼs economy, harvest everything it has, and come out the other side strong enough that when we go for Black Fang, nothing between us and her will survive.”

She stopped.

Her fists were shaking.

”I know what I sound like. I know Iʼm asking us to leave my sister to her fate while we grind. But I believe this is the right path for us to take.”

Around the hall, the others were quiet. Seraphiel had stopped healing entirely, her blue eyes lowered. Vex leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, staring at nothing. Blossom stood near the entrance, her ears flat against her head, her tail motionless.

Every one of them wearing the same expression.

They all wished they were stronger.

Quinlan looked at Ayame for a long moment.

”I agree.”

Ayame blinked.

”The plan doesnʼt change. We keep burning through the Alliance and we get stronger while we do it.”

His voice was the same cold instrument it had been since dawn. The fury hadnʼt receded. The vengeance hadnʼt softened. But the man whoʼd sat on a rooftop for hours without moving, whoʼd let his girls rest when every instinct screamed to charge, was still in control.

Wrath with patience was worse than wrath alone.

”Letʼs continue.”