Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem-Chapter 809: Quinlan’s Decision [Bonus]

The old man turned and began walking away.

Again, Quinlan and Feng exchanged a look for the second time since meeting this eccentric geezer. Hers was questioning while his was resigning, already expecting it would go like this.

They both fell into step behind the old man. The shack disappeared behind the trio as they descended the hill and stepped onto the dry, cracked earth of Vulkaris’ outskirts. Morning wind stirred the grit along the ground, and the sky was still faintly purple with night’s residue.

They walked in silence, as always, until they arrived at what could only be described as a flat plateau of scorched stone, perhaps the remnants of a battlefield or a testing ground long since abandoned.

There were no weapons. No tools. No disciples. Just the wind, the stone, and the dull grind of the old man’s prosthetics as he came to a stop.

Then, he raised one hand and pointed to the stone.

"Hundred Stances. Hold each one until I say otherwise."

That was it.

Quinlan stared. "...You want me to hold martial arts stances? That’s all?"

No reply.

With a grunt, Quinlan cracked his neck and got into the first stance: a standard low horse stance he’d seen from an eastern martial arts video. Simple.

He lasted twenty minutes before he began to feel his thighs. By forty, sweat began streaking down his back. By the end of the first stance, his legs trembled.

Then came the second. A crane stance. Then a tiger. Then the low dragon. Then monkey fist. On and on it went.

An hour passed. Then another.

Quinlan’s robe was soaked, and his breath came ragged. Even with his superhuman physique at level one stats, the precision and excellence the old man demanded were unnatural. He wasn’t just holding stances: he was maintaining perfect posture, muscle tension, and balance.

Every error, the old man corrected with a sharp slap of his prosthetic leg. He never explained what Quinlan did wrong. Just hit him, then backed away. freeweɓnovel.cøm

By the end of the tenth stance, Quinlan’s legs gave out. He collapsed onto the scorched stone, panting, arms limp at his sides.

Then the old man simply pointed to a new area farther down the plateau and grunted,

"Run."

Quinlan blinked questioningly. "What?"

"Punishment for failure. Five laps. The edge to the hill and back."

"You’ve got to be kidding me!" Quinlan sat up with his chest heaving. "I don’t have time for this! My loved ones are waiting for me—my people, my lovers—I’m not here to sweat all day but to cultivate and become a great combatant!"

The old man didn’t move or respond.

"I’ve already got a strong physical foundation," Quinlan snapped, flexing his big biceps in proof of his words. "What I need is to focus on opening my twelve meridians. After that comes core formulation. That’s how I can achieve my goals. I know the path. I just need the techniques, the guidance from you, not damned leg cramps!"

While Quinlan was conducting his rant, Feng, who hadn’t once been acknowledged by the old man, so she just did her training on her own, rushed to his side. "Uncle, wait! Don’t-"

He turned toward her. "No. You heard what he said. ’If you wish to learn true martial arts, follow me.’ But this? This is just some old man playing a bad joke on me."

1

"You don’t know that-"

"My girls are waiting for me," Quinlan said, voice low. The reason why he was so agitated was that he didn’t know how time flowed here. For all he knew, it’s already been a week back home. A month. He couldn’t waste time.

The old man remained still.

Then, finally, he turned to look Quinlan in the eye.

No anger. No scorn. Just the quiet weight of someone who had seen countless warriors come and go. His face was as expressionless as stone, but those dark eyes were deep, too deep for Quinlan’s comfort.

The silence stretched between them.

And the old man... said nothing. He only turned, walked to a rock, and sat down with his back turned toward Quinlan.

Feng grabbed onto his hand. "Uncle... Please, apologize! I have a feeling he’s the real deal. You could be wasting a great chance right now."

"You have a feeling..." Quinlan muttered, jaw clenched as frustration rippled through him.

Feng didn’t let go of his hand.

His eyes trailed back to the old man’s silhouette—still seated on the rock, still unmoved, with his broad back turned toward them like the entire conversation didn’t matter. Like Quinlan’s outburst hadn’t even registered.

Quinlan exhaled through his nose and stepped forward.

"Can I trust you?" he asked.

The old man didn’t look back. His voice, when it came, was low and cold.

"One can only trust himself." Then, his voice grew even lower, even colder, as he added under his breath, "Not even his family..."

1

Quinlan’s fists clenched.

No answer. No reassurance. Just that simple, brutal response that told him the old man wasn’t about to make any promises.

He stood there for a long moment, grinding his teeth, sweat drying on his skin under the heat. He could hear the wind scraping over stone, the faint rustle of Feng’s robe behind him. But in his head, he was somewhere else entirely.

’Feng... she might be able to guide me through opening the twelve main meridians. But after that? She’s only at the Qi Gathering stage. Even if she wanted to help, she couldn’t.

That leaves me two options. Go in blind, or find another teacher. But no one here teaches adults. Especially not foreigners. And if they do, they’ll want obedience, oaths, or worse in proper clans and sects.

He closed his eyes.

’Going blind is a great risk. I could cripple my own cultivation before I even reach core formulation. I can’t afford that. That would likely mean game over for me. I doubt the Soul Records would pull me out here just because I messed up. I would remain here for years, perhaps even centuries until I manage to heal my damaged cultivation, if I ever manage to do so...

And...’

Quinlan didn’t say it aloud.

But his instincts had never failed him. He was a man who greatly valued his gut instincts.

And they were screaming at him that this old bastard, this unfeeling, cryptic, broken-down relic of the past, was the real deal. Maybe even more than that.

Quinlan sighed, then squared his shoulders.

’They’re not damsels in distress. They’re not fragile princesses. Those ultra-awesome girls will find a way to thrive with or without my presence. That much I’m certain of. I wouldn’t have fallen for them otherwise. The best thing I can do for them is take my primordial trial seriously and do my utmost to succeed. And success certainly doesn’t come from rushing progress.’

6

Having made his decision, he walked past the rock, past the old man, and returned to the plateau. His legs ached. His arms were stiff. But he ran his five agonizing punishment laps before he lowered himself into the eleventh stance without a complaint, adjusting his form until the pain returned with full force.