Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem-Chapter 818: Trembling Sheep [Bonus]

Weapons drawn. Swords shaking.

"H-he’s alone!"

"Don’t panic! He’s... he’s only at the Ninth Meridian?!"

"No way. I felt that Qi!!! Are you sure he’s not in Core Formation?!"

"He’s a monster!"

"But we’re strong, and we outnumber him!"

"Don’t fret! We take him together!"

Quinlan said nothing.

His fists smoked. Blood stained his knuckles.

The ground behind him was littered with broken men.

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He measuredly stepped forward, heat bleeding from his skin in slowly rising wisps.

Quinlan could feel it deep within him: the fire was still not at its peak. It could give him more. He just had to bring it out.

There were two things he truly loved about the Blazing Tyrant Fist.

The first was its aggression. Pure, unrelenting offense. It didn’t care for graceful footwork or defensive counters. It demanded that you move first, hit hard, and break faster than the enemy could think. That kind of savagery matched him perfectly.

He could adapt to others with great proficiency—he wouldn’t have become the Avatar of the Elements otherwise. But beneath the surface, beneath the control and adaptability, Quinlan preferred violence that advanced. Not balance. Not restraint. Just the clean, ruthless pressure of forward momentum.

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But the second... that was what made it special.

Blazing Tyrant Fist wasn’t some scroll-bound set of techniques to memorize and repeat. Learning its "Forms" didn’t mean he’d unlocked just three attacks or three techniques. No: each Form was a living philosophy, a style unto itself. A battlefield mindset forged into motion.

Form One wasn’t just a punch. It was everything rapid, everything fast, every shallow but explosive movement fueled by built-up pressure. From that single Form, a thousand variations could bloom.

Form Two was the art of pursuit. Leaping strikes, burst dashes, explosive footwork. Like a martial artist composing music in real time, he could invent, improvise, and chain attacks within its ruleset.

Form Three wasn’t about precision or finesse. It was raw, overwhelming power, a relentless onslaught meant to shatter any defense. Every strike came with the force of a falling boulder.

Each Form was more like a Class, or a domain of Qi expression. And once you understood the underlying logic, how Qi moved through your body under its influence, you weren’t learning moves anymore.

You were creating them.

The more skilled you became, the more your fists wrote their own language.

It was like dancing with the devil that whispered in his ears:

"Burn brighter. Burn harder. But most importantly... Burn how you want."

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More bandits spilled from the camp, steel in hand and panic behind their eyes. Shouts filled the air as the alarm spread: this wasn’t a rogue cultivator skirmishing for food or coin. This was slaughter. One-sided.

A single figure pushed his way through the crowd, the firelight casting shadows off his jagged saber and barrel-sized chest. He was tall, grotesquely wide, with a single eye glaring out from a scar-strewn face. The other socket was a dark, sunken void. His presence silenced the others like a dagger to the throat.

"Form ranks, you damn cowards!" he barked. "We outnumber him! He’s just one man!"

That was the moment Quinlan smiled.

Not the kind of smile you wear when you’re confident. Not the kind shared between comrades or lovers.

It was the grin of something unfeeling. Something cruel.

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A grin like a predator about to indulge.

And in that moment, to the men facing him, Quinlan didn’t look like a man at all. He looked like something dug up from the edges of a cursed battlefield. A demon, born of fire and slaughter.

Some of the outlaws faltered, stepping back as that infernal smile widened, promising violence beyond their imagination.

Then Quinlan launched forward, becoming a streak of heat, a thunderclap in human form. Flames hissed around his limbs, a burst of Qi propelling him through the wall of meat and steel like a falling meteor.

...

Under the shrubs, Feng Jiai clutched her chest to calm her violently beating heart. Every crash, every scream of breaking bone and tearing flesh made her want to crawl deeper into the dirt.

She hated this part.

She was too weak to help.

No matter how much she’d trained or how fast she learned, she’d only get in the way. Quinlan didn’t need someone mediocre like her slowing him down.

But she could still help. She refused to stay still as he faced such dangers alone.

Her eyes flashed with resolve.

’If they realize they’re losing, they’ll use the hostages. They’ll hurt the women. That’s how cowards survive.’

She ground her teeth, exhaled, and crawled backward. Then she reached for the absurdly long sword on her back—Zhang’s Overcompensation—and unsheathed the pale-blue blade with trembling fingers.

It was surprisingly light, almost too light for its size. The blade shimmered in the dim light, like ice under moonlight.

She crept through the brush, circling the outer ridge of the camp. The fight had drawn every last guard out.

’Fools,’ she thought. They had no idea what kind of monster they were trying to kill. They should’ve run for their lives.

Quiet as a whisper, she slipped between torn canvas and over shattered crates until she found the tent.

Her breath caught.

Inside, dozens of women sat or huddled together. Some bruised, some staring blankly, others clutching each other for warmth. The scent of blood and fear hung heavy in the air.

When they saw her, a small and slim girl with that massive sword gripped in her tiny hands, some gasped. Some began to cry. Others dropped to their knees, whispering thanks to any gods that would listen.

"Shhh!" Feng hissed, rushing forward to silence them. "Quiet! My partner is fighting for you. Don’t make his job harder!"

She knelt, slicing through the rough leather bindings on a mother’s wrist. They weren’t chained, just tied with old straps and poorly knotted cords. That much was more than enough to restrain these weak women.

One after another, she worked through them.

"We’re getting out of here," she whispered. "Follow me. Stay low. Don’t scream."

The last of the bindings fell free.

Outside, the sounds of death still echoed.

And Feng steeled herself.

She was going to lead them out of hell.

While Feng was doing her best to get the women to safety, Quinlan was unleashing pure devastation on his enemies!

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