Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1007: Are You Here To Die?

"I will bring this matter to His Majesty directly," Stormlord responded to the Duchess’ demands. The statement had a great deal of finality to it.

Maerina’s triumphant smile faltered, but just for a breath. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and her hand tightened around her fan. This wasn’t the public condemnation and instant punishment she’d desired. She wanted this scumbag and his women shamed, restrained, and judged here, in front of everyone. Not discussed quietly behind palace walls.

But she didn’t protest. Not to him. Not to the King’s personal executioner.

With a forced scoff, she turned away.

"I’ve wasted enough time already," she snapped while also snapping her fan open once again as if to shield her delicate features from the offending presence of the bright morning sun. "If I stay out here any longer, this sun will ruin my pristine skin."

She waved her hand, and her personal attendants rushed forward. The guards parted, and the older woman stepped up into the ornate chariot with an exaggerated air of grace.

Selendra followed her mother’s actions, pausing at the entrance of her own ride just long enough to glance back at the group.

Her pale eyes were devoid of warmth.

"I eagerly await the King’s judgment." Her smile mirrored her mother’s: cold, confident, and laced with contempt.

Then she stepped inside, drawing the curtain shut behind her.

Stormlord said nothing as the high nobles returned to their rides. He merely turned and began walking further toward the district’s entrance.

Quinlan and his group followed silently.

They drew eyes.

Many eyes.

How could they not? Even without the tension from moments ago, the procession would’ve turned heads on sheer presence alone.

At the front strode the Stormlord. He was a living myth, the King’s chosen executioner, said to be born in a lightning storm and fed war instead of milk. Everyone recognized him; there wasn’t a soul in the Vraven Kingdom who didn’t know the Stormlord’s name.

But he wasn’t the only one commanding attention.

Behind him came a man in sleek black robes with a bone-white mask concealing his face. A black cat with purple eyes lounged atop his head like a crown with its tail swaying lazily. Lord Black.

And flanking him was...

Perfection.

Every single one of his companions could’ve been mistaken for a painting brought to life. Their beauty bent the air around them, drew gazes with an outright gravitational pull. The nobles and servants gathered near couldn’t stop themselves from staring.

And not just because of how they looked.

Blossom’s furry tail and eerie stillness, Kitsara’s predatory grace and twitching foxkin ears, Seraphiel’s divine poise and long ears... they weren’t human, which meant they had to be slaves.

They wore collars, yes, but not the shameful iron bands most slaves were forced to bear. Theirs were elegant pieces matched to their dresses, clearly crafted with care and not sparing resources. It was a statement: their master valued them. A lot.

Which, in the Vraven Kingdom, made them and their master even more of a walking scandal.

Whispers sparked.

"Do you think he’s handsome beneath the mask?" one young noble girl whispered to her friend, with cheeks flushed. "He looks dangerous..."

Her friend giggled. "Maybe he’ll take off the mask at the masquerade for the right dance partner..."

A few feet away, a sharp slap echoed in the air.

"You dare ogle her ass in my presence!?" an older noblewoman screeched, glaring at her husband.

He winced and rubbed his cheek. "I was only admiring the... symmetry. Besides, what man wouldn’t want a high-class elf slave like that? Look at the way she walks... Good Goddess help me!" ṟÅ𝐍𝐎ᛒЁⱾ

"Keep looking and you’ll be walking with a limp!" his wife snapped.

Behind them, another man nudged his friend. "That elf’s a dream, but I’d sell my mansion for the dogkin. Look at those curves. That body defies physics... what even is that waist-to-hip ratio?"

More murmurs rippled out. Filthy comments, soft chuckles, low mutterings. They were too caught up to notice the atmosphere darkening.

Until it hit them.

A murderous aura flooded the road with a sudden drop in temperature. Or so it felt to those who were within its targets. Breath caught in throats. Feet rooted themselves to the ground. The chatter died instantly.

Every noble who had dared to speak or think something foul felt it...

Existential dread.

Their hearts pounded, their lungs constricted, and a primal fear crept up their spines.

Quinlan didn’t say a word.

But his message was clear.

These women were his.

And he did not share.

Stormlord came to a halt. Slowly, he turned to face him.

One look was enough.

"Letting your bloodlust lash out like that against members of the aristocracy is a crime as well. Did you come here to have your execution order signed, Black? Attack me right now and I’ll get it over with, there’s no need to bother His Majesty."

The tension hung for a breath as the two men stared into each other’s eyes deeply.

Then Quinlan tilted his head and retracted the aura. The nobles gasped for breath, color returning to their cheeks. Some collapsed to their knees. Others shuffled away without dignity.

"My apologies. I must adjust. It seems our friends have been drinking before the party even began. What they said was simply outrageous."

Stormlord’s gaze didn’t waver. But something flickered in his tone.

"You have admirable senses. Those nobles should’ve been out of earshot."

A probe. A test.

Quinlan just gave a careless shrug. "What can I say? My parents blessed me with a good pair of ears." .

The Stormlord said nothing more. He turned once again, leading them onward.

The winding path soon opened to a grand archway of silver and gold, beyond which loomed the entrance to the noble district. Guards stood straight-backed in ceremonial armor, weapons polished to a gleam, while magic lanterns cast a golden light over the marble steps leading to a central registration post.

A graceful young woman in a white-and-rose uniform rushed out the moment Stormlord appeared, bowing to the guests he was escorting so low her curls nearly brushed the floor.

"Welcome, my lords and ladies," she said with a formal smile after her spine straightened.

"To ensure safety and order, each guest must present their invitation letter and register for the event. A unique identifier will be issued in return, which all attendees must carry on their person at all times to prevent impersonation."

Stormlord said nothing. He didn’t even glance at her.

The woman faltered, realizing something was off, then peeked at the group more carefully, and froze when her gaze fell on Quinlan’s black mask. The fact that the legendary Stormlord was escorting them could only mean one thing.

These were the sole group His Majesty invited personally.

"I-I see! You’re the guests of His Majesty... Lord Black and household. In that case, there is no invitation letter. Please forgive me."

She hurried behind her pedestal, opened a drawer sealed with a light-lock, and returned holding six slender crystal pins, each illuminating a weak blue light.

"These will serve as your unique identifiers. Please keep them with you at all times," she explained, trying to remain steadfast despite the growing pressure of nobility watching from all around.