Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1038: Noble Fangirls

By the time the brothers realized it, it was too late.

Their enemy stood behind them now.

But Daron, who was the eldest and the strongest among the trio, managed to react. His instincts moved faster than thought. In one seamless motion, he twisted his body and drove his spear backward.

The blade punched clean through flesh and bone.

Straight through their enemy’s chest.

There was no armor to stop it.

Only skin, ribs, and the dull crunch of something vital giving way.

The shaft quivered in Daron’s grip as he felt it strike true.

But he didn’t get to savor it.

Because in that very same instant, Quinlan’s hand came alive.

Wind exploded around his fist and forearm, becoming a vortex of cutting force, howling loudly with compressed violence. It wasn’t just wind anymore, but a motion weaponized. A drill of air and magic, spinning fast enough to bend light around it.

And it drove straight toward the back of Veyne’s neck.

At that precise moment...

The immense velocity of Quinlan’s approach finally caught up with reality. Bolstered by his wind magic even further, this burst of kinetic force slammed into Veyne’s face, snapping his head back. He never even saw the attack. The impact launched him straight into the wind drill, screaming toward him.

His enchanted armor held.

For half a second.

Then it didn’t.

The centrifugal force shredded through the plating, grinding it apart layer by layer before tearing into flesh. Blood atomized into mist. Veins and bones twisted into a spiral.

And then, his head came off.

Ripped clean from his shoulders, the head spun into the air in a crimson spiral, eyes wide with shock as life fled his grasp.

It all happened in a blink.

The spray of blood hadn’t even finished falling when Daron’s eyes went wide.

He felt the recoil through his spear. Knew he’d landed the strike. His instincts were honed razor-sharp. Yet in that heartbeat, when his younger brother’s head was torn from his body, when the gore splattered across his boots, shock overcame all.

"... Veyne?"

He barely breathed the name.

Then his teeth ground together so much that they almost broke. Fury followed.

...

In the noble stands, silence reigned supreme

It was no longer a match but a warzone.

Even the most regal of nobles, and even those men and women who’d watched hundreds of arena bouts, found their hands gripped tightly on their knees. Hearts were racing. Palms sweating. ṞΆꞐÖꞖЕŜ

How couldn’t they be captivated? This was no illusion, nor a friendly spar. Real blood was being shed. Noble blood.

And it wasn’t just the violence that gripped their attention so fiercely.

It was the spectacle of it. The precision. The sheer, breath-stealing force of the execution.

Soon, silent gasps turned to cheers. Controlled, hesitant at first, but growing bolder by the second.

Until a new sound joined them.

Soft sobbing.

Several noble daughters stood with their hands over their lips, eyes wet. Dresses wrinkled as they couldn’t remain seated.

They only knew of this noble called Black as a strange man who hid his identity but somehow earned the favor of the royal princess, and perhaps even the king’s. But that was all he was before: an intriguing, mysterious man who stoked their curiosity.

Now, he was so much more.

"Goddess... he’s injured..."

"That spear! Grr!! I’ll never marry a Vexmore, that’s for sure!" <subtex>.</subtex>

"No, he’ll be fine, he’s so strong! Lord Black will win!"

Several began shouting his name before their parents snapped at them.

"Sit. Down."

"Compose yourself!"

"Act your station, not your age!"

They were pulled down into their seats by gloved hands and firm retainers. But they didn’t stop looking. Didn’t stop hoping.

One girl, a brunette dressed in a lavender corset and lace gloves, crossed her arms as she slouched deeper into her cushioned seat. Her pout was dramatic, and her cheeks puffed with indignation.

"Felicity has good taste. Now I understand why she kept treating potential suitors as horrible nuisances."

Beside her, her mother, an elegant woman with silver in her hair and the calm bearing of a seasoned court beauty, watched Lord Black standing bloodstained and breathless in the arena. The sculpted muscles of his body were painted red with his blood. Veins and tendons flexed with his every breath. She didn’t dare blink, fearing she’d miss a sight she can’t find anywhere else. "I can’t say that I disagree..." she murmured.

The daughter’s head turned toward her mother with growing irritation. "Mom! Do you think the princess has been meeting him in secret this whole time? She hoarded that man all to herself like a dragon would her treasure. "

The countess only hummed, clearly still distracted. "Who knows..."

"Hmph! Not a single word was thrown my way! Even though I had tea with her many times! Not even a single hint. She’s a bad friend. Good ones should share."

The father, a tall man with an impeccable goatee and the air of someone who had suffered long hours of female chatter every single day, turned his head in their direction.

"You two do realize the age gap between them is straight-up unacceptable, right? There’s no way the Queen would permit such a relationship to blossom."

"Bah! Father, please keep your lips tightly sealed. Speak only when spoken to," the girl hissed with a sassy sigh, never taking her eyes off Quinlan’s masculine form. Her eyes sparkled.

"Yes, dear... Please keep it to yourself," the countess replied dryly. "I was having an important bonding moment with our daughter."

The man leaned back in his chair. Rather than scowl or argue, he smiled. A slow, thoughtful grin emerged on his features that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He clasped his hands in his lap, watching his daughter out of the corner of his eye with the same analytical calm he used in estate negotiations.

Then, he spoke.

"How do you feel about giving it a shot?"

The brunette blinked. "What?"

That was when realization dawned. Her eyes widened, and her cheeks flared bright pink. "Father! Are you seriously suggesting I throw myself at him?"

She wasn’t entirely horrified at the proposal, not at all. Just surprised. Her eyes moved back to the blood-streaked man in the arena.

"Felicity already has a claim..." she mumbled, barely audible.

But it was the mother who scoffed. "Please. He’s not a loaf of bread at the market; there’s no ’claim’ unless something’s official. And as your father pointed out, Felicity is too young. He’s free meat."

Her gaze swept from her daughter to the opposite stands, where Black’s ten wives stood, each beyond beautiful even with masks covering their faces. They were dangerous, exotic, and visibly proud of their place at his side.

"He seems to be a man who enjoys the finer things in life..." she mused. "And you, daughter, could make any man happy."

The girl swallowed as her thighs rubbed together, her imagination already running wild.

The countess gave a subtle shrug. A crimson color touched her own face now as her eyes returned to Quinlan.

"And if he prefers older women, well... a scandal or two never hurt anyone. It’d be perfect to etch our family’s name into the minds of the people."

The count turned his head toward the woman slowly. He stared at his wife, slack-jawed, wide-eyed.

...

Meanwhile...