Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1039: Battle of Wills

Meanwhile...

The Count and Countess Vexmore sat frozen.

They looked like statues carved from ash. Colorless. Paralyzed.

Then the count exhaled slowly.

"This... this is a tragedy of the highest order."

His voice trembled as tears of grief and disbelief emerged in his eyes.

But at the same time, a new feeling entered his heart.

Resolve.

"But at least... at least Daron got the bastard."

He looked down at the arena.

Where his last living son faced the monster impaled on his spear.

The count would’ve thrown the towel in and surrendered the fight, but his sons were beyond saving now. As such, the only thing he could do for them is let their eldest brother claim victory, honoring their passing by doing so.

...

"Hah?" Daron exhaled in confusion. His grip tightened around the spear as he twisted, trying to rip it free from the bastard’s chest and drive it back in for a killing blow.

But it didn’t move.

The shaft was stuck firm as the very meat of the man’s body had clenched down on it like a vice. Sinew gripped the metal. Blood bubbled, but not enough. He couldn’t yank it out.

And that’s when the man smiled.

A bloody grin stretched across his smeared lips.

"My fire... Or your resistance potion..."

Then his eyes opened wide.

And fire—real fire, living fire—raged in his irises. It wasn’t the flicker of a mere flame. It was pressure. Fury. A searing entity of heat and hunger glaring from behind his pupils, eager to test its limits.

He clapped his hands together once, sending a shockwave of heat across the air. Fire condensed in his two hands, becoming blindingly bright.

He pressed both hands to the embedded shaft. Fire surged forward in the form of a violent, screaming tide that poured from his flesh into the weapon.

Daron howled.

Flames rushed up the metal, bypassing enchantments, chewing through resistance. His gauntlets glowed red, then white, then began to melt. The potion he drank was crafted by his realm’s greatest alchemist, boasting a 75% fire resistance.

Combined with his armor and high Vitality stat, it should have made him all but immune to any fire-based attack.

But this wasn’t the same conventional fire that fire mages cast.

This was wrath made real. A devouring element unleashed by something not quite human.

"ARGHHH!" Quinlan screamed as his own body was being ruined. His organs twisted. His nerves sang in agony. The spearhead still pierced him. He was forcing the fire outward through pain-choked focus, converting the torment into power. ℝÄΝՕ𝖇Е𝐒

"GRRRAAAAAAAAAHHH!" Daron roared in answer, further twisting the spear in his body.

Their bellows echoed across the field. Their voices were laced with equal amounts of agony and defiance, creating a clash of wills. The crowd could hardly breathe, as if the very air was being scorched from their lungs.

One burning man refusing to die.

One noble trying not to be consumed.

In that mad moment, no one watching would ever forget this battle... Neither would any sane noble attempt to hurt Black’s women to further their own agendas.

Quinlan’s body trembled. Blood poured freely, mixing with blistering heat as his insides—real, vital pieces of him—began slipping from the wound.

But he didn’t stop.

His hands stayed pressed to the shaft, shoving fire through it. His muscles strained, and blackened veins began crawling up across his arms.

Daron stood, barely. His armor was gone in patches, peeled away by the inferno as if it were made of wax. His hair had burned to the scalp. His face warped with pain. But he stood even as the fire ate his gauntlets, even as it cooked the very marrow inside his bones.

He clenched his jaw and pushed forward.

*Snap.*

The shaft cracked under the pressure.

That was when their eyes met.

One man bleeding, breaking apart.

The other scorched to his soul, cooked alive, but still upright.

Daron’s shoulders fell, recognizing the outcome before it came. His lips moved, barely.

"You monster..."

Then his knees gave out, and the man collapsed backward in a plume of smoke.

Quinlan raised one blood-streaked arm to the sky.

The arena erupted.

Noble daughters shrieked in awe and giddy delight, their faces flushed as if they’d just all met their soul mate. Several swooned outright.

The young lords shouted in primal exhilaration, fists pumping, unable to contain their voices. Some were weeping, others were screaming his name.

"Black! Black! Black!"

And finally, as if the flames had spent their last breath...

Quinlan collapsed straight onto his back.

Chest still gaping. Body still smoking.

But victorious. Unshakably, undeniably victorious.

Blossom was the first to reach him. Her slightly torn pastel blue dress fluttered freely in the air.

She landed on her knees beside his head. Tears were already streaming down her cheeks. The dogkin clasped his wrist with both hands, afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

Right beside her, Vex skidded to her knees. The Hexwitch’s voice broke.

"You just had to show off, didn’t you? Why not use wind, idiot hubby of mine?!"

"So arrogant..." Ayame’s strong scoff came from behind Vex, being the third fastest to arrive. But the Skysplitter’s expression didn’t match the tone she spoke with, as on her delicate oriental features, only anxiety and worry could be seen.

Quinlan’s eyelids closed shut as a weak chuckle rumbled from his open chest. His hand rose slowly and cupped Vex’s cheek for a brief moment before brushing his fingers across Blossom’s tear-streaked face.

His voice was extremely strained once it came. "This... was a battle where simply winning wasn’t enough. The method... mattered just as much as the outcome... Sending a clear message to all nobles wouldn’t work otherwise..."

The women leaned closer, trying to catch every last syllable before his strength failed entirely.

Then, from above, a cascade of light magic descended.

Royal healers rushed in. A flurry of healing incantations filled the air, golden sigils sparking to life beneath the bodies of the wounded.

Quinlan’s other women reached him in a rush.

Across the arena floor, more healers scrambled to the fallen forms of the Vexmore brothers. Their chants were urgent, their magic glowing bright against the scorched and blood-soaked earth.

But for the loving women of the Elysiar family, the world had narrowed to just their man and his stubborn form.

... <subtex>.</subtex>

Queen Morgana shot to her feet.