Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1320  Approaching Elite Squad

A formation moved through the forest that stretched between Elvardia and Ravenshade. The sunlight broke through the canopy in scattered patches, glinting off metal polished well enough to shame noble armories.

A hundred fighters marched in steady rhythm.

Every step belonged to elites.

The front line featured short, broad silhouettes who pushed through the terrain without slowing, each one wrapped in armor dense enough to make ordinary soldiers collapse under the weight. Their shields linked cleanly, forming a squat but unbreakable wall. Nothing about them looked delicate. Every plate and rivet screamed durability.

Their axes and hammers rested on their shoulders with ease, despite them being as big as their bodies themselves. The steel was thick, the edges unforgiving, the balance perfect in their hands. Dwarves were a running joke on the continent of Iskaris. People loved to belittle them. But any team that was forced to face a unit like this one, a walking wall of death… They would not be in a joking manner one bit.

The only thought running through their heads would be 'I need to run.'

In Thalorind, height never told the full story. Stats did.

Ayame was the best example. When she was level one, her short and slim frame meant she had lower physical stats than a girl of the same age with a lot of meat on her bones, let alone a well-built adult man. But now, in the level forties, that gap was long gone. Such deficiencies had become statistically almost irrelevant.

Because one, her build fed her Agility stat like fuel. Once she began to train her body religiously, her Agility stat reaped immense benefits. But that was not all. Alongside her high Agility, her narrow frame remained, which in turn made her a hard-to-hit target.

This combination - Agility and a thin, feminine body - was a deadly combo many women used. Ayame, Black Fang, Iris, Raika - basically all of them who surrounded Quinlan, as they were all natural beauties with very little fat on their bones.

Thus, even if most were bigger than Ayame, the same applied to a lesser degree.

Faster cuts. Sharper turns. Dodges that looked effortless. Parries that landed before opponents knew they'd even swung.

That combination made the oriental girl the perfect dodge/parry samurai build, ensuring she was terrifying in a duel.

The dwarves were the same logic, just built differently.

Instead of petite, feminine builds, they had short, stocky bodies that carried natural Strength that made swinging heavy tools in the smithy feel like nothing. Hauling barrels of beer that weighed more than they did was normal. If they wanted a casual workout, they lifted anvils. Their arms were thick from labor, their shoulders packed with power.

Then came their Vitality.

Days spent hammering in a furnace's heat demanded it.

And if that wasn't enough, centuries of cultural alcoholism ensured their bodies adapted to handle more drink than any sane healer would approve. They didn't get tipsy; they got warm. That kind of life forged absurd constitutions.

In battle, that meant they outlasted almost anyone.

Behind the dwarves marched the elves, Elvardia's other half. Their movement flowed around roots and foliage without breaking formation, as if the forest parted out of courtesy. Longbows rested across their backs and swords at their hips while their eyes scanned everything with quiet focus.

There was one strange truth about the elven race that no scholar could explain: elven males were incapable of leveling. No matter how much effort they put in, how many battles they fought, or how many years they trained, their levels basically never rose due to heavy XP penalties. Whether it came to be due to a curse or some ancient twist in their bloodline, no one knew.

Because of that, every elite elven force was made entirely of women.

They shared the traits their race was known for.

Mostly blonde hair that caught the forest light.

Lithe builds that made even standard armor look heavy on them, giving them a natural predisposition toward being viewed as the generally most beautiful race.

And they had naked feet.

They moved barefoot through the grass and soil, not out of ritual, but because it made them deadlier. Their soles stayed in constant communication with the land. Even the slightest vibration, the smallest shift, a breath of danger in the air, and Mother Nature whispered it to them through contact alone. No other race could match that sense.

Their armor stayed light, fitted for mobility and silence, plates trimmed down to necessities. Most carried ranger gear, since their builds naturally leaned toward speed, precision, and long-range awareness. But not all elves followed that path. A few trained as healers, mages, or supporters.

The dwarves had their own outliers, too.

A handful studied ranged combat or support roles.

But those were rare.

About ninety percent of each race leaned into what their bodies were born for:

Stocky warrior builds for dwarves.

Lithe ranger builds for elves.

Together, they marched as one unit with nature's whisper at the back and the metal's roar at the front, pushing deeper into Ravenshade's border with the confidence of forces that knew exactly who they were and what they were made for.

But there was a problem.

On paper, elves and dwarves formed a perfect alliance.

In practice, their personalities couldn't have been more incompatible.

The dwarves were loud, hearty people.

They were proud to the point of being unbearable.

And drunk, always, somehow, drunk. Even now, a few marched with that subtle dwarf sway that suggested they were half a mug away from singing.

The elves were the opposite.

Serene.

Content simply by breathing in a forest's scent.

Quiet, deliberate creatures who treated raised voices like an act of violence.

The two races felt a very real, very mutual disgust for each other.

A dwarf's booming laughter grated against elven ears like metal on bone.

An elf's soft, measured tone made dwarves feel like they were being lectured by someone who had never held a proper hammer.

The dwarves thought the elves were frail, overly delicate nature-worshippers who needed to eat more meat and grow proper beards.

The elves thought the dwarves were rowdy, boorish cave-goblins who smelled permanently like ale and molten iron.

And yet…

Here they marched.

Side by side.

One hundred elite warriors, born from two cultures that had no business getting along, pushing into Ravenshade together because the situation demanded it.

They didn't like each other.

They would never pretend otherwise.

But they were Elvardia.

An alliance forged by necessity, back when the two races were cornered and faced extinction because the Valorian family united all five lesser kingdoms into one giant human supremacist nation, while the many beastkin tribes created their confederation.

They were forced to create a union, a union that worked only because, when danger called, both races answered with everything they had, even if they had to do it while glaring at each other the entire way.

And just like this, the group marched toward the destination where something they would never expect awaited them.

The combined unit looked strange at first glance: long, lean figures marching behind compact tanks of metal.

But the rhythm worked.

The dwarves carved the path.

The elves controlled the range.

And together, they formed a formation that could crush a charge or shred an ambush before it even began.

They advanced deeper into Ravenshade territory, each step measured, knowing the battlefield ahead wouldn't wait for them.