Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1327  Demanding Justice

"The one who shamed my kind? That's you?!"

A silence formed after the undead king's roar.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Quinlan sat on the carriage roof with Rosie perched behind his shoulder. Across from him, the Drowned King towered on his undead horse. They stared at each other without a word.

Quinlan's expression didn't shift at first. His eyes simply followed the undead's hollow gaze.

Then, bit by bit, a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm not sure I follow," he said. "Could you be more specific? I don't remember doing anything against your kind."

The Drowned King's already ghastly face darkened.

"You know damn well what you did."

Quinlan blinked. Looked left. Looked right. He tilted his head, as if honestly trying to figure out what the undead was talking about.

Rosie leaned forward beside his ear, eyes wide and sparkly.

"Oh! Oh! Daddy!" she whispered loud enough for half the world to hear. "He's angry because of the announcement!"

Quinlan's brow lifted.

"Ah."

He turned back to the undead king.

"Is it about the whole Corpse Animator thing?"

The Drowned King's aura snapped like a broken rope. Whatever dead magic held his posture steady seemed to quiver with fury. Even the horse stomped.

His voice dropped into a harsher rasp as he turned toward the projection of the two Elvardian rulers.

"The deal is off. Whatever Elvardia agreed to, the Covenant refuses to cooperate. Instead, we demand you join our ranks in taking this scum out. This unacceptable taint on the art of necromancy…"

His words seethed with venom.

"… will be eradicated."

Queen Myrasyn leaned back in her throne, crossed one leg over the other, and glared at the undead. Any serenity or warmth she might've held beforehand vanished as soon as the words registered in her brain.

"You demand?"

Her tone held the softness of a melody and the bite of a blade.

Quinlan could see the elves kneeling before their Queen's projection flinch and exchange glances. This told him that the queen might not have been as gentle at all times as she first appeared, because, clearly, it was not shock that dominated their features.

King Ragnar's reaction was louder, though no less venomous. His brows drew together under his helm.

Quinlan could see the elves kneeling before their Queen's projection flinch and exchange glances. This told him that the queen might not have been as gentle at all times as she first appeared, because, clearly, it was not shock that dominated their features.

King Ragnar's reaction was louder, though no less venomous. His brows drew together under his helm.

"We had a deal you will honor, Drowned King. Or do you intend to antagonize Elvardia? Tell me, do your fellow liches agree with this threat of yours, or are you making decisions without their agreement?"

The Drowned King didn't answer either monarch. He glared at them with hatred simmering in the empty sockets where eyes once were before returning his attention to Quinlan.

Quinlan studied the tall undead. His gaze slid along the heavy armor. The mounted posture. The long weapon strapped across the saddle. Then he tilted his head.

"Ah. I thought you were a warrior-type. But could it be… are you a Corpse Animator?"

The Drowned King bellowed loud enough to rattle his own armor plates.

"I AM A NECROMANCER!"

The shout tore through the clearing. Even the undead horse jerked from the force.

"I surpassed every rival in my era. I raised armies before most of your ancestors were born! For tens of thousands of years, I have built my legion. Tens of thousands of undead march beneath my banner! I alone rival a dukedom in raw strength!"

He puffed - without lungs - drawing himself taller, as if pride could inflate dead bone.

Quinlan nodded along, expression thoughtful, even supportive.

"I think you're amazing," he said sincerely. "Look, I only have a hundred permanent summons."

He gestured toward the blue-skinned Elite Souls ringed around the mobile fortress. Their silent formation blocked the path between Quinlan and the Drowned King's forces.

Undead faces didn't show emotion, but something in the Drowned King's posture… stalled.

It resembled confusion.

Quinlan continued softly, still seated, still relaxed.

"This renaming was a correction, not a punishment. Whoever makes these decisions believes my power is necromancy. Yours is corpse animation. As simple as that."

The Drowned King's aura flared with black mist scattering from the seams in his armor.

Quinlan wasn't done just yet. "But so what? You weren't weakened. Your spells didn't change. Your army didn't vanish. Your class's name changed, that's all."

He examined the undead for a long second before asking, "Why is that such a big-"

The Drowned King cut him off with a voice that was low and icy now, no longer loud with anger.

"Ah. You're trying to make me appear unreasonable before my allies."

The undead king continued, tone clear and disturbingly level.

"First, you invaded our carriage. Made us look weak."

He then looked back toward the projection, "Which was only possible because one, our forces are already positioned for the invasion, and two, because we were transporting a few low-level nobodies. No one would've expected someone on Black Fang's level to appear and save a few adventurers." Multiple eyes belonging to Quinlan's girls narrowed as they realized how the undead didn't even consider giving him credit for toppling their transportation vessel. It was all Black Fang, according to him.

Then the Undead King's attention returned to Quinlan. "And now you question our reaction to an insult that cuts deeper than you understand. You aim to poison their opinion of us."

Quinlan's smirk faded by a fraction.

He had to admit… The undead king wasn't as dumb as his earlier theatrics implied.

And the longer he talked…

The clearer his thoughts became.

It was as if stepping out of his ancient subterranean retreat after thousands of years was slowly dragging his mind back into sharper focus.

The Drowned King then quoted Quinlan.

"'Just a correction, not a punishment.' Is that so?"

His voice dropped lower, scraping horribly unnaturally, making all living beings present feel a natural urge to end the source of this voice or go far enough not to hear it.

"Do you think we forgot the words carved into our very minds that day?!"

A tremor cut through his voice.

"'Insufficient connection to the Absolute Root of Death.'"

"'Incomplete authority over soul manipulation.'"

"'Unworthy.'"

Black mist bled from the seams of his armor as he leaned forward on his saddle.

"This is a correction, yes," he said, echoing Quinlan's words, which were the Soul Records' words to begin with, as the universal entity called it a conversion itself.

"A correction that spits on our very existence."

He placed a hand on his chestplate. "We spent thousands of years honing a craft that consumed every scrap of what we once were, some of us millions! The Ritual of Immortality is not a mere spell. It is an offering of oneself, of one's mortality and of all they hold dear."

The metal around his ribs groaned as his gauntlet curled.

"Some carved all pieces of themselves away. Some abandoned attachments that kept them sane. Some let themselves rot into something barely held together by will. And all of it was for one thing. One class. One identity. One anchor."

His voice lowered, steady and sharp.

"Corpse Animation is not who we are. It was never who we were."

His fury rose higher than ever before.

"And after everything we gave up, after surviving the torment that kills ninety out of every hundred who attempt the ritual and turns the rest into failed undead, with only a chance of 0.01% for achieving a state of true undeath, we suddenly find our class stripped away. Not by failure. Not by decline. But because an upstart child with fresh bones stepped onto the path and the world decided he fits the title better?"

The air around him tightened. The undead behind him creaked as they shifted, a ripple of restrained fury.

"For an arrogant brat like you to claim the name we built our eternity around?!"

His voice snapped upward.

"And then dare downplay this 'correction'?!"

The words shuddered out of him as if shaped by an ache carved deep into his being.

Then, the Drowned King turned his head toward the projection of the dwarves.

"Tell me, King Ragnar. How would you feel if, without dwarves magically becoming worse at smithing overnight, an elf appeared who surpassed every dwarf who ever lived? Imagine the world calling her the greatest crafter on Iskaris. Imagine the title taken from Bjorn, the one all your legends trace back to."

Ragnar didn't breathe for a heartbeat.

His jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed until only cold iron remained.

The Drowned King, despite lacking the ability to smile, looked very smug as he added, "Why do you look so displeased? It's just a correction of something as useless as a title. Who cares?"