Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1970: Proper Introduction

Quinlan remained facing the registration counter in the Adventurer’s Guild as the drunk behind him reached for Serika’s hip.

"[Wind Blade]."

His magic compressed the air above the outstretched arm into a thin cutting edge. He drove it down through the padded sleeve, flesh, and bone just above the elbow.

*Shhk!*

The man’s arm struck the floor with a wet slap, its open hand bouncing against Serika’s boot. Blood spurted from the severed upper arm and splashed across the mugs on his table.

He stared at the stump, his mouth working soundlessly until another pulse of blood struck his friend’s face.

"MY ARM! AAAAH!"

Quinlan dipped his pen in the ink.

The drunk began to rise from his chair. Blossom flashed across from the counter and appeared behind the man. She caught his hair, wrenching his head back while her claw gauntlet aimed its sharp edges against his exposed throat.

He tried to bend over his bleeding stump, but she pulled his head back until he felt the metal against his throat.

A single droplet of blood ran from beneath Blossom’s claw toward his chest.

"W-why are you bastards just staring? Help!" he cried toward his table.

"H-how dare you?!" The blond dropped his mug and reached for the sword at his belt, finally finding his voice. The mug struck the floor with a clang, spilling beer into the blood.

Ayame drew her katana as she crossed from the counter in the blink of an eye, sliding it beneath his chin before he could pull his sword free. She lifted the edge, forcing him upright with a thin red cut opening across his neck.

"I wouldn’t draw that if I were you."

"M-mercy...!"

His hand sprang away from the hilt. Scar slipped behind the crooked-nosed man’s chair with both daggers drawn, bringing their points against his back just as he shoved his seat away from the table.

"Aagh! Fuck!"

He had driven himself onto both blades. When he lurched forward, Scar followed, keeping their points buried beneath his shoulder blades.

"Sit still."

Around them, adventurers scrambled out of their seats, overturning a bench in their haste to get clear of the blood spreading beneath the table.

"A healer! Someone get a fucking healer!"

The wounded man’s plea broke into another scream as his remaining hand closed around the stump. Blood squeezed between his fingers and ran down his wrist.

Blossom held him by the hair while he writhed. She wanted to open his throat for what he had tried to do to Serika, and the frightened eyes straining upward toward her found no mercy in her face.

"To appreciate the beauty of my wives is natural," Quinlan finally spoke, still facing the counter. "After all, they are the most amazing women in existence."

His pen moved across the returned form, spelling out the inn’s name in the space for their address.

"But to make crude remarks about them, to suggest their love can be bought, and then presume to touch them..."

"Please! I’m sorry! Please, my arm..."

Quinlan finished the final letter while the man choked on his own pleading. Serika laid the remaining forms beside his elbow, her fingers hot against his wrist when she touched him.

"...is nothing but suicidal," he finished.

Quinlan set the pen down and covered Serika’s fingers with his free hand.

"We’re new in Sarthal, unaware of your customs. That’s why I only took your arm, not your head. But if grabbing women like that is a part of your culture..."

"It fucking isn’t! Harl, you know damn well it isn’t!"

The woman who had mocked their herb-picking stood beside the overturned bench. Her face had gone red with fury, and she pointed straight at the bleeding man in the greasy padded coat.

"Don’t let these disgusting bastards paint the picture of this wonderful city! They think being close to Grade Three means they can do whatever they want to anyone beneath them!"

"We were only having a laugh," the crooked-nosed man protested.

"Were you, Dask?" A short-haired woman pushed away from the wall to confront him. "Was it funny when you caught my ass at this counter? When I told you to let go and you asked whether I’d like to lose my teeth?"

Dask’s eyes flicked to the clerk.

"That wasn’t... You walked into me!"

"There!" She threw a hand toward him, disgust twisting her mouth. "That’s what he does. Grabs a lower-grade woman, threatens her, then claims she imagined it. Apparently we all keep walking into his fucking hands!"

"Every woman detests them. Just one look is enough to paint the full picture, even if they haven’t tried grabbing you personally..." the first woman said.

"Their poor wives are so miserable..." another whispered, dejected. "When these sons of bitches are out ’working,’ we tend to visit them to lift their spirits."

Similarly angry voices answered from farther back. Women who had moved out of the fight’s path were coming closer again, staring at the men trapped in their chairs.

"Go on, then," the short-haired woman challenged. "Tell her she’ll lose her teeth too."

She pointed at Serika. Dask stared at the floor, trembling against Scar’s daggers.

Harl sucked in a ragged breath. The blond had begun crying, blood from his friend’s stump freckling his cheeks.

Serika looked down at the gloved hand covering hers, then squeezed it before turning back toward the table. Heat rolled from her body, driving the adventurer at the neighbouring counter away from her.

Vex clapped her hands.

"Alright, every detestable pig, please listen up!" Vex stepped into the blond’s line of sight, drawing her sword. "I’ll only say this once. The next time you’ll have to face my husband’s full fury. And let me tell you..."

Her red eyes gleamed with immense sadism. "Death is a mercy."

The blond tried to speak up, but Vex wasn’t done with her announcement just yet.

"We love our husband. Every one of us chose to be with him of our free will, said yes at the altar, and have been overjoyed ever since."

"We didn’t... I wasn’t..."

Vex leaned closer, her red pentagrams burning.

"You weren’t what?"

He stared at her with his mouth open. Beside him, Harl was making wet, breathless sounds as he struggled to hold the ragged sleeve over his wound.

"If you ever insult our devotion to him again, or speak of us as loose women..." she licked her blade’s edge. Suddenly, all of Quinlan’s wives looked utterly ferocious, their eyes burning with pure malice. "We might just not wait for him to set things right."

"Yes! Yes, I understand!"

Dask hurried to agree, his voice shaking. Harl could only sob his answer, still clutching the stump against his chest.

The clerk’s breathing came in shallow catches as she looked past Quinlan at the armed women surrounding him.

Her gaze caught on the arm beneath the table. She swallowed hard and looked at the forms instead.

The blond followed her gaze, then raised his eyes to her with desperate hope.

"You’re going to do something, right? We’re loyal members, working hard every day for a century! They attacked us inside the Guild!"

Ayame’s katana touched his neck when he tried to lean toward the counter. He swallowed and stayed where he was.

"Look at him! They cut his fucking arm off! Over a bit of rookie hazing!"

"Hazing?!" the short-haired woman spat. "He tried to grab her! We all saw it!"

"You told him to give her a proper welcome, Brennic!" another woman called from the tables, pointing at the blond. "You were laughing until the arm came off!"

Brennic’s mouth trembled. "We didn’t know they were... We only..."

"Didn’t know they could fight back?"

The question brought a furious murmur from the women around him. Brennic turned toward the clerk again, tears running down his blood-spattered face.

"Please! You can’t let them do this!"

Quinlan gathered the registration sheets, then let them fall back onto the counter.

The clerk looked from the papers to his helmet.

"If you consider what just happened innocent hazing, this isn’t an organization I will be a part of."

Her eyes widened, and then she began stammering. "I- we-"

"It was not hazing."

The answer came from above. A grey-haired man stood on the landing overlooking the hall, one hand gripping the stair rail. His eyes moved across the bloody table before fixing on Brennic.

"Guildmaster!" Brennic tried to rise, then remembered Ayame’s blade. "Sir, thank the Goddess. We were just..."

"I heard what you said."

The Guildmaster descended the stairs beside the contract boards. He stopped at the bottom, glaring at the three captives with such open anger that Brennic’s appeal died in his throat.

"You admitted it in front of this entire hall. Your friend tried to grab a woman who wanted nothing to do with him, and now you expect the Guild to protect you from her companions?"

"It wasn’t me who tried to touch her!"

"You encouraged him."

The short-haired woman folded her arms, watching Brennic try to find an answer beneath the katana raised against his chin.

"All three of you are coming upstairs," the Guildmaster continued. "We will discuss what you think your badges entitle you to."

Harl lifted his blood-soaked hand far enough to expose the stump. Fresh blood ran over the severed bone.

"I need a healer! Please!"

"I’m here."

A man carrying a healer’s bag had edged through the crowd. He stopped beside the chair, looking at Blossom’s claw beneath Harl’s chin.

"Could you let me get to the wound? He’s bleeding out."

Blossom glanced toward Quinlan.