Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem-Chapter 813: Time Skip [Bonus]

The wind was cold before dawn.

Quinlan stirred awake with the girl pressed lightly against his chest. Feng breathed softly, her face peaceful and serene instead of being bratty for once. He shifted, careful not to wake her, and gently placed his robe around her bare shoulders before rising to his feet.

The plateau stretched silently and endlessly beneath the stars.

Despite it not being morning yet, Quinlan felt energetic. He wanted to get ahead of the day and get some reps of his own choosing in before the old man came out and began instructing him.

As such, he began to move.

Push-ups. Squats. Pulls on jutting stone. Lunges across uneven earth. The weight of his limbs did not burn this time around. His breathing was steady, controlled. There was no mana, no Qi-enhanced strength. Only raw effort, guided by discipline. His body was getting accustomed to the heavy strain it was put under each day.

Quinlan couldn’t quite explain it, but now, here, beneath the open sky, every part of him felt more... real. Every muscle, every tendon, every breath had begun to align with purpose.

He didn’t know how long he had trained until he felt it.

A presence. That same hollow tension in the air.

He didn’t stop.

The door to the shack creaked open.

Quinlan didn’t bother looking. At least not until he felt that the old man dashed in.

No warning. No words. No Qi. Just movement.

His prosthetic leg swept low across the dirt like a scythe.

But Quinlan moved.

His body, once rigid and clumsy in these moments, responded. His abdomen tightened, balance shifted, and he leapt—not high, not showy—just enough. Just right. He landed and twisted, catching the next blow with both forearms as the metal arm drove toward his ribs.

There was no flare of power, no glowing skill. Just instinct, honed muscle, and a tighter frame of movement.

The old man pressed harder. A burst of rapid jabs—elbow, knee, fist, palm came Quinlan’s way. He was brutal, efficient, precise.

And yet, Quinlan blocked. Redirected. Sidestepped.

He wasn’t overpowering the man. He wasn’t faster. But his body moved in harmony now. The core strength he had built this past week had begun to shape everything else. Balance, footwork, recovery speed... it had all transformed to work together in seamless coordination. Compared to his past self, the difference was day and night.

He remembered now how he used to pour points into Strength, Agility, and Vitality in the system of the Soul Records, thinking that alone would be enough. In his head, sword techniques, magical incantations, great use of his spells... These were much more important aspects of a combatant’s training than putting his body through hell to gain some small muscle. But these were all flashy. All powerful.

However, none of them taught his body how to move like this. It was now that Quinlan realized how, in his hubris, he’d skipped over the basics.

2

The final punch came straight for his face.

Quinlan caught the wrist with both hands. Grounded his stance.

Dirt scattered beneath his heel.

Silence.

The old man did not pull away. His prosthetic fingers were inches from Quinlan’s eyes. His expression remained cold, unreadable. A breeze passed between them.

Then, finally, a nod.

"Good."

The man stepped back.

"Strength built on shortcuts collapses when the wind shifts," he said with a voice that was low and rough, like iron grinding against stone. "Only foundations endure. Seen a hundred ’geniuses.’ Fast rise, faster fall. They think they’re above everyone else when they’re just boys too excited to crawl before they run. The strongest cultivators have all built themselves up slowly. Brick by brick. And when the storm hits, it’s them who are still standing."

2

He turned and walked to his favorite rock without another word and began his day-long meditation. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

Quinlan stood still for a moment, his breath visible in the crisp morning air. He looked down at his trembling arms, already feeling the dull ache setting in.

And then, for the first time when it came to interacting with the old man, he smiled, small and satisfied.

Foundations, huh?

He fully understood now, both in mind and body.

...

Feng stirred beneath the thick robe that still carried Uncle’s rather masculine scent. She smelled it, deeply, and noticed something. It was warm. Too warm. She blinked sleepily and squirmed, burying her nose a little deeper into the fabric before her thoughts caught up with her.

Wait.

Her eyes flew open.

Uncle wasn’t here.

Normally, she was always the first one up, grumbling and yawning and stretching like a lazy cat, while Uncle lay collapsed beneath her, exhausted from all the grueling training. But today...

She blinked blearily at the empty space beneath her.

"What...?"

Sitting up quickly, she clutched the robe tighter around herself and looked around, half-expecting him to pop up, saying something dumb like ’business called.’

But nothing.

Then her eyes drifted toward the training ground, and there he was.

Shirtless.

Muscles glistening with sweat under the soft morning light. He moved like a coiled spring, each punch and twist of his torso flowing with raw, fluid power. It wasn’t for show. Uncle didn’t move like someone trying to look strong. He was strong even before the two of them met. But now... now his body moved like it finally knew just how immensely powerful it was.

Feng’s cheeks lit up like a lantern.

She slapped her own face with both hands. "S-stop staring, Feng Jiai! You are not growing up to be a rude uncle-chaser!"

2

She pouted and turned away in a huff, only to sneak another peek a second later.

2

He’d always been very muscular; that much was obvious even through his robes. But now those muscles didn’t just sit there looking pretty. He moved with intent, each flex of his arms, the way his back shifted as he turned, the way his legs braced into the ground. It was all... efficient. Alive.

She remembered what he’d dared to say yesterday and scoffed, puffing out her cheeks.

"Flat-chested, am I? Hmph! Just you wait, Uncle. You think I’m growing two little peaches, but they’ll turn out to be juicy watermelons that will knock you off your feet and make you forget about your imaginary harem!"

That was the moment she caught herself.

"...W-wait, that’s not what I meant!!"

Curling into herself and tugging the robe tighter around her shoulders like a turtle retreating into its shell, Feng flushed crimson and resolved, very seriously, not to look at Uncle again.

Until maybe he stopped punching the air like it owed him money.

Maybe.

Just one more peek.

"... Ugh. I’m so doomed, aren’t I?... Stupid Uncle!"

2

...

A month passed.

The wind never stopped howling across the plateau, and the training never ceased. Day bled into night and back again in an endless cycle of sweat, bruises, and repetition. Quinlan had long since lost track of how many times he’d collapsed to the dirt with his limbs trembling and breath ragged. The old man never praised him. He didn’t have to.

Because the change was visible.

His frame had filled out. Not in bulk, but in density. Like steel forged under a relentless hammer. His movements had grown quieter. More efficient. There was no wasted motion, no break in rhythm. The warrior’s edge he had started developing early on in his journey, but then neglected after becoming a proper mage, returned to him in full and then some.

This change did not occur from titles, spells, or stats, but through toil alone.

And with that toil came clarity.

Each night, as his body burned with exertion and his muscles screamed for rest, Quinlan sat in silence atop the plateau, drawing Qi from the thin air and guiding it through his body. The process had been slow at first, agonizing even. His meridians were stubborn, unfamiliar with this foreign energy.

But now...

Now, they welcomed it.

...

Quinlan sat cross-legged beneath the open sky, shirtless and still, as the first rays of dawn crept over the jagged cliffs. Before him, Feng sat mirroring his posture, legs crossed, hands resting lightly on her knees, her eyes shut in deep concentration.

Her breathing was calm. Steady.

She was trying to imitate him, to train alongside him so that she wouldn’t be left behind in the dirt. He didn’t say anything about it. Feng Jiai was her own person, and she could do whatever she saw fit.

Between them, the Qi in the air had begun to stir, drawn by pure intent. It shimmered beautifully in the dawnlight like drifting silver mist.

Quinlan drew it in.

He guided the strands of energy into his three lesser meridians. They had been reluctant highways once, stiff and aching, but over the month, he had forced them wide open. Stretched them. Strengthened them. What was once a trickle had become a stream.

The Qi flowed through those meridians now like rainwater through mountain channels, merging slowly, deliberately toward his dantian.

His dantian—once a dull, pitiful spark—had grown considerably.

At the beginning of the month, it had barely been a little drop. Now, it resembled a wide, tranquil lake, humming with slow, deep power. Not turbulent. Not overflowing. Just ready.

The Qi pooled at the edges of the lake, waiting.

Quinlan exhaled slowly, focusing. He summoned the Qi inward, compressing it without force, without panic. He didn’t rush it. This wasn’t a breakthrough built on desperation or system alerts. This was discipline.

The pressure built.

The Qi thickened, gathering like storm clouds above still water.

He felt the meridians tighten. The breath in his lungs halted. His muscles locked.

And then...