Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem-Chapter 816: Forged in Blood

A slow grin spread across Quinlan’s face. Not the smug one he wore to provoke. Not the dark smirk of his usual edge.

This was broader. Hungrier. A grin born of fire finally given permission to burn at long last.

He nodded once toward the old man. "Then I’ll be ready."

...

That night, beneath the star-dusted sky, Quinlan sat with Feng Jiai curled up in his arms, huffing and puffing like a kitten who’d fought off a dozen wolves. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

He’d considered building a shack for himself. Something simple, something solid. But he hadn’t gotten around to it. Maybe he never would. The breeze was crisp, the stars unclouded, and the earth held a sort of grounding presence that a roof could never offer. Better to put his time into cultivating and training, he thought. As long as he enjoyed sleeping under the naked sky, he saw no reason to divert his energies away from more important matters.

1

Feng Jiai stirred with a groan, muffling her face against his biceps. She was very displeased.

"I swear... You dumb men... you’re all allergic to emotions or something. Especially when it comes to interacting with one another. Is it pride? Ego? Testosterone poisoning? Whatever it is, that old fossil is the worst of you!"

Quinlan blinked, amused. He let go of a musing throat sound to voice his question in a rather lazy manner. "Mm?"

"Don’t pretend you didn’t notice!" she snapped, jumping up out of pure rage before she realized such a motion would be difficult to pull off with the rude uncle’s arms around her, so she settled back down with a pout. "Any other master would be weeping tears of joy to have a freakish student like you. But nooo. He can’t even nod properly! He just grunts like a broken well!"

Chuckling, Quinlan slipped both hands around her waist and tickled her sides.

"Eep!" she squeaked, flailing and yelping in surprise, nearly tumbling out of his arms.

"Weren’t you the one who called me an old man who’d never open even eight meridians?" he asked with a smug voice. "Now here I am. Nine. Straight out of the gate."

1

She caught his wrists with her smaller hands, holding them firmly in place to prevent more mischief, cheeks puffed.

"Yes, yes. You’re so cool, Stupid Uncle! Hmph!"

He laughed quietly, the sound deep in his chest. After a moment, his voice lowered, softened.

"How’re you holding up?"

The question caught her off guard. Her bravado wilted. She looked away.

"...Still at the Qi Gathering stage... But I’m close. I can feel the finish line just ahead. But it’s slow. Slower than I want."

To her surprise, Quinlan didn’t tease her. Didn’t scoff or crack a mocking joke.

He raised one hand and gently patted her head.

For the first time, she didn’t pull away.

"You know," he started with his eyes gazing into the dark but beautiful night sky, "not everything is about battle prowess. One of my girls called Jasmine... Well, she’s weaker than your average potato farmer. Doesn’t even know how to punch. But she’s brilliant nonetheless. Once I help her out of the mess she’s in, she’ll run the financial side of everything I build. My empire’s future economy, all in her hands. People might think she’s the least important because she doesn’t swing a sword or can’t protect my back on the battlefield... but someday, she might become one of the most important women in existence."

1

Feng Jiai stiffened. She winced ever so slightly.

"...You and your lunatic harem speeches again," she grumbled. "Eight girls? Really? Eight? Why don’t you focus on real life instead of spinning fantasies with your... your eight hot babes and rising empires?"

Quinlan only smirked in response. Whether she believed him or not didn’t matter in his mind.

This reaction of his only served to further agitate the grumbling teenager who crossed her arms defiantly and turned her face away with a final, "Hmph! Not talking to you anymore."

Despite her words, she scooted closer, nestling into his embrace again with subtle neediness. He let his hand fall from her head, only for her to grab it and forcefully put it back, holding it there like a treasured weight.

1

He said nothing.

Neither did she.

And beneath the stars, the fire within him and the warmth beside him quietly flickered into the night.

1

...

Time passed like sparks racing through dry brush.

The mornings began before dawn. They did not speak. They breathed. Stood still. Then...

Form One.

Quick. Precise. Each strike stoked the inner flame.

Fists blurred in tight arcs. Qi crackled through his veins like embers across oil.

By the third day, his arms burned even before the fire techniques were applied.

By the fourth, he could strike five times in a breath, each punch chaining into the next with no drop in heat.

The old man’s feedback was sparse. A tilt of the head. A change in stance.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

But when Quinlan finally struck a practice pillar and it exploded from within, the old man gave a single word:

"Passable."

2

...

Form Two.

There was no room for hesitation. The fire could not allow prey to flee.

Movement became the lesson. Leaping strikes. Forward dashes laced with Qi.

When Quinlan slipped or faltered, the old man struck him. Not hard, but enough to make it clear:

If you stop, you die.

His steps grew sharper. His footwork lighter.

He learned to burn Qi in his calves, in his ankles, to chase without pause.

2

By the end of the first week, his leaps became lunges of fire, dust exploding beneath his soles.

Each attack carried momentum, akin to a predator chasing wounded prey.

The old man watched it all in silence, arms folded.

...

Form Three.

No more precision. No more chase. Only pressure. Power. Flame through force.

Two-handed swings. Shoulder slams. Devastation delivered in wide arcs.

He was told to forget control. Forget subtlety. To be the fire that consumes.

The old man called it the "Form of Breaking."

Quinlan nearly broke his own wrist learning the first movement.

But he learned.

He began to coat his limbs in thin layers of Qi flame. Not to protect them, but to make sure they hurt more.

Even blocks burned his opponents now. Even missed strikes seared scars into the air.

On the twelfth day, the old man told him to attack.

Quinlan launched forward with a roar and broke three training dummies in a single motion: shoulder, elbow, hammering fists.

The air rippled. Ash lingered.

This time, the old man didn’t speak.

But he nodded.

Slowly.

Once.

2

...

The next morning, the old man stood at the gate.

He held no scroll, no map. Just a name. A location.

A known ravine several miles away, infested with rogue cultivators who had defied local sects and slaughtered innocents.

"Strike without hesitation. Show no mercy," he said.

Quinlan took the parchment, tied it to his belt, and looked to the rising sun.

2

His robe still bore the scorch marks of last night’s training. His arms, raw with flame, trembled with anticipation.

"I won’t."

He stepped past the old man with the scent of embers trailing behind him.

The fire had learned its forms.

Now it would feast.