Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem-Chapter 821: Scary Demon [Bonus]

All twelve meridians pulsed in perfect harmony, akin to the beat of war drums rolling beneath his skin.

Quinlan rose.

Muscles flexed beneath his bloodstained robe, the faint sizzle of fire qi whispering just beneath the surface. He rolled his shoulders, exhaled slowly, and took a moment to study his body.

He felt different.

Lighter. Sharper. Stronger.

Every movement flowed without friction, as if the world itself had stopped resisting him. His blood hummed with fire, and his Qi, now bolstered by all twelve core meridians, coursed through him like a rapid stream.

He had crossed the threshold.

From a promising cultivator...

...into a man who stood at the boundary of Core Formation, the stage that separated common cultivators from high rankers in sects and clans.

He recalled Feng Jiai’s words with a small smile on his face. "Opening all twelve core meridians before stepping into Core Formation was something only monsters did. Only freakish prodigies even try to open all twelve. Monsters in human skin."

2

Quinlan exhaled again. The air steamed from his lips.

"Guess I’m officially a monster now."

He stepped past the sea of corpses with embers crackling in the wake of his footfalls and made his way toward the enemy camp’s inner sections.

But what he found inside the camp made him stop.

The prison cages were empty.

Chains broken. Leather restraints sliced open with precision.

All that remained were the discarded bindings and a few footprints leading out into the trees.

His gaze narrowed... and then softened.

"...Feng Jiai. That cheeky little gremlin girl."

She hadn’t waited for him under the safety of the shrubs. While he fought like a demon, she must’ve seized the moment and freed the prisoners herself. It was the kind of impulsive, sharp-witted move not many kids her age would dare to attempt. She earned herself a good deal of respect from Quinlan with this move of hers.

’Thanks,’ he thought, knowing she did it for him. To ease his burdens.

He followed the trail with silent steps, finally controlling his fire Qi enough to stop oozing smoke and embers. It didn’t take long before he spotted them: a cluster of half-dressed, bruised women moving through the sparsely dotted terrain with a few trees and shrubs here and there, guided by a slim figure.

Then one of the women looked back.

And screamed.

"D-demon!!"

"The raiders!! They came for us!"

"He’s still alive!"

Chaos erupted.

The group stumbled back in terror, clutching makeshift weapons such as sticks, a broken chain, a soup ladle... A soup ladle.

Quinlan blinked.

Feng Jiai turned, narrowed her eyes, and let out a very small but very loud huff.

"Uncle!" she scolded, stomping toward him with hands on hips. "You barbarian! Can you not walk around covered in blood like a psychotic serial killer!? These poor women are traumatized, and you look like a demon here to slay the living!"

He raised a brow. "I was busy. Evolving."

She puffed her cheeks. "Into what, exactly? A nightmare?! You look like you dipped yourself in stew made of rage and blood!"

"Sounds kinda tasty," he chuckled, earning himself a bonk on the arm since she couldn’t reach his head.

That was when one of the women whispered, "That’s the same man who tore apart the outlaws... with his bare hands. I saw it. I saw it!"

Another nodded quickly. "He’s not a demon. He’s a man who makes the demons afraid of him."

Feng Jiai spun on her heel and raised her arms like a traveling merchant selling goods. "Everyone, calm down! Yes, yes, he’s terrifying. Yes, he bathes in gore. Yes, he has the charm of a brick sometimes, but he’s our psychotic murder machine, okay?"

3

The group hesitated.

Then slowly—very slowly—they began to lower their makeshift weapons.

Feng Jiai then looked back at Quinlan and muttered under her breath just loud enough for him to hear, "Could you at least try to smile, Stupid Uncle?"

He did.

It made three of the women faint on the spot.

4

"...Great. Perfect. Thank you," Feng Jiai muttered flatly, rubbing her temples as the third woman keeled over in a swoon.

Quinlan just shrugged, his little grin fading as they began the trek back toward the outlaw camp. With Feng leading the way and the survivors staying close behind, they moved in silence. They were clearly haunted, based on their hollow eyes, by what they went through in recent days, but at least they were safe now.

The scent of scorched leather and iron still lingered when they stepped back into the bandit camp. Corpses dotted the field, cooling under the rising sun, and the looted wagons stood as reminders of the profession Quinlan’s prey decided to follow.

He swept the area with his gaze and made a path toward a collapsed bandit chest that had its lid ajar and contents half-spilled.

Inside: silver pieces, a few crumpled promissory notes, food rations, and...

His eyes narrowed.

Fourteen jade slivers tucked in a leather pouch, marked with the stylized mountain symbol of lìng tokens. The very currency used by high-tier martial artists.

He needed to gather one hundred of these items before he could return to the old man and learn the rest of his Blazing tyrant Fist style.

He tucked them away wordlessly and rose.

"Anything else that’s valuable?" Feng asked, stepping beside him.

"Nothing out of the ordinary, I suppose. Commoner coin, preserved food, and cheap armor. Nothing of worth to a cultivator."

As they sorted through the remnants, Feng began organizing what could be salvaged for the villagers, such as clothes, blankets, and anything edible.

That was when Quinlan approached the rescued women.

"Do you have a place to return to?" he asked, trying to be as gentle as possible.

One of the older women swallowed and spoke with her voice trembling. "No... they came in the night. Killed our husbands. Our sons. Burned the rice stores. Took us and our daughters."

That was all the signal the women needed to begin sobbing behind her, clutching their remaining loved ones’ hands—if any remained.

And then, from within the group, a tiny voice broke.

"I saw them kill Lian..."

A little girl, barely six, stood frozen with tears brimming in her wide, shell-shocked eyes. "He was only four. They kicked him... over and over..."

Her voice cracked.

She broke.

Tears began pouring freely, her tiny hands clenched in front of her chest as she sobbed.

The mothers rushed to soothe her, instinctively neglecting their own pain to soothe hers. But before they could, Quinlan knelt.