Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem-Chapter 823: Core Formation

His eyes lit up with primordial hunger.

It was time.

Time to evolve once again.

The journey back to the old man’s shack was silent.

Even Feng Jiai, who usually had something witty or ridiculous to say, walked quietly beside him, eyes flicking toward the pouch at his side that clinked with each step. Inside were one hundred lìng. A hundred crystallized tokens of blood, ambition, and violence.

The door to the shack creaked open as they stepped inside. The space was unchanged: dusty floors, incense that hadn’t burned in weeks, and the same barren, miserable furnishing as before. And sitting on the same mat as before in a meditative pose was the old man.

He looked up slowly. His eyes, pale as ash, swept over Quinlan. Then they narrowed. Not in disapproval, but in the solemn way a blacksmith inspects a nearly finished blade.

"Let’s begin."

Quinlan nodded.

The pouch hit the floor with a thump. One hundred ling spilled out in a perfect, glittering heap.

...

Quinlan crossed his legs in the center of the room, bare-chested and calm. The blood that had clung to him for days had been washed away by a nearby river, revealing scars both old and new, some still raw.

He closed his eyes.

In his lap, he placed the three largest lìng he had.

Feng Jiai sat on her knees nearby with her hands tucked under her chin, eyes shimmering like a child watching fireworks. The old man never stood from his meditative pose, so now the two men were facing each other. He looked at Quinlan like a general judging a soldier preparing for war.

...

[Stage 1: Condense Qi into a mist-like orb]

Inside Quinlan’s body, the twelve harmonized meridians pulsed in unison. Months of cultivation, battle, awakening, and refinement had led to this point. And now... he let it all go.

Qi, like the roar of an untamed storm, rushed through him.

He pressed his palms to the lìng. The jade shimmered violently before shattering into pale dust, letting the now freed, pure condensed qi flood into his dantian.

Within the depths of his being, that qi began to spiral, becoming tighter, denser, folding in on itself like a galaxy being born. Mist formed. First wisps. Then clouds. Then, slowly, agonizingly, it began to swirl into a single, unstable orb.

A nucleus of energy. Shifting. Boiling.

The air around Quinlan began to distort.

Feng whispered, "He’s really doing it..."

The old man said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

...

[Stage 2: Solidify the Core]

Sweat rolled down Quinlan’s brow. His bones groaned. His skin paled.

He compressed the orb.

More.

More.

MORE!

Quinlan would not settle for anything but the very best core a cultivator could obtain.

Every drop of qi from his meridians funneled inward, folding into the unstable mass. It began to solidify, brightening up like an illuminated crystal ball. But he didn’t stop. The orb pulsed, threatened to crack...

But he roared within his soul, forcing still more qi into the forming core. It began to glow, not just with energy, but with identity. His essence. His path. His will.

From mist to core.

A storm sealed in a sphere.

...

[Stage 3: Purify the Core]

He inhaled.

And exhaled.

And with that breath, impurities surfaced: flecks of dark smoke, writhing in the dantian like shadows resisting birth. Failure, hesitation, borrowed strength. All the remnants of an imperfect path.

Quinlan burned them away.

The core trembled.

Then pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

And then it settled—still blazing, still volatile—but now stable. Smooth. Alive.

The light from within him pulsed a bright crimson color that lit the inside of the shack up as if here were the heart of a volcano.

When it beat, the walls shuddered, and dust trembled from the ceiling.

His Core was complete.

Feng Jiai clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with awe.

"I-it’s fire," she whispered. "But it’s not just hot. It’s angry. Hungry..."

Indeed, it was.

Quinlan’s core pulsed deep within his dantian, glowing like liquid flame, unstable yet contained, akin to an ember that’s ready to become a wildfire. It roared, even at rest. Each breath he drew stoked the flames. Every heartbeat felt like it could ignite a battlefield.

In the process of the breakthrough, Quinlan had burned through all one hundred lìng, draining them all until the crystals turned to ash in his hands.

...

The old man finally moved. He stood and stepped forward, placing a weathered, prosthetic hand on Quinlan’s bare back. freewёbnoνel.com

He said nothing at first, just closed his eyes, sensing the heat vibrating beneath skin and bone.

Then, at last, he nodded.

"Stable. Volatile, but stable. Elemental resonance: fire. Core formation complete."

He stepped back, watching the light dim from Quinlan’s skin like cooling steel.

"You’ve crossed the threshold. You are now a Core Formation cultivator."

Quinlan opened his eyes.

And the flame inside him stirred.

Not wild. Not chaotic. Controlled. Focused. Like a blade pulled from the forge and quenched in ice. Dangerous not because it burned, but because it waited to.

And outside the shack, the wind blew unnaturally strongly. The clouds above parted, as if even the heavens dared to glimpse what had just been born within that forgotten place.

Something powerful.

And very, very dangerous.

...

The fire had barely cooled in Quinlan’s veins when the old man spoke up once more.

"It’s time. You’ve mastered the foundation. Now you’ll learn the final form of the Blazing Tyrant Fist."

Quinlan nodded. "I’m ready."

Feng Jiai wasn’t as keen about the prospect. "Uncle’d just finished his breakthrough! He should rest and begin learning tomorrow!"

"We don’t have time," the old man interrupted. "Soon, we leave. The Ember Reign Festival draws near."

Both Quinlan and Feng looked at each other in confusion.

"...The what now?" Quinlan asked.

"The annual tournament held in Vulkaris. Hosted by none other than the Fire Sovereign herself, Serika Vael."

Feng’s eyes widened. "Wait, you mean that Ember Reign Festival?! The one where she lets people challenge her?!"

The old man gave a single nod.

Quinlan narrowed his eyes. "Challenge her...?"

Feng quickly stepped in, excitement bubbling in her voice. "The Fire Nation doesn’t believe in bloodlines or inheritance. They only respect strength. To prove she’s worthy of ruling, the Fire Sovereign holds a massive tournament every year, open to all fire cultivators."

She held up a finger. "She names ten of her retainers, all terrifying elites. Anyone who can defeat one of them earns the right to fight her. And if they win... she steps down, and the victor becomes the new Sovereign."

"...She willingly risks her throne every year?"

Feng nodded. "And she’s never lost in her hundred years of rule. Not once. She uses the fights to crush rebellion, root out rising threats, and find worthy retainers."

A strange silence followed. Quinlan stared at the old man, the realization slowly dawning in his eyes.

"You’re sending me there for a reason."

The old man didn’t answer. He didn’t have to because Quinlan understood it instantly. It wasn’t about becoming the next Fire Sovereign, but about his next grand challenge. The old man believed he’d outgrown the lawless wastes. That hunting vagabonds and lowborn thugs was no longer beneficial to his path.

No. If he wanted to become someone truly worthy of shaping the world, he’d need to step into fire and face the monsters who ruled it.

Only the strongest. Only the best.

A grin slowly curved across his lips, feral and hungry.