Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem-Chapter 827: Order of the Sovereign [Bonus]

Quinlan stepped into the arena and stood across from the man.

The air shimmered from the heat rising off the scorched stone floor, but the oppressive silence made the space feel colder than it should have. Thousands watched with their breath held. Some in reverence for the legend of this warrior. Others in anticipation of seeing Quinlan get trashed by him.

The man across from him was a silent giant.

Korrin, Chosen of the Ash Temple.

His bare chest was inked with black sutras, and he wore unnaturally large prayer beads around his forearms like gauntlets. He took one step forward and bowed, low and rigid.

Then he whispered, "I wish you good fortune."

"Likewise," Quinlan said, freeing his saber from its scabbard.

A second gong signaled the start of the duel. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

Korrin instantly moved, dashing forward like a charging boar. The prayer beads blurred in his wake. They struck down like hammers of sacred penance.

Quinlan ducked under the first swing, his saber erupting in golden flame as he activated the Fourth Form of his Blazing Tyrant Style.

He answered the giant’s charge with a flurry of precise, rapid slashes. Each one struck sparks off Korrin’s beads, building heat with every clash, filling the space with rising waves of thermal pressure. It was like watching a furnace breathe.

But Korrin didn’t have a single intention of retreat. He raised both arms and slammed the beads together in a thunderous clap, shouting, "Bell of Repentance!"

A shockwave erupted outward, rattling bones and staggering Quinlan, who jumped backward to collect himself. The Chosen didn’t let up. He charged again, spinning one arm wide.

"Seven-Ringed Lamentation."

The beads danced, orbiting his fists as he struck in a rhythm of accelerating pulses. Each hit landed like a drumbeat carved into Quinlan’s defenses. It was a form meant to break spirit as much as body.

Quinlan gritted his teeth, his body shimmering with heat. "Fifth Form."

He vanished in a burst of speed, heat warping the air where he once stood. He reappeared behind Korrin in a single breath, saber already mid-swing. The blade hissed with fire, carving a burning arc through the air.

It struck.

Korrin staggered, taking his first step back.

Quinlan didn’t let him breathe. He knew he had to press the advantage, to treat it as a precious chance. After all, the numbers were on Korrin’s side. He couldn’t afford to be lax.

"Sixth Form."

Two hands gripped the saber. His entire body flared with qi, veins glowing, the blade rising over his shoulder in a fiery arc. He brought it down with the full weight of his power, aiming for Korrin’s head.

The strike landed.

Stone shattered beneath the Chosen’s feet. The arena floor cratered.

But Korrin still stood.

His arms crossed over his head, letting the strange prayer beads not only absorb the impact of the blow but also the heat of it. Some beads cracked and smoked, but none of them broke.

"I underestimated you. Well done, youngster."

He decreed, before...

In a flash, Korrin’s hand snapped forward. Not as a punch, but an open-palmed push.

"Scripture Binding Coil."

The beads unwound and lashed forward like a serpent, coiling around Quinlan’s saber. Before he could react, Korrin wrenched his arm back, and the saber flew from Quinlan’s hands, clattering to the far edge of the arena.

Gasps erupted from the crowd.

Unarmed. One stage lower in cultivation. The duel was over.

Or so it should’ve been. Quinlan didn’t falter.

He stood tall, breathing hard, and smiled.

It wasn’t mockery.

It wasn’t defiance.

It was simple excitement and anticipation. He was having fun, fighting such a strong opponent. He’d already learned numerous things from his brief clash with this giant monk. Coming here was proving to be the perfect choice.

"I’m not done just yet."

He decreed just as flames began to flicker at his back. A new heat. A new presence. His qi coalesced, deeper, denser, more refined.

Korrin narrowed his eyes.

Flames began to flicker in Quinlan’s palm, but they weren’t like before. This heat wasn’t just fierce: it was wild, untamed, and growing with every breath he took.

He took a step forward.

The stone beneath his heel melted.

His qi surged outward in torrents, too vast for his current cultivation realm, too volatile to contain without strain. It shouldn’t have been possible. Yet it was—and it was beautiful.

"Form Seven," he whispered, voice crackling with fire. "Tyrant’s Reckoning."

His aura detonated outward in a shockwave of blistering heat. Crimson flame coated his arms, danced down his spine, and wrapped around his fists as if desperate to escape him. The very air around him ignited with each movement, superheated into a swirling inferno.

Korrin’s eyes widened as he took a step back out of pure instinct.

"That core of yours..." he muttered. "That qi. It’s unrefined, raw... and yet it flows like a mountain stream... fast, endless. By the gods!"

He lowered his arms and offered a rare, honest smile.

"You’re one of the most promising cultivators I’ve ever faced, boy. The nation of Vulkaris would be honored to have you on our side. My Lady, the Fire Sovereign herself, would surely offer you a place at her side."

Quinlan let go of an unhinged grin, intoxicated with adrenaline as the flames lapped off his body with every twitch of muscle.

"Stop yapping and get ready."

The smile vanished from Korrin’s face. His expression hardened.

"So be it."

The beads snapped taut around his forearms once more. His stance lowered. Scripture across his chest glowed like magma as he prepared a final move of his own.

They both charged at each other at once.

Flames and stone, prayer and fury. The ground trembled from their charge.

But before they could clash, a loud, feminine voice rang across the arena.

"Arrest that man!"

Every head turned to the throne above, following the source of the sound.

Serika Vael.

The Fire Sovereign stood with disbelieving eyes, as if the very existence of Quinlan shocked her to the very core.

At her word, the Ten Chosen rose from their seats and descended upon him together like a group of falling stars.

The arena shook with their arrival, a semi-circle forming behind Korrin as each Chosen took position, surrounding Quinlan with weapons drawn and qi focused. The atmosphere turned heavy, oppressive.

Quinlan’s eyes darted around. "What the hell is going on?!"

He didn’t get an answer.

The first blade came from behind. He blocked it—barely. Another kick struck his ribs. Then another strike from above.

He fought like a storm trapped in a bottle but it just wasn’t enough. Not against ten cultivators of this caliber. Not unarmed. Not like this.

Each blow chipped away at his footing.

Each pulse of wild qi came at the cost of his own stability.

"Uncle!!" Feng Jiai’s voice rang from the side of the arena. She tried to run to him, eyes wide in panic, but a flash of light struck her temple.

She crumpled to the ground.

Quinlan’s heart skipped a beat.

"Feng!" he roared, trying to reach her, pushing forward through the burning tide of blades and fists, even as the world blurred all around him.

Another strike landed. A knee to his gut. A palm to his spine. An elbow to his skull.

The sounds around him faded, distorted.

His knees buckled.

He saw her, still struggling, even half-conscious, before she, too, was seized and bound.

The last thing he heard was her voice. Strangled, terrified.

"Let go of me! Don’t touch him! He didn’t do anything wrong!"

Then darkness swallowed everything.