Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 714

Chapter 714: Despair
{A/N: Enjoy this bonus pic of Iris. A new fit to go along with her Child of Reckoning transformation.}

A thrown javelin narrowly missed her side, but the next clipped her shoulder. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain as she twisted and sliced through another rider’s leg, sending the female warrior tumbling from her mount.

Lucille’s berserk charge met its match when a particularly burly lionkin caught her axe mid-swing. His strength was immense. Before Lucille could even react, another crashed into her side, sending her rolling across the battlefield.

Lyra’s shield began to dent under the relentless assault. Even with Aurora’s buff, she was still only one person against a tide of enemies.

Seraphiel and Aurora struggled to keep up. Healing and buffing spells kept flying, but injuries were accumulating faster than they could be mended. Aurora was sweating, her hands trembling as she tried to sustain her buffs. Seraphiel had to juggle between her staff and bow whenever someone sustained injuries before she ditched her bow and used [Divine Arsenal] to craft herself a spear so that she could help the struggling frontline out.

Her Dawnbringer class had the curious ability to buff her physical stats based on her Magic stat, just like it was for Ignis’s Ashbringer class, but even then, she wasn’t a properly trained fighter, greatly resembling Quinlan when he first grabbed a spear and headed to the labyrinth under Ayame’s watchful guidance.

The enemy wasn’t relenting.

More lionkin cavalry were pouring in, reinforcements bolstering their ranks. The weight of numbers began to take its toll.

Ayame’s breathing grew heavier. Blood dripped from a fresh wound on her arm. Lucille wiped crimson from her mouth, though a manic grin was still on her lips. Lyra’s shield had cracks forming across its surface.

Their momentum was slowing.

They were strong—stronger than ever before—but not invincible.

Ayame hissed with not only pain but also distress. Quinlan had trusted her with the lives of his lovers and greatest allies, yet she was leading them to what seemed to be death. At this rate, there would be serious casualties. ‘Am I… Still lacking?’ she muttered inwardly with dejection while attacking with all her might, doing everything in her power not to fail any of her teammates. XP was rolling in at great speed, but it would be meaningless if she lost even one of her sisters or friends.

‘What more can I do?!’ she cried as she watched both Lucille and Lyra take a great deal of damage. Kaelira wasn’t holding up any better either; her team, made up of mostly backliners, was getting overrun despite Shallan’s mighty AoE wind prowess.

<You overly arrogant oriental dwarf, you said I was only useful after taking a punch to my guts.> Iris’s hostile voice sounded in her mind all of a sudden, referencing the words Ayame used to taunt her when they were attacking the three lionkin scouts. <As always, you were wrong. The Child of Agony needs to suffer to gain power, but the Child of Reckoning does not. Thanks for taking so many punches to your gut, you incompetent bitch. I’ll be making good use of your accumulated damage.>

A dark aura flared to life around Iris. It rippled outward like ink bleeding into water, soaking the battlefield in its suffocating presence. At first, it was subtle—nothing but a whisper of something unnatural in the air—but then the energy levels rose, and the battlefield itself seemed to recoil. The blood spilled by her allies, the pain they endured, all of it fed into her like a siphon drawing from an endless well of suffering.

Ayame gasped, feeling something intangible being drawn from her. It wasn’t her strength, nor her will, but the pain, the exhaustion, the very wounds carved into her body. The same was happening to Lucille, Lyra, Seraphiel, and even Kaelira’s struggling squad. The agony they bore flowed into Iris, condensing into a swirling mass of red-black energy that wreathed her figure.

She exhaled sharply. “[Torment Cycle].”

Her ominous aura thickened, coiling around her like living chains of sorrow. For the briefest moment, her eyes glowed with something ancient, something vengeful. She lifted her sword toward the sky. “[Severance of Mercy].”

The battlefield responded as a dreadful pulse spread outward, sinking into the flesh of every enemy within range. The lionkin staggered. Some faltered; others choked on their own breath. Wounded warriors desperately downed potions—only to find them useless. Clerics attempted to heal their injuries—only for their magic to sputter and die.

Ayame’s eyes widened. She recognized what was going on: Iris cast a spell that denied all forms of healing, a death sentence in prolonged battle.

But Iris wasn’t done just yet.

She lowered her blade, pointing it at the lionkin. “[Omen of Despair].” The red-black aura surrounding her body darkened further. The weight of an unseen presence settled over the battlefield, pressing against the hearts of every lionkin. It wasn’t fear in the traditional sense. It was worse.

It was the absolute certainty of their impending deaths.

They saw it. Felt it. Their own corpses littering the battlefield, their weapons falling from lifeless fingers. Some trembled, gripping their blades with white-knuckled desperation. Others froze entirely, paralyzed by the creeping dread clawing at their minds.

A battle-hardened lionkin, one who had laughed in the face of death many times before, fell to his knees. Another let out a choked sob, as if mourning his own passing before he had sustained a single bruise. The weak-willed turned and fled. Even the stronger warriors hesitated for a moment, shifting uncomfortably beneath the crushing weight of their fates.

That was when Iris struck.

Her blade carved through the air with a brilliance that defied the darkness engulfing her. The moment it reached its apex, she whispered the final words of her onslaught, exhausting every ounce of power she harvested by casting [Torment Cycle].

“[Reckoning].”

A single downward swing.

A scarlet shockwave erupted from the arc of her blade, expanding outward in a brutal explosion of force. The earth split where she stood, fissures tearing through the battlefield. The lionkin caught within the attack had no time to react. Some were bisected instantly, their bodies torn apart by the sheer force of the strike. Others were sent flying, with shattered armor and broken limbs trailing behind them.

By the time the dust settled, dozens lay dead.

The battlefield was silent for a heartbeat.

But then, a thunderous roar split the battlefield.

“Rise and fight!”

It wasn’t just sound but a command, a call to arms that sent a violent tremor through the hearts of every lionkin present. The force of it rattled the bones of even the most battle-hardened warriors, reverberating through the air like the bellow of a war god.

The voice belonged to a monstrous lionkin carrying a serrated sword in his hand. He was a titan of muscle and fury, towering over his kin. His mane, thick and wild, was stained with streaks of blood, his fur covered in the grime of battle. His golden eyes blazed with a primal fire, unbroken, unbowed.

And the lionkin listened.

Those who had begun to flee halted in their tracks, their ears twitching as if shaken from a trance. The ones who cowered, who trembled in the shadow of death, straightened their spines. Those paralyzed by despair clenched their fists and tightened their grips on their weapons.

It was as if the tide had reversed in an instant.

“[Roar of the Sunborn], huh…” Iris growled, unhappy that her masterwork had been tampered with.

With renewed roars, they surged forward once more, their hesitation erased. The moment of weakness, of fear, was gone—shattered by the sheer will of their leader.

The slaughter resumed.

Blood sprayed across the battlefield. Weapons clashed, flesh tore, and the sound of war raged anew. The lionkin fought harder, faster, more fiercely than before, spurred on by their leader’s defiant cry.

While the fights were resuming with full force, Quinlan was flying through the air with great urgency.