Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 740

Chapter 740: Differing Reactions
“Kill them!”

“Save our kin!”

“Leave no lions alive!”

Most of these were the younger warriors whose eyes were overcome with fury. They surged forward, howling with bloodlust, eyes wide with grief and an overwhelming desire for vengeance.

The wolfkin followed next, only moments after. Unlike the dogkin, they didn’t scream names or vengeance. They just howled. It was a single, mournful, furious sound. Their massive leader, Skarn, tried to rein in his soldiers, but just like Vargis, his efforts were in vain.

And the Consortium?

“Dang, that bitch was kinda hot. What a waste of human resources. Could’ve used her as a refreshment in my harem. Even the Goddess knows I’m bored with those wenches.”

“Oh, that’s Robert over there. Always hated him.”

“Dude, same. Hi Robert! Bye, Robert!”

Yeah…

These people were not like Iris and I, who’d just recently become Consortium members, but hardened criminals who’d spent decades in the trade.

As such, they just stood there, commenting from time to time while patiently awaiting Maelstrom’s orders.

Dice continued rolling. Cigarettes were passed around. A man with half his face tattooed muttered, “Well, that’s a helluva Thursday,” before taking a swig from a hip flask.

“Wasn’t that chick your subordinate?” someone asked from within their ranks.

“Yeah, but I owed her the past month’s wage… And she might’ve had some sexual harassment complaints as well… The lions have taken a massive weight off my shoulders. Now I kinda feel bad about having to exterminate them.”

“No wonder you’re not getting promoted! You’re way too big of an asshole to lead bigger groups of combatants.”

“Heh, it’s just bad luck, I tell ya. The damned rookies keep overshadowing me every year.”

“Sure, old man.”

Stone-faced. Unbothered. This was what one could consider peak Consortium.

While there was loyalty present in some cases, such as the relationship between Black Fang and her disciples, most of the time, cooperation came from respect for one’s superior, fear of one’s superior, and the knowledge that cooperating was beneficial to their long-term opportunities. No one wanted to deal with overly uncooperative, opportunistic subordinates. They tended to get killed sooner or later.

The charge of the enraged beastkin shook the ground.

Thousands upon thousands of feet thundered against the earth as the dogkin and wolfkin legions surged forward in a storm of vengeance. Based on the beastial sounds in the distance, the same was happening with the beastkin forces I didn’t have eyes on.

And for a moment, just a moment, it looked like the rage of the beastkin might crash through the walls of Lionheart with nothing but sheer momentum.

But then the defenders began pushing the slaves back.

From atop the walls, I could see it clearly. The hostages who hadn’t been butchered yet were no longer needed. They were thrown aside, kicked, hurled down staircases or off ledges as lionkin soldiers barked commands and cleared the platforms. They made room.

Because they were about to fight back.

The battlements of Lionheart, draped in ceremonial banners marking their last stand, now shed their regal elegance like a snake’s skin. Massive sections of the wall slid open and rotated, revealing rows of defensive artifacts: huge, rune-etched ballistae, magical flamethrowers, and catapult-like mana-charged cannons. Some lions who seemed to be magically inclined climbed into designated slots along the platforms, pouring their mana into stabilization cores. They then turned cranks and flipped some magical switches.

And then… They opened fire.

Flaming bolts, each the size of a small tree, soared through the sky and came crashing down into the charging armies. Some hit with thundering explosions, tearing entire squads apart. Others unleashed waves of elemental fury: lightning that arced between armor, frost that froze warriors mid-step, and fire that swallowed dozens alive in an instant.

Still, most of them kept running.

They adapted.

Especially the wolfkin, whose speed was downright uncanny. They were the greatest, most naturally gifted speedsters of the Iskaris continent, which was on full display for all to see in this moment. They dipped, dove, and zigzagged through the onslaught with their lean forms twisting inhumanly as they avoided the worst of the barrage.

Once near their destination, dozens launched themselves into the air in unison.

One got close enough to reach for a lionkin defender’s throat, his claws almost grazed the enemy’s fur.

Then it happened.

A shimmer.

All at once, a translucent golden barrier flashed into existence above the city. From wall to wall, it stretched like a glowing dome. The wolfkin slammed into it before bouncing off like insects against glass.

That wasn’t all, however.

From behind the walls, another type of weaponry came alive. It wasn’t elegant. It didn’t look ceremonial or even refined. It was brutal, functional, and terrifying. Towering cylindrical cannons rose from the inner district, rotating and locking into place. A whirring sound signaled their activation, followed by a loud, steady thump-thump-thump-thump as projectiles began launching skyward.

Except these weren’t arrows.

They were spell shells, bursting midair with devastating explosions.

One wolfkin’s entire upper body vanished in a flash of crimson mist. Another was torn in half mid-leap, his legs flung like ragdolls into the waiting arms of his screaming packmates.

Every time they jumped, the defensive structure punished them.

Some wolfkin still made it to the base of the wall, crawling over their dead to try and scale it the old-fashioned way. But they were few. Most were being turned into meat before they even touched stone.

It was a butcher’s field.

All around me, I heard gasps and growls from the watching beastkin forces. The dogkin ranks, even in their fury, were starting to hesitate, confronted by the sheer technological brutality of the city’s defenses.

Lionheart wasn’t a city.

It was a goddamn fortress.

And we’d just knocked on the devil’s front door.

But we were just getting started.

Maelstrom’s overly calm and unperturbed voice rang out from the front of the Consortium ranks. “Mages. Return fire.”

The air around his battalion became visibly enveloped by a thin layer of mana as rows of Consortium mages stepped forward in sync. They raised their staves, each of which was etched with the black emblem of the syndicate.

Then they fired.

A coordinated barrage of mana-laced destruction soared toward the walls. Spells of every element crashed into the city’s barriers, slamming against the giant shield and city walls with thunderous force. Lightning, flame, frost… It was a violent orchestra of destructive magic.

In front of us, I heard Vargis let out a guttural growl.

“Stop running to your deaths! You’re warriors, not beasts! Hold your damn ground!”

The command cut through the chaos like a blade. Some dogkin halted mid-charge, panting, confused. Others turned and limped back to the staging lines, covered in ash and blood.

Then, Skarn moved.

Across the field, the wolfkin warlord’s imposing frame loomed over his troops like a wolf over defenseless sheep. One of his soldiers, a younger one, foolish and eager, ignored the orders and sprinted toward the wall, roaring a challenge at the lionkin.

Skarn caught up to him in two strides.

With a single brutal swipe of his claw, he ripped the warrior in half, making the boy’s torso separate from his legs in a spray of blood and innards.

“I said, wait!” Skarn growled. “You don’t run ahead of the pack!”

Silence followed until Skarn raised his arm high and roared, “Mages! Light it up!”

On cue, the wolfkin spellcasters, who were rather few in number compared to their melee numbers, began hurling their own spells toward the city. Unlike the precise and organized Consortium, their magic was raw, untamed.

While beastkin tended to heavily favor the style of warriors, being a mage wasn’t considered to be shameful or worthy of mockery if one had beastkin-specific mage classes.

As a result of these more beastial classes of magic, bolts of shadow lightning, bursts of pure force, and chaotic elemental surges were thrown in furious arcs, slamming into the outer wall and defensive barrier.

The dogkin followed suit soon after.

Vargis raised his blade high. “Unleash the storm!”

Dogkin mages stepped forward in perfect, disciplined rows. Their robes were plain, but their power was not. Chains of runes ignited down their arms, channeling spells like soldiers on a firing line. Earth split open. Firestorms launched from their palms. Barriers of mana collided with Lionheart’s offensive barrage against the besiegers.

In this manner, the sky lit up. It was a battle of spells and steel, of roaring voices and crying souls. A second sun seemed to rise above the city, not of warmth or hope, but of war. War on a scale I’d never even dared to dream about beforehand.

The true essence of fantasy warfare was on full display before my very eyes in this moment. No battle of mundane Earth could ever hope to compare with what I was seeing.

However, that didn’t mean I would sit still and suckle on my thumb forever, marveling at the sight.

It was time for me to begin making my move.