Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 873

Chapter 873: Holding On
Words spoken weeks ago by the two Sovereign sisters swirled in Quinlan’s mind one after the other.

“You’ve already nailed the hard stuff—battle intent, pressure control, how to read an opponent’s flow.”

“Your spiritual awareness is there, too. You sense subtle things most people miss: danger, lies, emotions. I’ve seen it. Your gut reactions are clean. Sharp.”

“But you wanna know what’s keeping you from the next stage?”

“It’s not your power. It’s your alignment. You’ve got all the right pieces—just not in tune yet.”

“Qi, Core, Instinct, and Emotion. All four must move as one. You must become still, but not stagnant. Flowing, but not chaotic.”

Quinlan hovered cross-legged above the ruined stone of the royal arena, suspended by an unstable dance of four elemental energies—Fire coiled around his limbs like serpents, Wind howled beneath him, Water shimmered like a misty crown, and Earth pressed against his back like an ancient guardian. They swirled and crackled violently, refusing to synchronize, trying to tear each other apart.

His muscles trembled. Veins bulged under his skin. Blood wept from his pores.

This wasn’t a smooth ascension—it was a war. And his very body was the battlefield.

Each breath felt like it might be his last. His lungs burned. His soul screamed. The boundaries between his body and spirit frayed as the four elements exploded through him in a brutal, unrelenting tide. They resisted the sudden, forceful change.

‘You’re not ready.

You’ll shatter.

You’ll die.’

The voice in his head was his own.

But beneath that, deeper than instinct, a quieter voice emerged.

‘Then let me die.

But I refuse to kneel.

I will not allow this creature to take what’s mine.’

His core began to splinter—not collapse, but transform. His internal world ignited with pressure. The fire within met the calm of water. The chaos of wind found grounding in stone. Opposites didn’t cancel. They clashed, and from that friction, a new resonance was born.

His qi surged. His soul caught flame.

…

“He’s doing it…” Rykar muttered.

The swirling chaos of elements around Quinlan pulsed like a beating heart, rising higher, denser, more alive by the second. The air itself trembled in reverence.

Serika’s flame-clad body turned toward the storm, eyes wide.

“…Quinlan…” she whispered.

Her rage faltered. For the first time in minutes, her heart stopped roaring. And then she looked at her father.

Truly looked.

The years had ravaged him.

The Rykar Vael she remembered—the unyielding anvil of the Fire Nation, the father whose back had never once bowed—was now a shadow of that man. Four mechanical limbs, each groaning with metallic weight. Burn scars running up his neck. Shoulders hunched ever so slightly beneath the weight of sacrifice.

Her breath hitched.

She didn’t know whether it was pity or grief… or guilt.

He met her gaze only once.

“I’m sorry for hiding from you. From everything.”

“Why?” Serika croaked. “Why didn’t you-”

“There’s no time,” he interrupted, turning his eyes toward the god who now radiated pressure like a dying star. “Later.”

Serika winced, fighting the sting behind her eyes. Then clenched her fists. “Fine. I’ll deal with her,” she growled, glaring at Nalai. “So you don’t have to.”

Nearby, Rongtai deflected another screeching blade of corrupted wind from the dark qi cultivator. The old monk’s body was riddled with bruises, yet his stance remained immovable as the earth beneath his feet.

He glanced sideways at Rykar. “You want the god or the corrupted one?”

Rykar stretched his arms, making the hiss of hydraulics whine from his prosthetics. “Come now. Youngsters like you should fight the big bads. Let an old man take it easy.”

But before Rongtai could even respond, Rykar vanished in a burst of combustion.

He reappeared in the air with his leg cocked back, then slammed his heel down toward God Venthros’ head with a blazing clang. The corrupted god raised an arm just in time, blocking the strike. The force of impact cratered the ground beneath him.

Rongtai exhaled slowly.

“…Still a bastard.”

Then, the two elder combatants split off with Rykar lunging back into the fray against the god, while Rongtai turned toward the wind-tainted cultivator.

And so, the three-on-three battle began.

…

Venthros chuckled as he blocked another spinning kick attack. “How dramatic.”

Rykar’s foot caught flame and kicked off the god’s arm. He spun, rebalancing his body while in motion, prosthetics hissing with torque.

He dropped back down, fists igniting as he launched into the ancient art he’d mastered a long time ago:

Crimson Hammer Style.

His movements were sharp and unrelenting, every punch a furnace of explosion, every kick a piston strike. The fire that wrapped his limbs glowed crimson, not wild and blazing like Serika’s, but dense and concentrated, crafted, tempered.

These were the polished, perfected blows that had been derived from the combat style a more youthful Rykar had developed many centuries ago, the Blazing Tyrant Fist. The foundation of Quinlan’s Avatar Style.

But even so… it wasn’t enough.

Venthros caught one of Rykar’s hammering strikes and grinned. With a single motion, he twisted and slammed a fiery elbow into Rykar’s ribs, sending the older man flying into a ruined wall with a thunderous boom.

Stone shattered. Blood sprayed from Rykar’s lips.

But he got back up.

Spitting crimson onto the floor, he rolled his prosthetic shoulder and said nothing. His eyes burned even brighter than before being hit.

…

Elsewhere, a storm raged.

But it wasn’t the kind of storm that brought rain.

It was Blightwind, the corrupted gale of screams and slicing whispers. Wind that spun in backwards spirals and moved faster than the eye.

The Blightwind cultivator darted through the air in bursts, cutting through space like a ghost. His winds tore apart the air, curving in unnatural arcs that made the world itself seem untrustworthy.

He hurled a spiraling lance of corrupted qi that howled like a dying beast at his enemy.

Rongtai didn’t even flinch.

With both feet planted firmly on cracked stone, the Earth Sovereign raised his arm and caught it. The corrupted gale struck his skin and dispersed into nothing, as if it had slammed into a mountain.

The Blightwind user’s grin widened unnaturally. He flew low, weaving in with sharp gusts laced with disorientation and illusion.

But Rongtai’s gaze never wavered.

His aura radiated an immovable calm.

Every corrupted strike rebounded without finding purchase.

Every gust of madness and whisper of fear met only silence.

The deeper into chaos the Blightwind cultivator spiraled, the calmer Rongtai became, an anchor in a world of screaming winds.

The wind user circled faster, slicing through the air in mad arcs. His illusions twisted. His flight grew more erratic. He darted close, then veered back. Testing. Probing.

And still, Rongtai did not move.

That stillness—unyielding, unchanging—became the perfect bait.

The corrupted man grinned wide, believing the monk too slow, too passive, too distant to threaten him.

He lowered his guard. Not by much, but enough. Just a flicker of overconfidence.

That was all it took.

In the space between two breaths, the mountain moved.

Rongtai’s foot slammed forward with terrifying force, launching his body like a cannon of solid stone. His size vanished in the blur. He was faster than any boulder had a right to be.

Before the Blightwind user could even blink, Rongtai was there.

*BAM!*