Ranobes » Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem » Chapter 1734: Disgrace to the Ancestors » Comments

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    CreaTorDominion
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    Despawning Thank you so much
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    Despawning
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    1743 Peerless Genius

    "[Overlord's Magnanimity]"

    The spell crossed the duel ground as warmth.

    It poured out of the Primordial Villain and into the samurai standing across the frost, and every fighter in the crowd with senses worth the name felt the moment it arrived.

    Ayame's presence climbed.

    It rose past the captains and the champions and the named monsters watching from the ranks, swelling around the petite woman until the air over the duel ground carried two storms instead of one, and then it stopped, leveling off exactly where the Primordial Villain had promised.

    Ten levels below her sister.

    The stats flowing through the bond were a loan from his own primordial body, measured with care, just enough and nothing more.

    The verdict of this duel belonged to her, and he refused to steal a single gram of it. Quinlan just gave her what she needed to take matters into her own hands.

    Ayame closed her eyes and breathed in.

    Her whole life, her swordsmanship had lived one step ahead of her flesh.

    There were angles she could see and not yet serve, cuts she could compose in her mind and not deliver, a perfect blade dancing behind her eyes while her body chased it.

    The warmth flooding her limbs closed that distance.

    She opened her eyes, rolled one shoulder, and swung a single horizontal cut at nothing
    The katana whispered through the cold air, and the sound it left was so clean that the nearest rows of spectators leaned back as one.

    Across the frost, Kaede watched her sister's pressure with the relic humming eager against her palms.

    "Ten levels.”

    The Duchess of Silverwind ran the numbers the way she had run them her entire reign, and the numbers came back loyal.

    “Ten levels is an enormous cliff. I've killed numerous elites across much smaller gaps.’

    She couldn't help but smile inwardly. 'How tragic that he couldn't give her more power…’

    The whispers in the steel purred their agreement.

    It should be a massacre.

    Then the ground shuddered.

    Kaede dropped into her stance with the blade flashing up, but the attack she braced for never came.

    The earth was redecorating.

    The duel ground sank with the two sisters on it, frost and churned mud flowing outward and pressing down into a vast circular floor as smooth and hard as worked granite, and around its edge the battlefield itself began to rise.

    Rings of trampled mud lifted in great sweeping arcs, stacking into tiers, and the tiers grew seats.

    Actual seats, with backs and armrests, in clean rows split by stairways, climbing higher and higher around the sunken floor until the bloodiest field of the Great War of Iskaris was simply gone, replaced by a stone colosseum vast enough to swallow a hundred thousand spectators.

    At the heart of it all stood its architect, one arm wrapped around a dogkin, his free hand hanging loose at his side, not even gesturing.

    Nobody got a choice about sitting. Rows rose beneath the armies and folded them into seats by the thousand, and yelps of alarm rippled across the tiers as veterans of the continent's worst battle were gently, irresistibly seated like children at a recital.

    Blue-skinned soldiers and other trusted allies herded the prisoners into their own blocks, walking the disarmed Fujimori columns up the stairs and sitting them down in rows with a courtesy that confused them more than chains would have.

    Sinking onto a polished seat, the lieutenant with the ruined arm stared at the floor far below, understanding arriving slowly.

    Their clan's destroyer was seating them like honored guests, because he wanted them, specifically them, to see whatever came next.

    In Quinlan's arm, Blossom's ears swiveled toward every grinding rumble, her tail thumping against the forearm that held her as the world rearranged itself around her master.

    "Master is a showoff.” she giggled cutely, and then the giggle trailed off as the thought finished its journey through her fluffy head.

    Master was showing off.

    Which meant his most dutiful girl should be helping him show off, and Blossom immediately began scanning the rising arena for anything a good girl could contribute.

    The winter air nipped at her nose while an entire war's worth of spectators sat down on frozen seats, and the idea arrived all at once, snapping her tail from a thump into a blur.

    She pulled herself up his chest, cupped a hand beside his ear, and delivered her findings in the most secretive whisper she owned.

    "Master... everyone here already knows Master is the best at destroying things!! But the seats are super cold... If Master made them warm, they would all see how much more Master can do!"

    Quinlan turned his head and murmured back with matching gravity, "Warm seats in winter." He let the weight of the discovery land properly. "Isn't my pupcake a peerless genius?"

    "M-Master!!" Blossom melted on the spot and got to work licking his cheek with quick, loving dedication, her tail whipping the air behind her hard enough to stir a breeze.

    Heat threaded through the bowl, gentle veins of magma warmth rising into the stone, and across the tiers every cold and exhausted soldier felt their seat breathe warm beneath them.

    The reaction rolled around the arena in a wave, soldiers stiffening, palms flattening against armrests, heads bending toward neighbors in disbelief as the worst winter battlefield of their lives turned cozy beneath them.

    In the dwarven prisoner block, a stocky veteran shot upright with alarm all over his face. "Did I just piss myself AGAIN?" He patted the seat of his trousers, frowning. "This damned villain made my bladder act up all day..."

    A long-fingered hand clamped onto his shoulder and reapplied him to his seat, and the elven soldier on guard duty stared down at him with the most disgusted pair of eyes the dwarf had ever been measured by.

    "It is the Holy Son's warmth, you filthy, fat, hairy, smelly, hideous goblin spawn. Sit back down before I take your head off."

    Quinlan's elven loyalists did not take kindly to anyone speaking badly of their new leader.

    New leader, yes.

    No law had been passed and no treaty signed, but every elf on this field had watched their queen kneel in the open sky and offer him the entire race, arrows, lands, and future, and every one of them had dropped alongside her when the Holy Son's golden wave rolled through their marrow and let them feel, in their own blood, exactly how much the First Elf loved him.

    Legality was a matter for clerks.

    The mother of the race had spoken through the veins of every child she ever had, and as far as those children were concerned, a captured dwarf blaspheming against the Holy Son's gift was lucky to be keeping his head.

    A few rows over, a grizzled dwarven tanker ran his palm across the flawless polish of his armrest, and his bushy brows climbed higher the longer he looked.

    "The man's no mere mage," he rumbled to the engineers around him. "Look at the rake of this backrest. That angle's chosen for a body that spent all day in armor. Magic doesn't know that. Craftsmen know that."

    "The heat runs under the seats, not through them," another muttered, palms pressed flat against the stone like a healer taking a pulse. "No scorching, no cracking when it cools. He treated the rock as a material, not a target."

    "Yeah... Peerless elemental control is what I expect from the monster." A third engineer slumped against his treacherously comfortable backrest in open defeat. "But where in all the hells did the Villain learn joinery?!"

    At the rim of the dwarven prisoner block, a pair of long elven ears twitched.
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      Despawning
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      1744 Slow Realization

      Then twitched again, harder, at every fresh compliment rising from the rows she was guarding, while their owner stood with arms crossed and feet planted, working hard to look like a vigilant warrior-smith and failing at the ear level.

      Kaelira knew exactly where the Villain had learned joinery.

      The man had brought zero enthusias to the crafting arts when she met him.

      Gear was gear, a means to an end, something to commission and forget, right up until the first time the two of them sweated it out together at her forge, his mana pouring into her work, her hammer setting the rhythm, the heat plastering her clothes to her body deep into the night.

      Hers, because Quinlan had refused to wear a top at the forge from day one, declaring clothes a plain waste, and the picture of him working bare beside her, big muscles rolling with every motion while sweat traced lines down his chest, had burned itself somewhere permanent.

      He'd developed a habit back then of resting his palm flat on her stomach while she explained a technique, claiming that feeling the muscle work helped him concentrate on the lesson, and she had accepted it at face value, because what reason would her crafting partner have to lie?

      From her post in his unfinished arena, with the full picture finally available, the smith reviewed that old excuse for the shoddy work it was.

      ‘Pervert…’ Kaelira admonished both him and her gullible past self, bashful heat crawling up her neck. 'He just wanted to touch my abs the whole time, didn't he...?'

      Somehow, the Runeweaver Titan didn't have it in her to feel an iota of anger toward him, instead remembering how whenever a piece came out right, she had a habit of her own...

      Launching herself into his arms before the quench finished hissing.

      His hands caught her every single time, and where they landed never varied either.

      The tomboy elf's cheeks went pink in the winter air, and she pressed her crossed arms tighter, praying none of the prisoners in her block had looked up at exactly the wrong moment.

      From her perch in Quinlan's arm, Blossom tracked the ripple of reactions around the tiers, and her blue eyes shone proudly.

      A good girl had contributed.

      "Hubby."

      Vex arrived with her white hair swaying, planted herself directly in Quinlan's eyeline, set her feet, and presented the tail.

      It swayed once, left to right, sleek and slow, the little horns catching the light as she tilted her head. "Well?"

      His free hand caught the tail mid-sway and drew it through his palm, base to tip, slow enough to be a verdict, and the Hexwitch's pentagram eyes went hazy while her knees forgot their job.

      "They suit you perfectly, my beloved witch." He gave the tip a squeeze. "All of it does."

      Then his hand slid back down the length of it, closed near the base, and gave the tail one firm tug, testing how much it could take.

      Nothing about it was rough, just a man taking stock of what was his with every intention of being thorough about it later, and Vex's spine bowed as a small, ecstatic sound escaped through her teeth, toes curling inside her boots.

      "And these?" She dipped her chin and presented the little horns, tapping one with a nail, pride pouring off her. "Aren't they cute?"

      His hand left the tail, rose to her crown, and closed around one horn, testing the grip until the pressure tilted her whole head back.

      "Sturdy. Good size for a hand." He gave the horn an unhurried turn, zero shame anywhere in his voice. "I already have the perfect use for these in mind."

      Brutal demon sex.

      A strong shudder rolled through the Hexwitch from horns to tail tip, and her pentagram eyes went beyond joyous, somewhere near religious, before she nodded softly at the love of her life.

      "Good..”

      Then she let go of the Crimson Reservoir.

      The glow bled out of her tattoos, the tall dissolved into red wisps, and the little horns sank away beneath white hair as the demon look that was her hubby's Bloodfather gift folded itself shut, until only Vex remained, red-eyed, white-haired, and back in her own skin.

      Both hands latched around his free arm and dragged it against her chest, and the most possessive woman in his life entered full bubbly girlfriend mode on the spot, bouncing in little hops with her head bobbing, radiating the happiness of a woman who finally, finally had her man back in her arms.

      The tiers kept climbing around them, entirely unbothered by their architect having both arms confiscated.

      Two tiers up, Alexios Valorian watched a row of seats grow armrests beneath his daughter, who was dragging Feng toward the front with declarations about having to find the best view.

      "A simple circle in the dirt was never an option, was it.." the King of Vraven sighed tiredly.

      The list grew by one more entry.

      In the elven sections, the situation had moved past gossip into open theological crisis.

      Elves stood gripping each other's arms, pointing at stairways, at the warm stone, at the man raising a monument with the same effort other people spent stirring tea while he also kept flirting with two of his lovers.

      Isveth had stopped writing.

      The Head Shrine Maiden stood with her parchment forgotten, watching the colosseum complete itself, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook.

      "A temple. The Holy Son raises a temple for his blade's judgment.." She rounded on her column with blazing eyes. "Record everything! Every stone, every word! Future generations will make pilgrimage to this place!"

      The quills hit speeds that put the parchment's survival in genuine doubt.

      From somewhere across the bowl, distant but carrying, came a single furious "SACRILEGE!" that everyone present elected to ignore.

      The arena had one final feature.

      Three blocks of ice drifted over the heads of the crowd and came down at the rim of the sunken floor, side by side in the place of honor. Ragnar's frozen ruin. Hozumi mid-gurgle. And Chizuru, whose open eyes had been aimed at nothing behind a hand's width of ice, and which now, by virtue of careful placement, were aimed directly at the duel ground.

      Front row.

      Kaede looked at her teachers arranged like trophies at the edge of her sacred duel, and whatever calm the healing potion had bought her burned off in a single breath.

      "Done." Quinlan dropped into the wide seat that had grown beneath him at the center of the lowest tier, Blossom settling into his lap and Vex welded against his side, and he draped one arm over the backrest and regarded the two samurai on his arena floor.

      The rest of his women never left their posts.

      Tens of thousands of captives did not guard themselves, and the watch over the prisoner blocks ran through every trusted sword he had, blue-skinned Elites lining the rows, elven loyalists walking the stairways, beastkin, Greenvale, and Consortium veterans planted at the mouths of the aisles.

      Before he settled in fully, one glance left him and crossed the arena.

      It found Black Fang at the rim of the duel ground, and it carried a request that needed no words.

      As the stats he'd loaned Ayame had come out of his own body, he would be slower to react. If something down there went wrong, he might arrive late.

      Black Fang nodded back at him once.

      She was already in position, violet eyes resting on the floor where her little sister stood, and the placement of her feet said everything her mouth wouldn't.

      Anything that tried to touch Ayame outside the rules of the duel would have to get through her first.

      The scariest woman on the continent had assigned herself bodyguard duty in his stead.

      "Whenever you're ready," Quinlan called out across the arena.

      …

      The wind dropped, and the bowl hushed with it.
      Two sisters stood on the pale stone with thirty paces between them, and for a long moment neither moved.

      "Borrowed strength." Kaede's voice carried across the floor, low and bitter. "You drape yourself in a man's power and dare call this a sacred duel"

      "Are you serious?" The hypocrisy actually got through Ayame's composure.

      Kaede scoffed. "Yes. I mastered this power, made it mine through great effort while you parted your legs for yours."

      Ayame shook her head, disappointed that the sister she once loved were uttering these words. "You mastered nothing. I'll show that fact to you and the whole world."

      Kaede moved first.
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        MyEminence
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        Despawning has shown his generosity once again!
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