Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1031: Cheeky Duo

Chapter 1031: Cheeky Duo

The girl before them wasn’t some hardened adventurer or battle-scarred warrior. She looked no older than fifteen, perhaps younger. Her face still bore the roundness of childhood, and her petite frame made her appear more like a student preparing for a debutante ball than a battlefield.

It didn’t matter if she held dozens of levels. Everyone in that hall knew one thing: humans aged normally until reaching their physical maturity. After that, their bodies slowed in aging, sustained by their mana and stats. This girl clearly hadn’t reached that point, meaning…

She was a child.

And even a single one of the count’s sons fighting her would be far too much.

Disapproval swept through the crowd.

Some shook their heads. Others whispered beneath their breath or exchanged glances with their spouses and allies. Nobles from older lines scoffed openly. A fight with a girl like that? Surely Vexmore wouldn’t sink that low.

The fact that it was only Felicity claiming this to be so, with having literally no evidence to support her claims, didn’t seem to interest anyone. The nobles were starved for such high-stakes drama. It wasn’t just the king who was having an enjoyable time right now.

Just as the mutters started to grow heavy, Feng raised her head. Still small, still frail-looking.

And scoffed.

Loudly.

With half-lidded eyes and an exaggerated shrug, she muttered,

“Pfft! You must be joking, princess. I could take those sons of bitches with my eyes closed.”

The room froze.

Then…

Laughter.

A wave of chuckles erupted from the left side of the ballroom, mostly from the lesser nobles. Rural barons, weathered lords, aging generals. They didn’t mind the vulgarity. In fact, they welcomed it. A sharp-tongued little girl daring to insult three grown men? It was ridiculous, and they loved it.

But the highborns were not amused.

Their lips thinned. Their eyes narrowed. A young lady, especially one of such clear nobility based on her extremely regal oriental features, was not supposed to speak that way. It was unladylike.

The three Vexmore sons, meanwhile, had turned stiff with rage.

“You better shut your mouth before something bad happens!” Daron snapped.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Veyne added, sneering.

“Children should stay out of grown-up business!” Teral muttered, his voice laced with venom.

But Feng only smiled wider, looking all the more pleased.

“So you’re not children?” she asked sweetly.

Her eyes gleamed.

“I see.”

The countess’ fan snapped shut with a sharp *clack!* The sound was akin to a slap across her sons’ faces. Her glare was furious, piercing. She didn’t speak a word, but the shame radiating from her eyes said enough.

Her sons had walked straight into a trap. A trap that was concocted by two teenage girls.

Count Vexmore’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Slowly, his eyes drifted toward Duke Tharion Ravenshade, silently pleading for some kind of support. As his lord, he could intervene in his place and use his authority to negotiate peace between the two parties.

Or so it should’ve been.

But the duke only sipped from his wine glass and shook his head.

No help would come from him.

The count clenched his jaw for a single moment, realizing this was it. Then he exhaled.

“… It can’t be helped,” he muttered at last. His voice echoed through the room.

He straightened his back and looked toward Lord Black.

“If Lord Black has been wronged by my sons, and he seeks justice through combat… then let the victor be right.”

…

Time passed.

The youngest Vexmore son lay limp on a marble chaise in the palace infirmary, bathed in healing light. A team of five clerics worked in silent coordination, chanting in overlapping harmony. Golden threads of magic weaved through his body, knitting shattered ribs, realigning a twisted spine, mending ruptured veins.

Every few moments, one of the priests would wipe sweat from their brow. They worked hard and fast. The duel had been approved, and the whole court was already shifting to the coliseum. They couldn’t afford for Teral to be anything less than perfect.

He was the weakest of the brothers.

But even the weakest Vexmore would enter the arena at full strength.

…

The guests filled the viewing balconies carved into the coliseum’s bone-white stone.

On one of the noble viewing platforms, Duke Alastair Greenvale adjusted his coat and smirked across the private box to Tharion Ravenshade.

His voice was more than loud enough to carry across.

“So this is how House Ravenshade rules, hm? Can’t even keep their own vassals in check. No wonder the Elvardians thought your duchy was the weak link to invade.”

Many nobles overheard. Some laughed behind covered mouths. Others turned to see Tharion’s reaction.

The Ravenshade Duke didn’t even look annoyed.

Instead, he slowly turned his head, looked Alastair up and down, and offered a faint smile.

“You’re right, old friend… Your duchy’s peace and prosperity are truly something to envy.”

A long pause came.

He took a sip of his wine.

“So very peaceful. There’s not a single greenskin monster present, and hasn’t been for months… Neither is there a criminal syndicate waging open war against your house, thinking it to be weak enough to attack… Right?”

Alastair’s smirk froze. His eye narrowed. But he said nothing else.

The crowd buzzed louder now.

…

The gates opened with a rumble of enchanted stone.

Marching forward, shoulder to shoulder, were the three Vexmore sons—Daron, Veyne, and Teral. Gone were their formal banquet outfits. In their place, armor forged in Vexmore’s famed forges could be seen. Each bore a different weapon: spear, glaive, and chained mace.

Their movements were coordinated.

They’d fought together before, and throughout the years, they’d trained together as well.

A proper battle plan. A formation designed to counter even high-level threats. They had the numbers. They had the synergy. They had their house’s pride on the line.

And then, their opponent walked in.

A hush fell.

No dramatic entrance. No fanfare. Just the echo of slow footsteps against stone.

The noble called Black was coming.

He strolled into the arena and instantly drew many eyes.

No armor. No shirt. Just a loose pair of black pants. Not artifact-grade, not even Junk-rarity.

His upper body was bare, bulging muscles visible to all. Many noble ladies liked what they were seeing based on their drooling expressions and insecurely glaring husbands.