Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1454 A Library of Information

Chapter 1454  A Library of Information

“People wrap themselves in steel. Races grow plates and scales and hardened skin. All of it is done in the hope that pain will never reach them. They believe feeling pain is a weakness to be solved. They are wrong. Pain is information. Those of us who are able and willing to accept it gain access to a library that no teacher can recite for them.”

The distortion around his hand collapsed inward with a sudden, suffocating pull.

“Use it,” he said. “Or remain ignorant.”

The spell ignited.

[Covenant of the Bleeding Sense]

The world lurched.

Something unseen settled over the ground, a wrongness that rearranged cause and consequence, as if the rules governing sensation had been quietly rewritten. Quinlan felt it immediately, a pressure behind his eyes and along his spine, a subtle insistence that every impact, every strain, every error would now be fully acknowledged, whether his flesh agreed or not.

Dragnar vanished.

The absence registered a fraction of a heartbeat after the impact did.

Quinlan’s body folded around a blow that struck his chest with catastrophic brutality, the force bypassing instinct and calculation alike as ribs gave way under the sheer brutality of it, breath tearing from his lungs as he was hurled backward through the air and sent skidding across the dark soil in a violent tumble that ended with his back carving a shallow trench into the ground.

“Synchra… You must be faster…” he forced out through clenched teeth as he reached inward, calling upon the anima armor, and the familiar response surged to meet him, layers shifting and hardening as the living construct adjusted its structure to brace against punishment of that magnitude.

It was not enough.

Dragnar reappeared behind him mid-motion with one massive leg already coiled, and the kick landed squarely into Quinlan’s side with a thunderous sound, launching him upward as the ground dropped away beneath his feet and the sky spun into view.

As Quinlan’s body arced helplessly through the air, Dragnar’s voice followed him, calm and relentless.

“Armor is a manmade tool to hide our weaknesses. A reliable one is a comfort. An armor like yours is a significant advantage.”

Quinlan twisted instinctively, mana flaring as Synchra reshaped again, trying to catch him, trying to compensate.

Dragnar was already there.

The next blow met him midair, timed perfectly to interrupt the adjustment, sending a jolt through Quinlan’s frame that rattled bone and thought alike as he was driven downward at a velocity that promised nothing gentle about the landing.

“But relying on it,” Dragnar continued, appearing above him as if gravity itself had decided to obey different rules, “will ensure you never become a strong enemy in my eyes. You will forever be a nobody I can kill at a moment’s thought.”

Quinlan hit the ground hard enough to crater it, the impact reverberating through him with unbearable clarity as the spell ensured that none of it was softened, dulled, or dismissed.

Dragnar stood at the edge of the impact site, looking down at him without malice, without satisfaction. To the Primordial Dread, this was not punishment but instruction.

“Blame not your armor for being slow to react; blame your reflexes. You must trust your body. Everything else is circumstantial at best.”

The oppressive aura pressed closer, deeper, insisting that every mistake be felt, remembered, and understood.

“Grow,” Dragnar commanded.

And the pain answered.

Lucille moved before the dust had even finished settling.

“Quin!” she shouted as she ran toward him with her axe raised as her boots bit into the dark soil, placing herself squarely between him and Dragnar without a trace of hesitation or a concern for self-preservation.

Quinlan forced himself upright just enough to see it.

Lucille attacked.

Her axe came down in a clean, brutal arc meant to split bone and flesh alike. Her momentum was carried by raw strength and battle-honed instinct, yet Dragnar stepped into the strike instead of away from it and caught the haft with one hand as though she had handed it to him willingly.

The counter came immediately.

His fist drove into her midsection with extreme force, and Lucille’s body folded around it as the air left her lungs as well in a harsh, broken exhale before she was lifted off her feet and thrown aside as if weight and resistance were optional suggestions rather than laws.

She hit the ground, rolled, pushed herself up again, and charged.

Quinlan watched as her pristine face began to swell, skin darkening where blows landed, watched as blood traced visible lines from the corner of her mouth while she refused to lower her guard, watched as her long, beautiful caramel hair he loved so much was seized in Dragnar’s grip and used to redirect her momentum, her body swung upward and released so that she spun helplessly through the air before crashing down hard enough to leave her gasping.

Dragnar did not pursue her immediately.

“You do not need to cut your hair if you’re attached to it,” he decreed, voice carrying clearly across the field as Lucille struggled back to her knees with her axe digging into the soil to keep her upright. “But refusing to secure it, refusing to hide it beneath a helmet, is the mark of a woman who has no place on a battlefield.”

“I will never leave the battlefield!” Lucille snarled and surged forward again despite the way her steps faltered, despite the way her breathing had grown uneven, and Dragnar met her without raising his voice or his pace, striking her down once more with a series of clean, merciless movements that left no room for argument.

“Then you’d better grow,” he decreed.

Quinlan’s hands dug into the ground.

His jaw locked as he forced himself to watch every second of it, not looking away as her body was driven back again and again, not closing his eyes as she was hurled aside, not turning from the sight of the woman who had stood beside him through blood and fire now being broken down piece by piece by someone who did not hate her enough to rush it.

The spell did not let him dull it.

The ache in his ribs burned, but it was the sight of her struggling to rise that cut deeper, the understanding settling in with brutal clarity that this too was part of the lesson, that pain was not limited to what struck his own body, that watching someone he cared for be overpowered while he lay useless was another message being carved into him whether he welcomed it or not.

His fingers curled into fists as he drew a breath that scraped his lungs raw.

This, too, was information.

A library of information he had to accept and make use of to grow.

Quinlan pushed himself upright and then forward with his teeth clenched hard enough that his jaw trembled as he forced his body back into motion. His gaze locked onto Dragnar as mana and muscle aligned under his sheer refusal to let his woman be beaten up right before his eyes.

He stepped back into the fight.

And on that day, the Primordial Villain learned a lesson that would shape far more than a single battle, a lesson etched into flesh and memory, one that would prove invaluable when the cost of hesitation grew far steeper than bruises and broken ground.