Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1473 Highest Importance
Chapter 1473 Highest Importance
The trial was done. The power was real. Quinlan’s body felt lighter than ever before as he walked.
Ayame fell into stride beside him. “Are you not calling the king? Or the Consortium? What about our new allies? You were flirting with the elf bitch- the elf queen quite a bit.”
“They can wait a few minutes.”
Ayame raised an eyebrow.
Quinlan lifted his hand. Space tore open three steps ahead of them, light folding inward at the edges until the portal stabilized into a clean vertical line.
“There’s a woman I’ve been neglecting. If I leave her waiting any longer, I’ll officially qualify as an unfaithful lover.”
The girls understood immediately.
Jasmine.
His merchant girl. His governor. The only woman in his harem who hadn’t crossed into the Primordial Realm for the trial, because she’d decided, on her own, that her place was in Miri Town. Someone had to manage the fallout, she’d said. Someone had to keep the gears turning while the rest of them were away.
She wasn’t wrong. Miri Town needed her.
Before the trial, Quinlan had used the Elvardian invasion of the Vraven Kingdom as a hunting ground. The dwarf-elf-undead alliance wanted to crush humanity, wanted to take their lands, people, and resources, and Quinlan had been happy to ride that wave, smashing through human cities alongside them, farming XP at a pace that made even the lionkin genocide in Lionheart look quaint. Level after level. Settlement after settlement. The [Ding!] notifications had rung so fast they’d blurred together.
But he’d never been truly on their side. He was always only on his own side, and that would never change.
While the alliance celebrated its victories, Quinlan had been funneling humans out of every city he cracked open. Orphans. Slaves. Freed citizens. Thousands of them, ported through to Miri Town before the dust settled. The alliance got its conquest. Quinlan got the population.
Because an overly powerful Elvardia served him no better than an almighty Vraven. What he wanted was the war itself.
Chaos was opportunity.
The ideal scenario was a prolonged, grinding conflict where neither side could close the deal, and Quinlan remained the most valuable wildcard on the board.
Cold math. Clean logic.
“Let’s go!” Serika spoke up with a grin stretching across her face. “I want to see Jas.”
“Same!” Aurora and Lucille chimed in.
A few more voices followed, alongside many eager smiles. Jasmine had that effect on people. She wasn’t a fighter, yet she had a warmth to her that put these powerful warrior women at ease the moment they sat across from her. Among the harem, where personalities ranged from territorial yandere to shameless foxkin to airhead dogkin to cheeky elf to masochist samurai to smithing elf and more, Jasmine was the one everyone simply liked. No drama. No friction. She poured tea, she laughed at jokes, and she made you feel like the conversation you were having was the only one that mattered.
Quinlan stepped through the portal first.
The others followed.
And the noise hit them like a wall.
Miri Town was in absolute chaos.
The streets, which Quinlan remembered as half-built paths between newly constructed homes, were packed. Carts jammed intersections. Livestock had been penned too close to a residential block, and the smell confirmed it. Cooking fires burned on every corner. The air carried sawdust, fresh timber, bread from somewhere, and underneath all of it, the earthy scent of a town that had multiplied its population many times over in hours.
But it was functional chaos. Organized pandemonium, if such a thing existed.
How could it be anything else? Jasmine should be somewhere here, working herself to the bone to ensure things worked.
As for the construction effort… The dwarves had taken over.
They made a deal with Quinlan before arriving. Booze and smithies would be provided, alongside freedom to construct the infrastructure of the soon-to-be empire as they saw fit.
The first two deals needed time, but the last one was already clearly in effect.
One just had to look at the faces of these dwarves. Beneath their busy beards, large grins adorned their faces. Their eyes, once lifeless and hopeless as they lived like livestock in the slave pens of the Ravenshade Duchy, were now full of vigor.
They were in their element, building the future.
Entire blocks were going up in real time. Crews of stocky, thick-armed men and women moved with the efficiency of people who’d been building things since before most races learned to stack stones. Foundations were laid. Frames rose. Walls went up with a speed that bordered on offensive. One crew had already roofed three houses in what couldn’t have been more than an hour, judging by the wood shavings still curling fresh on the ground.
They worked in tight, wordless coordination. Hammers fell in rhythm. Beams were passed hand to hand without a syllable exchanged. When a joint didn’t sit right, the nearest dwarf corrected it with a single strike and moved on. No complaints. No wasted motion.
They were, frankly, incredible at this.
The elves were a different story.
A cluster of elven women stood at the edge of the Lumi Forest where a dwarf logging team was hauling freshly cut timber toward the construction zone. Their expressions ranged from horrified to murderous.
“You barbarians!” one of them shrieked, pointing at a stump. “That was a silver birch! Do you have any idea how long it takes for one to grow that tall?!”
“About forty years,” the lead dwarf grunted without looking up. He hoisted a log onto his shoulder. “We’ll plant two more. Move.”
“Plant two more?! You can’t just replace a living tree like… like swapping a broken chair leg!”
“Can, actually. Done it loads of times.” He shifted the log. “Chair legs too.”
“MURDER!!!!!!!!!”
As the first began screeching, a second elf stepped forward with her arms crossed. “This forest is named after Luminara, the First Elf. Our ancestor. You’re desecrating sacred ground!”
The dwarf paused. He looked at her. Then at the stump. Then back at her.
“Sacred ground, my hairy behind. Sickly Thin Lass, you can’t claim every forest as sacred!”
The elf in question looked utterly disgusted. She scowled so hard it looked like she was a single moment away from spitting on the crude midget.
The dwarf, however, did not care for the woman’s facial expressions as he explained calmly, “Sacred ground grows back. Houses don’t build themselves. You want us sleeping in tents again tonight?”
“Yes! Sleeping under the watchful gaze of Mother Nature is how life was intended to be led!”
“No, that’s how unintelligent lifeforms live. Yesterday I rolled out of the tent, into deer poop, and woke up with a snake – a second one – crawling in my pants. Never again.”
The dwarf shuddered at the memory. He could not believe anyone would willingly debase themselves by living in such a dirty place. Elves were lunatics.
“Oi, Gurt! Bring the next one!”
Just like that, he walked off.
The elves sputtered.
Seraphiel sighed.
It was a long, weary exhale, the kind of sound a woman made when she knew she was about to deal with her own people’s nonsense. She walked forward with her blonde hair catching the light, and the elven women turned toward her with vindication already written on their faces.
Seraphiel was there when they were freed of their slave contracts; she was the one who convinced them. Thus, they recognized the woman instantly.
“Lady Seraphiel! These dwarves are-“
