Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1522 Trial of Faith

Chapter 1522  Trial of Faith

Then, against every instinct she possessed, she asked the question.

“Can they even…” She stopped. Her jaw worked. The words were clearly causing her physical pain. “Can they… perform?”

“Fuck? Yes, of course.”

Velara flinched as if he’d slapped her.

“Their bodies are in perfect working health,” Quinlan continued cheerfully. “In fact, those among the men who struggled with certain… mechanical difficulties while alive might find themselves in for a very pleasant surprise tonight.”

Velara stared at him.

“I’m not sure if they can sire children yet, though,” he added, stroking his chin. “We’ll need to conduct a study. Maybe the church can pray for fertility on their behalf.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Missed opportunity.”

Behind Velara, three young healers had stopped pretending to organize supplies. Their faces were scarlet. One had her hand pressed to her mouth. Another was staring at Quinlan with an intensity that the words ‘spiritual curiosity’ could not adequately describe. The third was looking at a passing soul soldier with renewed interest.

Quinlan caught their gazes and winked.

The hand-over-mouth healer made a sound like a teakettle.

Velara spun around. The healers snapped back to their duties with a speed that would have impressed a drill sergeant, but not fast enough to hide the giggles.

“If any of you repeat a single word of this,” the Arch Priestess said in a voice that could have frozen the gate shut, “I will personally reassign you to latrine sanitation for the next decade.”

The giggles stopped.

Mostly.

Quinlan grinned. He loved this. Holy women were the best to mess with, bar none. Warriors got angry. Politicians deflected. Nobles sneered. But the devout? The ones who had spent their entire lives in robes and prayer and enforced modesty? They crumbled. Every single time. The more repressed the upbringing, the harder the blush, and the Goddess’s clergy ran on a level of repression that bordered on art.

Velara was the worst offender of the bunch. Every crude remark hit her like a siege bolt because somewhere beneath the staff and the vestments and the centuries of theological authority was a woman who had never once in her life been spoken to like this, and her body was betraying her composure at every turn.

She recovered by force of will and turned back to him with the rigid dignity of a woman who had decided this conversation was beneath her and was now going to prove it by remaining dignified if it killed her.

“Was there something you actually needed,” she said through her teeth, “or did you come over here solely to defile my ears?”

“Both.” Quinlan’s grin softened a fraction as Velara looked ready to snap again despite her best efforts. “I need to know if you can relocate with us. Your power is tied to the cathedral, isn’t it? The consecrated ground. If you walk through that gate, you leave all of it behind.”

Velara’s eyes narrowed. The blush receded, replaced by the sharper focus of a woman whose professional domain had just been invoked.

“You could stay,” Quinlan offered. “When the Elvardians take the city, no one would dare lay a hand on an Arch Priestess. You’d keep the cathedral, the consecrated ground, your full authority. Safer than walking through a magic doorway to a forest clearing.”

“No one would dare hurt me?” Velara repeated. Her gaze was very pointed. “Are you sure about that?”

The silence between them carried the memory of golden fire, a cathedral floor slick with blood, and a saber that had come uncomfortably close to an Arch Priestess’s throat.

Quinlan laughed. “Besides the two of us. Obviously. Black Fang and I are exceptions to most rules of civilized conduct.”

“You don’t say.”

“So yes, you can stay. The cathedral is yours. The Elvardians will respect it.” He paused. “But I’ll miss you a little, Arch Priestess. You’re fun to talk to.”

Velara closed her eyes.

Her staff pulsed softly. Her lips moved.

“Goddess of Purity, fountain of patience and grace…” she murmured. “I have served you faithfully for centuries. I have endured plagues, wars, famines, and a succession crisis that nearly split the church in two. I have never once questioned your wisdom or your plan for my life.”

Quinlan listened with his arms folded and his head tilted, the picture of respectful attention.

“But I must confess,” Velara continued, her voice tight, “that when you told me to ‘find a path where my faithful can endure,’ I did not anticipate that path would involve a man this obnoxious and infuriating. If it is within your divine power, I humbly request that you grant me the patience required to walk it without committing violence.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Amen,” Quinlan said.

Velara’s eyes snapped open and glared at him.

“So?” he asked. “Coming or staying?”

The Arch Priestess looked at him with the expression of a woman who had just prayed for patience and received a test of it instead.

“I can manage the transition,” she said through her teeth.

“How?”

“Our agreement,” Velara said, her chin rising, “did not include an obligation to reveal the inner workings of the church.”

Quinlan chuckled. “Already citing your clauses, Arch Priestess?”

“You’re one to talk!” The words came out hotter than she intended. “You cited our agreement to my face not an hour ago! Standing on that platform, using the exact letter of the terms to justify raising the dead of my flock!”

“Oh, the bit about using the dead of my enemies?”

“Yes! That!”

“That was just…” He waved dismissively. “Nothing.” Velara’s eye twitched.

Behind her, one of the young healers let out a laugh that she immediately tried to disguise as a cough. It did not work. Two more followed, their shoulders shaking as they busied themselves with bandages that didn’t need rolling.

Velara turned her head just enough to fix them with a look that could have peeled paint.

Silence came at last.

Quinlan grinned at the whole scene, then let it go. His expression settled, and he dipped his head to her with a respect that, for once, seemed entirely genuine.

“Good luck, Arch Priestess. I mean that.”

Velara studied him for a beat.

“What will you do?” she asked after a moment, realizing he was no longer messing with her.

Quinlan turned and began walking toward the gate. The crowd parted around him as he moved, families stepping aside, soldiers straightening, soul soldiers pressing fists to their chests as he passed.

“I’ll build us a city,” he said over his shoulder.

Velara watched his back.

Between one step and the next, the man changed.

The loose posture tightened. The easy grin vanished behind the dark helmet as it reformed around his face. The crimson veins in his armor flared once, pulsing with that deep, terrible light, and his aura shifted from the playful warmth of a man who had just been making crude jokes to the suffocating pressure of the Primordial Villain who had broken a city’s barrier with one finger.

The families nearest to him felt it and moved faster. The soul soldiers felt it and stood straighter.

The Arch Priestess of the Goddess of Purity watched the conqueror of Whisperfield walk through his own gate and disappear into the pale light, and the last thing she saw before the energy swallowed him was the dark silhouette of a man who had already started building something in his mind.

The gate hummed.

The exodus continued.