Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1563 Puppeteer

Chapter 1563  Puppeteer

He recognized them.

They were Elemental Sovereign channels. The same class he had held before evolving into Avatar of the Elements and then into Harbinger of Aeons, the same fundamental structure he had built his own pathways on before outgrowing it many times over.

Morgana’s channels were wider than his had ever been at that stage, carved deep by five hundred years of relentless use and refined by the kind of obsessive study that only a woman who had dedicated her entire existence to elemental magic could achieve. Dense, powerful, carrying mana in volumes that dwarfed what his own reserves could match.

And they were crude.

Compared to what his own had become after two class evolutions and the Abyssal Genesis Physique reshaping every pathway in his body, Morgana’s architecture was a relic.

They did the same things his did, but slower, stiffer, with none of the fluidity that his Harbinger class granted. Where his pathways branched and adapted on instinct, hers followed grooves that had been worn into place over centuries of repetition. Where his elements rotated freely between stances with no transition cost, hers cycled through a system that still treated each element as a separate discipline forced into cooperation.

She was the old model.

He was what came after.

Quinlan pushed his will through her pathways the way he had threaded mana through a hundred meters of compressed stone, and they accepted him because they were built from the same blueprint his body had long since surpassed.

On a deep, instinctual level, he knew every junction. He knew every split. He knew where fire fed into wind and where earth reinforced water, because he had walked these roads himself before the roads in his own body grew wider.

Her mana reserves answered him. Level 74 reserves, an ocean of elemental power so vast his breath caught beneath his helmet, and every drop of it flowed through a system he understood better than the woman who owned it.

He couldn’t produce this volume on his own. His Magic stat was lower than hers, and no amount of superior design changed the raw numbers. But that was the beauty of it: he didn’t need to produce it. He just needed to steer it.

His control. Her power.

He flexed her fingers and they moved.

Morgana’s mouth opened.

Her eyes stayed hazy. Her face was slack, the features empty, a mask of flesh that had been vacated by the woman who lived there.

But the voice that came out was Morgana’s.

“[Winds of Crestfall].”

The spell she’d never finished. The chant she’d been halfway through when Quinlan erupted from beneath the earth and buried seven elements in her chest, the syllables still sitting in her channels like a loaded weapon with the safety half-pulled. Quinlan found it the moment his will touched her pathways. A spell wound tight and waiting, needing only the final push to release.

He gave it to her.

Morgana’s mouth shaped the words her unconscious mind hadn’t chosen, blood spraying from her lips with every consonant, and the mana that answered was enormous. Level 74 reserves detonated through channels that Quinlan steered like his own, and [Winds of Crestfall] erupted from the dying queen’s palms in a blast that turned the air white.

The royal guards didn’t have time to react. The concussive wall of compressed wind hit the shield formation from the inside and blew it apart like a fist through paper. Guards went flying and shields crumpled beneath the pressure. The healer was thrown ten meters and hit the ground rolling, her staff clattering away, and the formation that had protected the queen for the entire battle scattered across the field.

The wind caught Morgana.

It gathered beneath her and launched her forward, and the queen of the Vraven Kingdom crossed the distance between the shattered formation and the Primordial Villain in a single violent burst of speed that left a trail of blood drops hanging in the air behind her, flying right over Alexios.

She hit the ground beside Quinlan and her legs folded, then locked. Her head lolled forward and her arms dangled at her sides. Her robes were drenched.

The queen of the Vraven Kingdom stood beside the man who owned her like a corpse that hadn’t been told it was dead.

Quinlan looked at Alexios.

Alexios looked at his wife.

Nothing in a millennium of warfare had prepared him for the sight of his wife’s body chanting spells it hadn’t chosen to cast and crossing a battlefield to stand beside the man who had just enslaved her.

“What…” His voice came out hollow.

Quinlan didn’t answer him. Finally, his focus shifted.

He turned to the healer instead. The woman was on her hands and knees twenty meters away, a gash above her eye where she’d hit the ground, her staff lying in the dirt beside her.

She was staring at them.

At the two of them. At the image that would burn itself into the memory of every soldier on this field and never leave.

The Primordial Villain in full armor, blood pouring from beneath his helmet and down his face in streams that [Synchra]’s flames ate the moment they touched black steel, heat haze rippling off the plating.

His stone-and-ice hands rested at his sides, lightning flickering through the cracks between the plates. He extended his right hand and opened his palm. [Soul Reaper] screamed across the gap, the pitch-black saber slamming into his grip with a flare of ghostly pale flames so violent it lit the ground beneath him white for a full second.

The weapon settled into his stone fingers like it had been waiting for this hand since the moment the real ones were taken, and the pale flames that licked along the blade burned brighter than they had all day.

Beside him, the strongest elementalist on Iskaris bled out on her feet.

Morgana’s head hung at an angle that living necks didn’t hold, her robes soaked through from collar to hem in a red so dark it looked black. Blood ran from her mouth in a continuous stream that pooled at her boots and spread outward across the scorched earth. Her arms dangled. Her breathing was a shallow, rattling wheeze that sprayed pink mist with every exhale. The stab wound in her chest still wept where the healing had been interrupted, and the skin across her sternum was split open in a line of scorched tissue that steamed in the evening air.

Two figures drenched in blood standing side by side on a ruined field.

Quinlan looked at the healer with those glowing red eyes of his and spoke with the tone of supreme authority.

“What are you waiting for?”

His chin dipped toward the dying woman beside him.

“Your queen is still alive. You swore an oath to keep her that way. So do your job.”

The healer didn’t move. Her hands were shaking. She made no move to get up, her eyes locked on the queen’s slack face and the blood dripping from her chin and the empty glow where Morgana Ravenshade used to be.

Quinlan’s voice dropped as he ordered,

“Heal her.”