Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1577 Fierce Dogkin

Chapter 1577  Fierce Dogkin

On the other side of the divide, the fighting had erupted the moment Alexios saw Ragnar’s betrayal for the opportunity it was.

The Warrior King’s golden longsword was already moving. Elisabeth’s divine radiance surged forward. Lilith and the Scarlet Lilies hit the fracturing lines. Kaede and the Fujimori swordswomen crashed into the chaos. The clash had begun in full, every faction killing every other faction, the wyverns overhead, foxes behind, and the undead closing from the sides were the only reasons Alexios’s side hadn’t already overwhelmed the ground.

…

Blossom lay on the scorched earth where the dwarven wall had shut her out.

Her fingers were still numb. The energy that Ragnar’s runes had reflected into her gauntlets had left her hands tingling from wrist to fingertip, and the dogkin could feel the phantom rejection pulsing in her channels like a bruise that ran deeper than skin.

She could hear her beloved master groaning in pain behind the wall of blacksteel.

His breathing, ragged and wet and wrong, wrong, wrong.

Then Blossom’s eyes found Felicity.

The youngest princess of Vraven was frozen behind the line with her sword clutched in both hands and her purple hair covered in ash. She was staring at Ragnar with an expression that Blossom had never seen on her face before.

Guilt.

The girl who had stood on the battlefield and declared Quinlan the future of the continent, who had told her father he was standing on the side of the old world, who had pointed at the Primordial Villain and said he was the only shot this continent had at true prosperity.

Ragnar had quoted her before he swung the warhammer.

Felicity’s hands were shaking. Her lips were moving but no sound came out, and her purple eyes held the guilt of a child who believed her words had gotten someone killed.

Blossom’s ears pressed flat.

Kiryssa’s training answered before her mind could.

She looked at the dwarven wall again.

The runes. The metal. The ancient dwarven craft she’d never encountered before. She didn’t know which part had stopped her and she didn’t care.

Blossom’s pupils dilated. Her ears rotated forward and locked as something primal kicked in, a state she’d only entered a handful of times before, always in moments where her master’s life was on the line and her body decided that thinking was too slow. Her senses sharpened until the battlefield noise compressed into a single focused stream, and the dwarven wall ahead of her went from an obstacle to a puzzle her cells were solving without her permission.

She could feel it. Gaps. Tiny fractures in whatever had rejected her, hairline spaces between the lines of power that hummed across the blacksteel. She didn’t know what they were. She didn’t know why they were there. Her body knew they were enough. She’d never tried to slip between them before. Kiryssa had never taught her this. Nobody had.

But the gaps were there. And she could fit.

“Grrrr…”

A growl vibrated in her chest and into the ground beneath her palms. Her blue eyes locked onto Ragnar.

She dissolved.

The shadows swallowed her whole. Her body unraveled into absence, and she crossed the distance to the dwarven wall in a flicker that left no trace on the scorched earth.

“[Null Rend]!”

Her claws hit Ragnar below the pauldron where the rune density was thinnest, and this time, the energy didn’t bounce. It phased past the blacksteel and found flesh, and the dwarf king’s body lurched forward as three lines of damage carved across his lower spine.

Ragnar roared.

Blossom didn’t stop.

She raked him again before the echo of his scream faded, her gauntlets finding the same gap and tearing deeper, widening the wound until blood ran freely down the inside of his armor.

Ragnar dropped his warhammer and spun with his fists balled. But she was already gone, phasing to his opposite flank and driving her claws into the crease behind his knee where the plate hinged. The dwarf king buckled. His leg gave for half a second and the bellow that ripped out of him cracked the composure of every dwarven soldier within earshot.

He swung blind. His fists carved the air where she’d been and she was behind him again, claws hooking into the gap beneath his helmet’s rim and dragging down. Blood sprayed across blacksteel.

Ragnar grabbed for her and caught nothing. She phased to his left and hit him in the ribs. Phased to his right and opened the back of his gauntlet. Every strike found the gaps her body had mapped in the fractions of a second between each phase, and the dwarf king who had tanked Stormlord-caliber blows for a millennium was bleeding from six wounds and roaring like a cornered animal.

“Get off me!”

“What?! My king!”

“His armor didn’t work?!”

“Protect the king!”

A healer was on him instantly. Golden light flooded the wound and Ragnar’s monstrous vitality answered in kind, the flesh already knitting beneath his armor, the bleeding slowing before it had properly started. The dwarven king’s constitution was built to absorb, and it showed.

Finally, his gauntleted hand closed around Blossom’s throat.

He caught her before she could phase out again, his grip locking around her neck with a force that made her vision spark. The runes on his gauntlet blazed to life against her skin, sealing her abilities shut. She was flesh and bone in the grip of a dwarf king who was bleeding from wounds she’d given him and furious enough to crush her windpipe without a second thought.

“Damned mongrel mutt,” he snarled. Then he looked down at Quinlan. “Slave! Stand up and fight for us. Command Queen Morgana to join as well. Now!”

The binding magic in Quinlan’s collar flared, and the command seared across his half-conscious mind like a brand.

…

Quinlan’s world was noise and blood and a ringing that wouldn’t stop.

The binding magic crawled deeper into his channels.

Then a voice cut through the static.

<Quinlan Elysiar.>

It came from inside. From the place behind his thoughts where his soul realm lived, where the concept seeds grew on Mimi’s tree, where the woman who had linked her whole being to him had resided.

<Is this it?>

He knew the voice. He knew it the way he knew his own pulse, but the concussion had turned his mind into broken glass and the fragments wouldn’t fit together. The voice was warm and ancient, and it belonged to someone who mattered, someone who had chosen him over everything else in existence.

<Will you throw in the towel? Accept your fate as property and let your women be captured, made into playthings for lesser men?>

The binding magic pulsed again. The cold fury behind the woman’s tone transformed, boiling into pure, demonic rage.

<QUINLAN ELYSIAR! ANSWER ME!>

The scream tore through the fog like a blade through silk, and for one crystalline second, Quinlan’s mind went perfectly, terribly clear.

He heard Blossom.

Not the growling, void-phasing predator who had torn a king apart. The girl. The dogkin who loved him more than her own life, whimpering in Ragnar’s grip with his gauntlet crushing her throat and runes burning against her skin, and the words that came out of her were barely a whisper.

“M-Master… open the portal… please… leave Blossom here and run…”

Every word cost her air she didn’t have.

Quinlan’s eyes opened.

They were red. Brighter than they had any right to be in a body this broken, burning through the blood that caked his face like two coals in a ruin, and the sound that came out of his throat belonged to something far worse than a beaten man.

A guttural, deep rumble.

“Day after day… I train, I level up… I grow stronger, smarter, more careful… Or so I keep telling myself.”

“Behave!” Ragnar shouted in alarm. “Or I’ll snap your mutt’s neck!”

“But at the end of the day, I’m still…”

“The magic… Why is it so slow to take effect?!”

“So… Fucking…”

“Durnok!” Ragnar’s voice cracked toward a squat dwarf in heavy robes near the rear of the formation. “Why isn’t the artifact working?!”

“PATHETIC!”

The Primordial Villain’s mana detonated.