Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1604 Yoink

Chapter 1604  Yoink

[Warp Gate] opened in the middle of the ruined hall, a churning disc of violet light that filled the arch where the main doors had been.

The subjugated dwarves were tossed in, delivered straight to Arch Priestess Velara’s doorstep.

Then it closed and a new one opened, for his girls this time.

The next target awaited them. Ayame was the last through. Her crystal blue eyes found his for a beat before she stepped into the light.

The portal closed behind her.

Quinlan turned and let the wind take him.

He shot out of the fortress, and then he was in the sky again, angling deeper into the Alliance’s interior. Forest gave way to farmland, and farmland to quarry roads cut into rolling hills.

Quinlan understood. Ayame hated every word of that speech.

He remembered the shaking fists and red-rimmed eyes. The voice forcing itself back into formation every time it tried to break.

She hadn’t argued for the grind out of convenience or greed but because she fully believed that it was the right call.

Every instinct she owned had pulled in the opposite direction, and she’d pushed through anyway because she was the second-in-command and that was what the role asked of her.

If the chains had been on Ayame instead, she would have wanted the same call made. No rescue run into a trap.

His stalwart samurai had honored Black Fang the only way a warrior knew.

He banked further west.

…

A dwarven supply train crawled along a packed earth road between two ridges.

Six wagons drawn by heavy draft horses, an escort detail in Alliance livery walking alongside, a captain at the head with his hand resting on a horn he would never get to sound.

Quinlan saw them from three hundred meters up and didn’t slow.

One of the guards glanced skyward and froze.

“MONSTER!”

The shout tore from his throat and the whole column came apart at once.

“In the sky!”

“What is that, a black wyvern?!”

“That’s not a wyvern, that’s- that’s a man! It’s a man flying!”

Fingers jabbed upward. Horses shrieked as their handlers tried to haul them off the track. The captain fumbled for his horn, his fingers suddenly too thick for the strap.

Quinlan’s hand came up as he dove.

Wind spiraled out of his palm and caught the carts in a single coordinated lift. Six of them ripped clean off the road and rose into the air, harnesses snapping, cargo rattling inside their beds. The horses stayed where they were. So did the guards. So did the captain with his horn halfway to his lips.

And as the lift completed, Quinlan’s head tilted down and his mouth opened.

Fire poured out of it in a rolling downward cone.

The flame washed across the road from one side to the other, a sustained breath that cooked every dwarf on that stretch of road into the same uniform char.

Quinlan kept flying.

The empty carts drifted above the burn line, bobbing in the wind he’d left behind. He wheeled up to the nearest one without breaking stride and flipped back the canvas.

Wine bottles. Racks of them, nested in straw, each one corked and sealed with a vintner’s mark he half-recognized, a dwarven label Vex loved to drink.

‘Thanks.’

He stored the haul in his spatial inventory, and let the wind carry him on.

Behind him, the burned stretch went quiet.

…

Ragnar’s war room sat three floors above the dungeons.

He’d climbed the stairs with his bandaged fist still aching, and the moment he pushed through the doors there was already a messenger waiting for him. Young dwarf, pale, holding a scroll in both hands like it might bite him.

“My king-”

“Speak.”

“Kharn Moldur, my king.”

Ragnar paused for a moment. A terrible woman’s unhinged, bloody grin flashed across his vision as his good hand found the back of the nearest chair.

“The garrison has not responded to any signal. The elven patrol stationed on the eastern passes has filed a report.” The messenger’s throat moved. “They describe the Greymount’s peak erupting. They describe a man in dark armor rising from a new crater. They describe a mass harvest of the dead performed over the ruins.”

Ragnar’s knuckles whitened on the chair back. “No…”

The room was gone.

He was standing in the wreckage of the battle again, and the thing was still moving. Both arms gone. A wound on the back of the head that should have emptied a man of every drop of life he owned. And the crimson veins in that dark armor had been pulsing while blood poured from a hit that would have killed any mortal thing on the continent.

Suddenly, a pair of red eyes snapped open in Ragnar’s skull.

Burning. Wrathful. Fixed on him across a battlefield that wasn’t there anymore and never stopped being there.

“You ooze the stench of fear.”

Black Fang’s voice rang in his head. He could see her in his mind the way he’d left her. Chin lifted, red running from her hairline into the hollow of her collarbone, blood spewing from her lips as that unhinged chuckle rolled out of her throat.

Ragnar shouted.

The sound ripped out of him, raw, nothing like the voice of a king. His legs folded under him and he lurched sideways, catching himself on the chair with his bandaged hand a half-second before he went to the floor. The chair scraped backward under his weight.

“Your Majesty?” The messenger took a half-step forward.

“Continue,” Ragnar rasped. His own voice sounded distant. “How many dead?”

“Seventeen thousand, my king. The entire population of Kharn Moldur.”

The voices came before he could even take a breath.

“You think you know fury. You think you know vengeance. Let me tell you…”

“SHUT UP!”

The roar tore out of him like a howling beast, and his bandaged fist came down on the arm of the chair hard enough to split the wood along its grain.

The messenger flinched back with a strangled cry, the scroll nearly slipping from his hands, eyes wide.

“M-my king?!”

Ragnar was already breathing through his teeth, one hand braced against the split armrest, the other pressed to his temple as if he could shove the voice back down where it had come from. Blood from his reopened stitches ran freely now, soaking through the linen across his chest.

The voice kept laughing in the back of his skull anyway.

Ragnar’s good hand closed on the edge of the war table and did not let go.

A second messenger pushed through the doors before he could draw breath.