Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1607 New Destination

Chapter 1607  New Destination

They rolled in like waves against a shore, each one a pulse of power absorbed, each one another fraction of the gap between him and the continent’s ceiling closing. His dutiful soul armies were grinding hard, and their gains became his.

Elite Souls could not level up, they had to be upgraded by their Necromancer. As such, XP was useless to them. They handed it all off to their master, who accepted every drop with open arms.

His girls were thorough, their organized efforts sounding in his [Master’s Link] as they coordinated with each other.

Quinlan flew south alone while his allies kept working. But they only attacked dwarven settlements.

Why?

Multiple reasons.

The dwarves had earned his ire. Ragnar had made it personal the moment he’d brought that hammer down. The king who’d clasped a slave collar around their lover’s neck made all the women feel a collective fury.

He and his cronies had to pay in blood.

But that wasn’t all.

Quinlan had elven women in his life. Seraphiel, who’d been a slave in belly dancer silks before he bought her freedom. Kaelira, who’d been sentenced to death for the crime of loving her craft. Sylvaris, who’d been with them for so long she became a constant presence all the girls loved and adored.

The elven council had voted to betray him, but the elven people hadn’t. Burning their forests meant watching Seraphiel’s face when she learned the wonderful patches of nature, which she absolutely adored like any elf, were turned to ash under his hands. It meant Kaelira going quiet after realizing her lover and friends were massacring her race.

They’d understand and not hold it against him.

But even then, he had no interest in watching his women grieve in silence.

And there was Luminara.

The Primordial Nurturer. The First Elf. The woman who’d claimed him as her son despite sharing no blood, who’d knitted him socks with the toes cut out because she couldn’t help trying to convert him to the barefoot lifestyle, who’d held him against her chest and told him she loved him with her whole being.

Every elf on this continent was her descendant, her legacy. Every one of them carried a thread of her in their blood. Killing them meant killing her children, and Quinlan had seen her face when she spoke of the ones she’d already lost.

He wouldn’t add to that number. Not unless the elves forced his hand.

The dwarves, though? Björn’s bloodline.

Björn had already shown what he thought of his descendants. He’d taken Kaelira under his wing, an elf, a woman from a race his people had spent an eternity oppressing, and taught her the craft that dwarves hoarded as their sacred birthright. He’d looked at the laws forbidding elves from smithing and spat on the insecurity of his descendants. The old smith loathed what his children had become.

He would understand.

Or maybe not. But it didn’t really matter because try as he might, Quinlan couldn’t exterminate the dwarven race.

After all…

They lived in Björn’s balls.

As long as the dwarf primordial male and female drew breath, the bloodline could not be ended. All Quinlan could do was wipe the dwarves from Thalorind. But once the primordials left their exile, Björn could start over. Repopulate, build a new generation that might turn out better than the one currently dying in their mountain fortresses.

Perhaps that was for the best.

The only way to make a race extinct was to cripple them by killing their primordials, which was what happened when Malakar killed the first elven male, making it so elven men could not level up. As such, they died thousands of years before their women of high level did, creating a myriad of problems for the race.

But, frankly, extinction had never been the goal. Quinlan had met dwarves worth keeping. He had dwarven citizens in his own territories, craftsmen and artificers who’d sworn loyalty and meant it. Wiping the race from the continent would mean killing them too, and he had no interest in that.

This was a cold culling of hostile people. Nothing more.

The dwarven leadership had taken Black Fang. They’d backstabbed him and his women. Quinlan needed to find her and he needed to get stronger, and so the dwarven people had become prey. Their fortresses, one of which almost certainly held Black Fang if she was captured, became his targets. Their people became souls for his army and experience for his level.

That was the end of the story.

But right now, Quinlan was thinking less about ethics or morality and more about elven tears.

The memory surfaced unbidden, pulled up from a conversation that felt like a lifetime ago. Luminara’s voice, soft with old grief, explaining something he hadn’t fully understood at the time.

“There’s an artifact called ‘A Mother’s Weeping Requiem.’ It’s an elixir filled with my unique tears.”

“Each time one of my children dies, I, the Primordial Nurturer, shed a tear filled with my divine energy.”

She’d told him what it could do. When her descendants drank from it, they felt a warmth like being cared for through a fever. The closer the blood relation, the stronger the effect. Her direct children even received memory transfers, glimpses of her wisdom, and a lingering presence that other elves recognized.

But Quinlan wasn’t her biological child. He was a primordial, and not even an elven one. But that was okay, because for primordials, the elixir worked differently.

“When a primordial consumes a drop, a strong light will surround them. This light will emit my deepest feelings about that person.”

If someone Luminara despised drank from it, Nyxara, for instance, a dark, hateful aura poured off them for all to see.

But if her beloved son drank from it…

The problem was where the elixir had ended up.

“I gave it to my youngest daughter. She took it with her on an adventure, and she died in a dungeon. The elixir remains in the hands of whoever killed her.”

A dungeon with a creature inside it, guarding the mystery. Quinlan angled his flight path and pushed harder into the wind.

His girls and armies could handle the grinding as he took a little detour.

Easier said than done, however. The dungeon’s location was a problem.

Luminara hadn’t told him where her daughter died. She did not know, for the information had come secondhand from Lilyanna, and the goddess was bound by laws that prevented her from interfering in Thalorind’s internal affairs. Divine bureaucracy at its finest. The Primordial Nurturer had given him a quest with no map, no markers, and no guarantee the destination still existed after so many years.

Quinlan should have been frustrated.

Instead, he was remembering blonde hair.

Seraphiel beside him in the aftermath of their love, her slender body pressed along his, golden strands spilling across his chest. Naked under the moonlight. Her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin while her cheek rested against his shoulder, and that low, satisfied purr rumbled in her throat like a cat who’d gotten exactly what she wanted.

They’d talked, in that haze. It had become a ritual of theirs. For every story he told about Earth, she offered one about hers.

That night, she’d asked about women.

Specifically, women who loved women. The concept wasn’t foreign to elves, of course, with their men dying young and their women living for millennia, lesbian relationships had become common enough that no one remarked on them. But it was born from necessity, from the void left by Malakar’s execution of the first elven male.

What fascinated Sera was that human women did this by choice. Many simply preferred it.

“And the men?” She’d lifted her head, blue eyes bright with mischief. “They don’t mind?”

“I’m sure some do, but…” Quinlan laughed. “Many are even happy to pay for the privilege of watching chicks lick each other.”

Her giggle had vibrated against his chest. “So ridiculous!!”

She’d settled back against him, smiling softly, and offered her tale in return.

The Untouched Tomb.

A sacred site deep in the elven lands, predating the Alliance by epochs. According to temple records, it was where one of the First Elf’s true daughters had last been seen, a direct descendant, not the extremely diluted bloodline that modern elves carried. The daughter decreed she’d die in that tomb and that she was not to be disturbed.

Over the millennia, the site had transformed. Sanctuaries sprouted around it. Shrine maidens devoted their lives to tending the grounds, praying for the daughter’s soul, and protecting the tomb itself against desecration.

Sera had mentioned it as a curiosity, a piece of religious trivia from her brief temple education that she’d barely paid attention to. The whole First Elf thing had struck her as nonsense at the time. Well, at least until she saw the woman with her own two eyes.

The Tomb’s story didn’t match up with what Luminara had told him, as this was the happy resting place of one of the final descendants, not one where some evil monster ate the youngest daughter.

But having no better leads, he decided to start there.

He angled his flight toward the Untouched Tomb, intending to ask the nearby shrine maidens for potential leads.