Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1261: A New Purpose

The grand hall had turned into a crowded refuge. Nobles in embroidered coats sat shoulder to shoulder with kitchen hands, scribes, and stable boys.

Children whimpered quietly in their mothers’ arms. The only light came from the line of floating artifact orbs above the hall, their glow wavering each time the walls rumbled outside.

Two of Eric’s elites guarded the barricaded doors with their spears crossed.

“Lord Garrett will return soon,” Baron Mallor said while wringing his hands but forcing a grin. “He’s never lost a defensive battle. The old man might not be at the very peak, but he is near and also very experienced.”

“He has a very good head on his shoulders! A calm and collected mind matters more than a couple of levels extra!”

“Aye,” another noble added. “And with how loud the invaders were, the soldiers from the nearby barracks must’ve heard by now. Reinforcements will be here any moment. They will be able to keep the invaders at bay until the Greenvale forces arrive.”

Everyone present clung to those words, nodding their heads vehemently. For the first time since the explosions began, the hall’s noise softened into something that was even close to calm.

The female elite at the door, Lieutenant Sarra, one of Garrett’s senior officers, kept her eyes on the heavy barricade. Sweat lined her temples, but her grip on the spear didn’t shake.

Then came the sound. Three slow knocks.

The entire hall fell silent.

Sarra’s gaze narrowed. “Code,” she demanded.

A pause came, followed by a familiar tone answering through the reinforced gates. “Iron keeps its promise.”

Her shoulders loosened. That was Garrett’s voice, and the code he made for these exact situations. Relief flooded Sarra’s face.

“It’s Captain Garrett!” she called out, looking back to Eric and the nobles. “He’s here!”

A wave of cheers rolled through the crowd. Servants clasped hands and nobles exhaled loudly.

“I told you he’d win!” Kolt barked, laughing nervously. “The old wolf probably cut those bastards down himself!”

Eric allowed himself a tight breath. “Open it. He did agree that he’d come back if the enemies were too strong. Maybe he’s here to make the final stand,” he ordered.

Eric’s reasoning dulled the good mood in the hall as the others remembered that, indeed, perhaps Garrett wasn’t here to announce his victory but to make his last stand.

Sarra nodded. The guards began moving the barricades aside. The heavy door creaked open.

Then everything stopped.

Standing in the doorway was Garrett. Behind him, his ten elites. The same ones Sarra and her comrades knew for centuries.

But their skin was blue. Their eyes were lacking the familiar warmth she knew them for.

The nobles froze, and what remained of their joy drained so quickly it looked as if they were stolen. Someone whispered, “What… what happened to them?”

“Close the door!” Sarra barked.

She threw her shoulder into it, trying to push it shut again, but Garrett’s hand met the edge. His grip pressed against the wood. Muscles swelled beneath his armor as he forced it back open with great strength.

The other elite tried to help, but the moment they stepped forward, two of Garrett’s subordinates moved and pushed their way into the hall.

Then, they engaged Sarra and her comrades, who were trying to close the gate. They did so with reckless abandon, focusing on offense much more than defense. Clearly, their intent was to stop them from closing the path, even if it meant their deaths.

And just like that, the door groaned open under Garrett’s strength. Cold air poured in from the dark corridor behind him.

Sarra stumbled backward, breathing hard. Behind her, nobles screamed, shoving the servants out of their way to get as far away from the entrance as possible.

Garrett stepped inside. The other blue-skinned soldiers followed. Their eyes glowed in the artifact light, unblinking.

And as they entered the hall, the last of the nobles’ hopeful chatter vanished, leaving only the sound of shuffling feet, falling furniture, and the slow, measured footsteps of the dead.

“Lord Garrett, what is going on?!” Sarra’s voice cut through the noise, sharp with disbelief.

Garrett’s head turned toward her. His face was slack, his eyes empty of the stern warmth she knew him for.

For a brief moment, it seemed he might answer, but then he simply raised his sword and spoke to the blue-skinned elites behind him.

“Kill your comrades,” he said. His tone carried the weight of command, firm and calm. “They will join us in our new life, serving a new master.”

His gaze moved past Sarra, settling on Count Eric Winterwood before adding, “A truly worthy master.”

Eric’s jaw tensed. “Garrett… what have you done?”

The old captain didn’t reply. Sarra’s grip tightened around her spear until her knuckles turned white. She shot to her feet and growled, “Are you even the man I know?!”

She didn’t wait for his answer. Her spear thrust forward in one clean motion, aimed at his chest. “[Piercing Thrust]!”

Garrett’s blade swung up in a smooth arc, knocking the weapon aside.

Metal rang as he caught the haft and twisted, forcing her to brace with both hands. She dug her boots into the floor, struggling to keep control, but the strength in his grip was overwhelming.

He looked at her with contempt in his eyes. “I taught you not to get emotional, no matter what. And yet here you are, losing your weapon because your head isn’t steady.”

His hand shifted on the blade, forcing her back another step. For a moment, the two were locked in place, their weapons grinding against each other. Then Garrett spoke again, quieter this time.

“As for your question…” His expression barely changed. “I am the same Garrett you knew. Only now, I have found a purpose greater than dying in service to a count too frightened to enter combat properly.”

The words hung in the air. Behind Sarra, the nobles pressed against the far wall. The sound of boots scraping against marble filled the hall as the blue-skinned soldiers began to advance, silent and methodical, closing in on their living counterparts.

Garrett’s blade tilted just enough to twist the spear from Sarra’s grip. It clattered across the marble floor. She grabbed his wrist with both hands, trying to stop him.

The sound of fighting filled the hall behind her; metal on metal, boots sliding, screams cut off halfway. Six loyal guards stood their ground against ten of their former comrades, but the difference was overwhelming.

The blue-skinned soldiers moved without hesitation, blades cutting in perfect rhythm, bodies absorbing strikes that should have crippled them. It was not that they didn’t take damage; just that as long as they were not killed or crippled, such as having their limbs cut off, they would continue fighting with utmost fervor.

Bleeding out or even getting to live to tell the tale was not a concern of theirs.

Within seconds, two fell. A third was impaled through the chest. The scent of blood thickened the air.

Sarra’s breath caught. She turned her head just enough to glimpse one of her friends being dragged down by a sword through the neck. Her throat tightened.

“Kill me then, you coward!” she shouted with her voice breaking. “Why are you doing this?!”