Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1262: Thud, Thud, Thud

Garrett did not show signs of anger for the way he was spoken to. Instead, he replied matter-of-factly. “Our master has a different purpose for you.”

Her face twisted. “Our master?! My only master is Lord Eric Winter-”

Before she could finish, his boot slammed into her head, followed by a punch to her jaw. The impact sent her spinning to the side before crashing against the floor.

Her vision went black.

The young count stood frozen, watching his protectors die one after another. His breathing turned shallow.

The final scream cut off with a sickening squelch, and then… quiet. The eleven blue-skinned traitors were reduced to seven, but they stood in still formation, their faces devoid of emotion. No regret, no shame.

To Eric’s shock, none approached after securing their victory. Not even Garrett, who now stood above the defeated Sarra.

Eric’s hand trembled around the hilt of his ceremonial sword. “Why aren’t they moving?” he whispered, feeling his heart racing due to being overwhelmed.

It was beating so strongly that the count felt he might faint at any moment.

But before his confusion could mount any further,

A sound came.

*Thud.*

*Thud.*

*Thud.*

Slow, steady thuds were echoing from the corridor.

Each step carried weight, deliberate and unhurried. The nobles shrank even further back.

From the doorway, a man appeared. Tall, broad-shouldered, and wrapped in armor that seemed to drink the light around it. Behind him walked two women: one with flowing red hair, the other blue-skinned with a mask over her mouth.

As the man stepped into the hall, the dark armor shimmered. Scarlet fire crawled along its edges, and in a smooth, seamless shift, the plates folded inward, forming a black suit lined with red trim.

The transformation was unnatural yet effortless.

Eric’s eyes widened. He recognized that face from countless reports and bounty sheets. Then his expression contorted.

“I should have known from the blue-skinned traitors… You killed and resurrected them, turning them into your minions. Primordial Villain.”

The man smirked, unfazed by the accusation. His gaze flicked toward Garrett and then to Sarra’s unconscious form on the ground. He lifted a hand. “[Subjugation].”

The word didn’t seem to do anything; there was no physical sign of a change. Eric thought the man might’ve failed to cast his spell successfully, after all, he didn’t even have a wand in his hand.

But…

“Heal yourself,” the man ordered.

To Eric’s horror, the woman stirred. Still unconscious, she reached for her pouch, uncorked a potion, and drank.

This was the might of the Primordial Subjugator. Unlike normal Slave Master-classed individuals, he did not require his subjects to be listening; his word was law, and they did their utmost to obey.

The bleeding along Sarra’s temple and nose sealed within seconds. She blinked in confusion, sitting up slowly. Her eyes were unfocused, but she was once again conscious.

The man’s attention then turned to Eric. “Lord Eric. It’s been a long time. Or should I call you Count Eric now? How the time flies…”

Eric stiffened. “We’ve never met.”

The man’s expression turned to one of surprise. “Really? You don’t remember me?”

He took another step forward with hands clasped behind his back, walking with the calmness of someone who feared nothing in the room.

“Now I’m hurt. You extended an invitation to me once, asking me to visit your palace. I finally made time to accept, and you don’t even remember?”

The sarcasm in his tone chilled the hall more than the night air.

“I never-” Eric began, but the words caught in his throat.

A memory flashed from nearly a year ago.

A young man named Quinlan. Barely level five. Thin, weak, and forgettable.

Eric hadn’t even cared for the man back then; he’d only noticed the samurai woman who followed him and decided to send her master an invitation because a slave couldn’t make her own decisions.

But the face… the name…

His pulse quickened as his mind rejected what his eyes saw. That boy had been nothing. A runt, not even worth mocking. The man before him, though… his frame was carved with muscle, his presence outright suffocating. His features were sharper, his gaze cold and ruthless.

Even his eyes were a different color, for the Goddess’s sake!

“You can’t be the same man!” Eric shouted, but his voice was trembling despite his best effort to sound firm.

“It’s been a long time. A lot can happen in so many months,” Quinlan replied without slowing.

His steps carried him across the blood-streaked floor, unhurried. The echoes of his boots filled the hall, cutting through the shallow breathing of those pressed against the walls.

He stopped only when he reached Eric.

The count hadn’t tried to flee. He hadn’t screamed or begged, but only because his body refused to move.

Behind him, the nobles had already crushed themselves against the far wall, their silks smeared with dirt and sweat. The servants stood before them, forced into a living barrier by trembling hands on their shoulders.

Quinlan loomed over Eric. He was more than a head taller, his shoulders broad enough to cast a large shadow across the smaller man.

His gaze drifted from Eric’s face to the family crest stitched into his coat, then back again.

Eric swallowed hard. “What is your plan with me?”

“You will serve as my subordinate in whatever capacity I require of you.”

Eric’s stomach turned. “Any capacity,” in this context, carried too many meanings.

The man could take his armies. His treasury. He could order him to spy on fellow nobles or veto duchy policies in his favor. Everything Eric had built could be stripped away, leaving him a count only in title, his sole purpose to serve a master that didn’t even answer to the crown.

His hand clenched at his side. “And if I choose death instead?”

The man before him seemed to turn even more imposing, making Eric feel as if the height difference between them grew even further before he declared,

“Death is not an option you’re presented with, Count.”