Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Sage Rongtai.

The Immovable.

The Mountain of Stillness.

The hulking monk stepped forward through the dust and flame, his gait calm and unhurried, like the passage of seasons. Scorch marks clung to his robes, smoke curled from his shoulders, and chips of stone had cracked away from his wrists… but he moved like none of it mattered. His face, carved from stoicism itself, showed no fear. Not even tension. Only purpose.

Across from him, the elemental god turned his gaze. All four arms spread lazily as if stretching, each one now wreathed in a separate elemental spiral: fire, water, wind, and earth.

He grinned. “So you are the one they call the Immovable Sage. The oldest. Strongest. No wonder you survived my earlier strike with barely a scratch.”

He gave an approving, playful whistle.

“That’s impressive. Really. You’re like a relic, an artifact the world somehow forgot to bury. I almost feel honored.”

Rongtai said nothing.

The god’s grin widened. “Ahh. One of those. You speak with fists, not words.”

He raised all four arms high.

“Good. I speak that language too.”

With a thunderous step, he advanced as his four elements coalesced. The air between them cracked with tension, space warping as two titanic forces prepared to collide.

From the rear, Quinlan watched, eyes narrowed, lips tight.

The sage’s broad back was unyielding, like a fortress of stone.

He’s stalling him for me… No. Stalling him for all of us.

Quinlan’s brain spun, analyzing patterns, gauging power levels, watching how the god’s elements functioned.

‘Too much raw power,’ he thought grimly. ‘That explosion didn’t just destroy the arena. It erased qi formations crafted with the intent of containing the Sovereigns themselves. And yet… he’s not reckless. He’s enjoying this. Confident for a reason.’

Before he could dwell further, a cry tore through the chaos.

“HAAAAH!!”

Serika.

She blurred into motion. She opened with Ember Bloom: short, snapping jabs that burst on impact, each detonation blooming into a petal of orange fire. The charred fire‑servant lashed his smoking chain for her throat, but she dropped beneath it and drove a palm into his ribs. The blow should have launched him back in a blossom of heat, yet the explosion flickered, strangled mid‑flash.

Behind her, the drowned woman glided in utter silence her Rotwater blade sweeping. Serika vaulted with her torso folding and legs scissoring up into the air, switching into her Scorchwind Vortex form.

She became a spinning torch, heels carving rings of incandescent air. Where her kicks passed, the corrupted water hissed away in greasy steam, but a single droplet landed on her side. It didn’t scald; it curdled, eating at qi and flesh alike. Serika grimaced, twisting off her hands and diving down.

She drove an elbow down in her third form: Tyrant Crash, turning her shoulder into a meteor. The impact cratered the stone and buried the fire‑servant to the knee, but his ash‑flame only licked hungrily up her arm, dimming the crimson of her own fire.

Before the chain could coil her ankle, she slid low, palms skimming the ground, and her legs became a storm of sweeping kicks, forcing both enemies back in a haze of ember and after‑heat.

Yet the corrupted pair rose unharmed.

The man’s Ash Flame did not radiate warmth; it clung and devoured the qi that tried to fuel Serika’s fire. Each ember it shed was a parasite, leeching vitality instead of feeding it.

Beside him, the woman’s Rotwater dripped from her sword in viscous strands that corroded marble to sludge. Water should cleanse; this water spoiled, turning everything it touched to stagnant decay.

‘So this is what Venthros meant,’ Quinlan thought. ‘”Streamlining their path to greatness” with Corruption’s Concept, granting Spirit‑Tempering power in a short time frame instead of centuries of diligent cultivation, and paying for it with their sanity and their souls.’

He watched Serika’s flame sputter under the ash, watched sludge bite through her aura, and knew she wouldn’t outlast two such foes alone.

Quinlan gathered his breath. Fire flared up one arm, wind coiled around his legs, earth anchored his stance, and water cooled the heat before it tore muscle. Less refined than a god’s, but no longer crude.

He launched himself from the rubble, streaking toward the embattled Sovereign, weaving four elements as one. Whether Venthros liked it or not, the Avatar had chosen his dance partner, and Serika would not fight this corrupted duet alone.

Quinlan’s boots struck cracked stone with elemental qi rippling in his wake. He landed beside Serika like a thunderclap, just as the fireman’s parasitic chain cracked toward her again.

She didn’t even flinch.

Instead, she shifted her stance. Her next step widened, just enough to give Quinlan space. A sovereign’s intuition. She didn’t need to ask what he could do. She knew.

“Finally,” she muttered with a voice that was breathless from exertion, but the grin tugging at her lip was pure delight. “I thought you were gonna sit this one out at this rate.”

The Rotwater woman exploded forward with a shriek, blade descending in a corrupt arc.

Quinlan answered with a snap of his wrist, coating them with reinforced earth, letting him intercept the blade. The corrupted sludge hissed against the hardened stone on his hands, melting through, but not before Serika used it as a platform.

She launched off it, flipping into a somersault, and dropped straight into Tyrant Crash again, only this time, Quinlan let the earth and the watery sludge slip from his arms to the ground before he swept his hand upward as she descended, using wind qi to sharpen her dive. The impact cratered the ground with a booming shockwave, making the fireman’s feet shatter the stone beneath as he stumbled.

They were moving as one now.

Serika didn’t need him to cover her—she needed him to stoke her fire. And Quinlan understood that in his very bones.

Wind followed her footwork, turning flame into whips of razor heat. Earth braced her wildest maneuvers, anchoring her when she might’ve overextended. His water cleaned the foul rot from her limbs just long enough for her qi to breathe. In turn, her fury kept enemies off his back, clearing the space for him to channel.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t signal. Because they didn’t need to.

Weeks of sparring, of brutal contests and stubborn clashing between Avatar and Sovereign, had created something far more intimate than cooperation. They understood each other’s rhythms. Their aggression harmonized with flame and soul becoming twin crescendos of violence.

Serika whirled into Scorchwind Vortex again, this time riding a cushion of Quinlan’s wind. It doubled her speed. She carved burning circles into the corrupted woman’s aura, staggering her. Quinlan was already moving, sliding into a crouch beneath her vortex’s edge and striking low with his palm, launching a blade of water that turned sludge to harmless mist.

The corrupted woman reeled right into Serika’s elbow.

“Hah!” Serika shouted as she drove the blow home, laughing like a lunatic as corrupted qi burst from the woman’s back in a wet explosion.

The fireman lunged for Quinlan’s side with his chain lashing. Quinlan twisted out of the way using the fluidity of water before he redirected the blow with earth, and Serika pounced on the distraction like a hungry flame. Her foot found the man’s jaw, and Quinlan followed up with a crushing downward palm of compressed air, the force of which collapsed the fireman’s legs beneath him.

Both enemies slammed into the ground while coughing up dark qi that seemed to be desperate to escape their ruined vessels.

They weren’t dead just yet, but they were losing. And fast.

Serika and Quinlan stood back-to-back with their chests heaving and blood sizzling down Serika’s arms. Both wore matching grins that belonged on manic battle junkies, not composed generals. Mad, someone might have called them. Monstrous, perhaps.

To them, it was bliss.

“I like fighting with you,” Serika said between breaths.

“That makes the two of us,” Quinlan replied, smirking.

Their laughter cut through the smoke.

Then, *boom!*

Another explosion rocked the ruined arena. Shattered debris rained from above as the sky cracked open in streaks of power. From the far side of the battlefield, reinforcements arrived. Silver-armored elite troops rushed in to assist, joining Rongtai and their queen in their own respective fights. Qi clashed with corrupted energy in bursts of elements and decay.

The tide, which had teetered on the edge of collapse, now shot upward in Zhenwu’s favor.

And at the center of it all stood the Avatar and the Sovereigns.

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