Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 807: After the Old Man

Quinlan looked at Feng.

Feng looked at Quinlan.

Neither said a word, just exchanged a look heavy with questions. Then, as if on cue, they both shrugged. If the old man had wanted them dead, he’d had his chance. There was no need for tricks or hidden alleyways. He could’ve crushed Quinlan’s throat the moment he’d hit the ground.

So they followed.

The old man didn’t slow down. Didn’t check if they were coming. His gait remained steady—clack, hiss, groan—one leg dragging with each step.

They kept a respectful distance. A few paces behind, not too close. Close enough to not lose him, far enough to not annoy him. He didn’t speak, and they didn’t try to make him.

Steps stretched into miles.

The once-bustling streets of the city gave way to packed dirt roads. Then to gravel. Then to wild grass. Lantern light faded behind them, swallowed by the ink of night. Stars peeked through the clouds above, pale and flickering.

Still, the old man walked relentlessly.

Feng whispered once, ”Is he leading us to some mountain cave?”

Quinlan just shook his head, not answering. The truth was, he had no idea. But there was a rhythm to the old man’s steps. A purpose. He wasn’t lost.

So they continued.

An hour passed.

The city had long since vanished behind them, its lights a distant memory. All around, the world had quieted: just wind through trees, the call of night insects, and the never-ending clack, hiss, groan of the old man’s steps.

Then finally, the old man veered off the trail, trudging behind a low, grassy hill. At first it looked like nothing but overgrown weeds. But as they rounded the hill’s bend, a shape emerged from the darkness.

A shack.

Small. Slanted. One wall sagged inward. The wood was splintered and gray with rot, roof patched with mismatched tiles and vines creeping up its corners. A single cracked window stared out like a blind eye. It looked like the kind of place no one lived in, something forgotten by the world and left to decay.

The old man reached the doorway and pushed it open without a word. The hinges squealed in protest.

He stepped inside.

Didn’t glance back.

Didn’t tell them to follow.

Didn’t tell them not to.

Feng clutched the edge of Quinlan’s black robe with trembling fingers.

”You sure about this?” she whispered, her earlier confidence nowhere to be found.

Quinlan didn’t answer. He just patted her head gently with a confident smile and stepped forward, letting the door creak wider as he entered with Feng in tow like a baby duck following her mother. ṛáℕ𝘰𝐛Ɛ§

The air inside was stale, thick with dust and age. Moonlight spilled in through cracks in the wooden walls, casting slanted shadows across the floor. There was no furniture to speak of, just a low, uneven table in the corner made of roughly chopped planks, and a single straw mat laid out across the floor, frayed and yellowed with use.

No kitchen.

No shelves.

No books, scrolls, or signs of discipleship.

Just bare wooden walls, a leaky ceiling, and cold stone beneath their feet. The kind of place where you felt like even your breath echoed.

The only signs of life were a dented kettle and a rusted pan hanging near the window, untouched in who-knew-how-long. A single oil lamp flickered to life at the old man’s touch, revealing a bit more of the room, namely a worn-down training pole that stood alone in the corner, its base cracked and stuffed with rags to keep it upright.

That was it.

A home stripped of every comfort civilization had to offer. Not a retreat. Not a hermit’s paradise.

Just... exile.

Quinlan stepped fully inside. Feng hesitated a heartbeat longer, then darted in after him, staying close.

The old man didn’t acknowledge them.

He simply sat cross-legged on the mat, silent, as if there were no strangers in his home. Strangers whom he had attacked previously.

The old man remained motionless in his meditative pose, his blackened limbs folded with mechanical stillness, expression unreadable beneath the flickering lamp. Minutes dragged by in silence, the air inside the shack growing heavier and tenser with every passing second.

Quinlan finally let out a low exhale. ”What is this? You drag us out here for hours, fight me without a word, and now, what even are you doing? Just... sit there?”

No reply.

The old man didn’t twitch, didn’t blink. He was a statue of iron.

Quinlan looked around, his hands motioning to the barren interior. ”Did you bring us here to clean up your shack? Say something.”

Still nothing. The old man might as well have turned to stone.

Quinlan’s jaw clenched. He was many things, but being overly patient with a seemingly senile geezer wasn’t one of them. However, before his frustration could rise any further, a small hand slipped into his.

Feng Jiai.

She looked up at him, and Quinlan was surprised to note that her expression was unexpectedly calm. For once, she wasn’t teasing, loud, scared, or bold. Her eyes were serious, grounded in the present.

She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, then nodded once, slowly.

’Trust me.’

Quinlan furrowed his brows, but he let her pull him forward.

She led him toward the old man, and once close enough, she gracefully dropped into a kneeling position across from him. Her back was straight, her head slightly bowed. It wasn’t groveling, but the kind of posture one might offer a revered old veteran who deserved all the respect in the world.

Quinlan stared for a second, hesitating... then sighed and followed her lead. His knees touched the cold floor, and he sat beside Feng, mirroring her pose as best he could.

That was when the old man’s eyes opened.

They were dark. Not just in color, but in weight. Quinlan felt that those were eyes that had watched the burning of cities, the betrayal of kin, and the slow crawl of time that never healed what it should.

His voice, when it came, was a coarse whisper, like steel dragged over gravel.

”...Now you understand the first step.”

Quinlan didn’t move. Neither did Feng.

The old man continued, never raising his voice. ”Martial arts is not merely the swinging of fists or the wielding of blades. It is discipline. Humility. Respect. Not for power... but for the path that power walks.”

He looked at Feng for a moment—just a glance—then turned his gaze back to Quinlan.

”You passed the test of strength. Now you show you’re willing to listen. To kneel not to a man, but to the art itself.”

He leaned forward. The metal in his limbs hissed.

”If you wish to learn what I know... then abandon every illusion of grandeur. You are not special in this room. Not yet.”

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Then he leaned back again and shut his eyes.

”...Sleep outside. We begin at dawn.”

Quinlan raised an eyebrow, caught somewhere between disbelief and annoyance. ’Sleep outside?’

But before he could say anything, even a bewildered ”What?”...

”Yes, Master,” Feng said clearly, her voice calm and respectful. She then tugged at his sleeve and pulled him back toward the shack’s doorway.

Quinlan blinked. ’Master?’