Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1251: Inside the Soul Realm

Minutes bled into hours. Hours folded into days.

Quinlan stayed in that same stillness, meditating, hands holding the sleeping dryad.

His body became stronger now, but the process was crawling at a pace that tested his patience. Every pulse of energy felt like dripping water filling a barrel.

Steady, yet maddeningly slow.

He wasn’t the type to sit idle, but even he knew better than to rush such an important recovery process. Whatever that Anima creation did, it took a lot from him.

And how could he rush recklessly when Mimi was tied to him? Forcing progress could tear her apart, and that wasn’t something he’d ever risk.

So he stayed.

He meditated when he could. Watched the tiny movements of her chest. Felt the faint hum of life returning to both of them. The stillness was dull, but not meaningless.

His girls were capable; they had already showcased that they could endure a bit of separation and even thrive while it happened.

Didn’t mean he liked it, though.

Every now and then, he’d glance up toward the shimmer above, to the endless ceiling of his soul realm. His mind would drift to the others, wondering how they were holding up, whether they were still in the stronghold or already slaying monsters to catch up to him.

But then his gaze would drop to Mimi, and the thought would fade.

It wasn’t time yet.

His patience frayed more with each passing cycle, but he stayed seated. He forced himself to match her rhythm.

Then, on what felt like the fifteenth sunrise in that timeless space, he opened his eyes to something different.

The tree.

It had grown, sporting a thicker trunk and fuller branches. But what truly caught his attention were the two orbs dangling from its center.

The elemental seed. The corruption seed.

The latter of the two was the thing that once tried to rebel when Sel’Ashra had clawed her way into his mind.

He could still remember her voice, dry and corrupt, like embers that refused to die. Using the corruption seed, her powers had wormed through him then until he was nothing more than a passenger in his own soul.

He was defeated without having the ability to fight back even slightly.

If it hadn’t been for Rosie and Mimi, he would’ve lost everything that day.

He looked down at the sleeping dryad in his lap, who lay with tiny fingers curled weakly over her chest.

A low growl escaped his lips, aimed right at himself.

”How pathetic.”

The words echoed in the still air.

No, this wouldn’t do. The next time Sel’Ashra came crawling back through that corruption link or whatever it was that actually allowed her to harass him, he wasn’t going to sit here and watch while the young girls fought for him.

His fingers brushed the surface of the corrupted seed. It was cold yet felt alive, perhaps even waiting, measuring him.

Quinlan narrowed his eyes and let his energy flow into it.

The response was immediate.

A pulse shot back through his arm, sharp and biting. His soul outright shuddered under the strain. He clenched his jaw, forcing more control into the flow, trying to subdue the thing, but the seed refused.

It twisted with its surface rippling with veins of black and gray that crawled up his hand.

The sight of it was ominous, letting him know that if he continued, he would be in major trouble. Thus, Quinlan exhaled sharply and drew back before it could spread further.

The connection snapped. The seed pulsed once, smugly, then stilled again.

He stared at his hand, watching the unwelcome veins fading from his skin.

”Am I just too weak to do this right now?” he muttered. ”Or is my approach wrong...?”

No answer came.

Days passed like that.

He kept meditating to recover but also probing the corruption seed, testing its boundaries, adjusting his method each time.

It was like trying to grasp smoke between his fingers. Every time he pushed, the seed resisted. Every time he pulled back, it seemed to relax, as though it knew he didn’t have what it took.

The rhythm of failure became familiar. And yet, beneath the frustration, he noticed something else that he already knew, but truly felt now.

The corruption wasn’t free.

When he focused deeper, he could feel threads wrapping around the seed, remnants of Mimi’s and Rosie’s power, bolstered by the blue dryad’s tree, binding it in place. Their influence suppressed its spread, holding it just tight enough to keep it dormant.

He could tell that if he wanted to, he could release those bindings. They recognized him as their source, their rightful owner.

But that was the problem.

He could release it, and the moment he did, he’d lose control.

This whole concept seed business was beyond his current depth. Whatever the gods could do with them, he clearly wasn’t there yet. If he couldn’t even handle a restrained corruption seed, what chance did he have once it was freed?

None.

And Rosie had been clear before that he should not attempt anything stupid.

He sighed, rubbing his temple. She’d scold him if she knew he’d even tried. Poor little Mimi would probably faint again just from the stress.

Fine. He’d wait.

His meeting with the Goddess was coming soon anyway. He’d ask her for advice, figure out whether the corruption seed could be refined, sealed better, or repurposed properly.

For now, there was no sense picking a fight he couldn’t win.

And so, begrudgingly, Quinlan withdrew his energy from the seed and refocused his attention fully on meditation. The days blurred again into quiet cycles of breathing, channeling, and slow recovery.

The soul realm stayed calm. The hum of energy between him and Mimi grew stronger. Her roots brightened, her tiny form steadier with each pulse.

Progress was slow, but it was progress.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

...

Weeks slipped by. Then a month.

Time held little meaning within the soul realm, but the outside world did not stop.

The girls used Quinlan’s absence as best as they could, knowing very well they had to do their utmost to get strong while he was recovering.

He always took giant leaps of power whenever something drastic occurred, thus they needed to use every bit of opportunity to better themselves lest they become weights he has to carry instead of pillars of support he could lean on.

The nine of them set up a rotating schedule, where eight of them would go do their best to level up while a single one remained behind.

Why?

They didn’t want Quinlan to wake up to an empty room; at least one of them had to be present and smile at him brightly as his eyelids parted.

But beyond that, they threw themselves into battle, cutting down greenskin monsters that had overrun large portions of the Greenvale Duchy.

The creatures had spread and arrived almost together with Quinlan’s arrival in the world of Thalorind, though they did precede him by a bit of time.

Pushed out of their lands on the border between Greenvale and the Beastman Confederation by the beastkin, they were forced to move into human lands properly.

By now, their numbers were astounding, which allowed them to run whole villages down, eating through farmland, and overtaking trade routes.

Yet the duke, Alastair Greenvale, did little to stop them. His focus remained on the competition and his endless political games, not the people bleeding in his lands.

Even the King screaming at him and his incompetence back at the banquet weren’t enough to make the Duke change his ways.

That left a void, one that Quinlan’s women were more than happy to fill.

The girls had become professional monster hunters by now.

Even Ayame, still processing the truth about her father, fought harder than anyone. Her swordsmanship grew colder and more efficient. She was quiet, but the edge in her strikes told the story of a woman channeling everything she had into progress.

Under their collective effort, combined with the clashes between the Vesper Consortium and the invading enemies, the duchy’s situation began to shift.

Greenskin numbers thinned. Towns regained breathing room. Rumors spread about a mysterious band of powerful women handling what the duke wouldn’t.

But not all change was visible on the battlefield. Behind the scenes, the political tension was tightening. None of the Obsidian Circle Members had been slain, meaning no 1,000-point bounties had been claimed yet. The fight for Greenvale was still ongoing in full force.

The continent of Iskaris was stirring.