Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1771 No War Crimes Please

The [Warp Gate] had deposited them on a snow-covered hill a few hundred meters from New Whisperfieldʼs northern edge, and Myrasyn was squinting before anyone else had even stepped through.

”Isveth.” She grabbed the other elfʼs arm without looking away from the view. ”Are those trees inside the city?”

Isvethʼs eyes narrowed against the winter glare. A settlement of compressed earth buildings stretched across several square kilometers of forest below them, three stories tall with frosted quartz windows and external stone staircases, its roads woven between old-growth oaks and evergreen groves that stood inside the city as though the builders had refused to cut a single one.

”They built around them...” Isveth confirmed, and her grip on her own wrist tightened. ”As expected of the Holy Son...”

”And the streets are not snowy at all!” Myrasyn squinted, shading her eyes with one hand.

”Are those... Children?” Isveth said. ”Running merrily in the cold winter?”

The rest of the procession filed through behind them.

Alexios emerged with Felicity at his side, and the warrior kingʼs stride slowed as his gaze swept the city.

”The bastard really has a city...”

”When will you call Quinlan by his name?” Felicity giggled.

”When he stops being a bastard.”

Elisabeth stepped through next and whatever complaint had been building behind her teeth dissolved into stunned silence.

”What is that?!” she shouted, pointing at the settlement in the distance.

Morgana came next, still caked in mud from her underground imprisonment.

The procession finished by Quinlan and Jasmine, walking hand-in-hand.

The guests might have stood there squinting at the settlement for another hour, but movement along the treeline cut the awe short.

A patrol of soldiers crested the hill from the east in tight formation, weapons drawn, their boots crunching through the snow with a discipline that spoke to orders taken seriously.

Theyʼd registered the new arrivals and closed the distance fast.

This hill was priority target to defend, as enemies could use it to barrage New Whisperfield with cannon fire should it be taken.

As such, patrols were a constant in the area.

”Hands in the air and identify yourselves or we will-!” the commander shouted, but then spotted Jasmine first and faltered. Then he spotted the man beside her. ”My Lord?! Governor?!”

Jasmine waved them off. ”Stand down, captain. Theyʼre our guests.”

”Yes!” Fists snapped to chests in salute toward their governor.

The patrol leaderʼs eyes lingered on Quinlan for one more heartbeat before training won out over curiosity, and the soldiers resumed their route without another word.

Jasmine turned back to her guests with a sly smile.

”If we want an authentic experience, weʼll need to blend in.”

Her gaze then drifted upward to the two-meter-tall armored figure beside her whose silhouette could probably be identified from a kilometer away by anyone on the continent who had ever heard the words ʼPrimordial Villain.ʼ

She giggled softly. ”Well... as much as possible.”

”Synchra, letʼs try our best, shall we?” Quinlan replied, addressing his armor.

Synchraʼs plates shivered with delight at the task, and the living metal began reshaping with the fussy enthusiasm of a woman whoʼd just been asked to dress her man for an outing.

Her first attempt was a merchantʼs traveling coat, deep green with brass buttons and a collar that framed his face rather well.

She held the look for a moment, pleased with herself, but then adjusted the collar, adjusted it again, and apparently decided it was too handsome.

The plates rippled into a second try, becoming a farmerʼs vest over roughspun, worn belt, rolled sleeves, but she fussed with the hem for two full seconds before scrapping that one too.

The third time, she committed.

Obsidian darkened to rough-spun brown, angular segments softened into the loose folds of a laborerʼs tunic, greaves melted into cracked leather boots.

She added stains, frayed edges, and a patch on the left knee that looked like it had been there for years.

The outfit looked like it hadnʼt been washed in a week, and Synchra rippled once with quiet satisfaction, finally content with what sheʼd made for him.

”Good job.”

Quinlanʼs grin was entirely too pleased for the filthy garb sheʼd dressed him in.

The guests stared.

Not just at the transformation itself, though the fact that an armor could reshape on command was worth several questions from any smith alive.

What arrested them was that the Primordial Villain, the most dangerous man on the continent, had just voluntarily dressed himself as a pauper.

In a world where a manʼs station was his armor and no noble would be caught dead in commoner cloth, Quinlan wore it without complaint.

”...” Alexios then looked down at his own golden plate, at the royal crest of Vraven stamped into the breastplate, at armor that was very much incapable of turning into anything other than what it was. ”My armor canʼt do that. You expect me to strip bare or what?”

Quinlan wasted no time, offering an offhanded command while adjusting his garbs: ”I know weʼre enemies, you exhibitionist freak, but Iʼd appreciate it if you attacked me with honor and not war crimes.”

”...”

Quinlan flicked two fingers and a second [Warp Gate] bloomed open behind him.

Emily came through first.

The head maid emerged with her hands clasped at her waist, posture straight, hair pinned, apron pressed.

Behind her came Clarisse, dignified and unhurried, then the twins Anna and Beatrice in step, then Dorothy, Eira, Ilde, and Cecile in a line so neat it could have been rehearsed.

Eight women in pressed uniforms, each carrying a leather case or folded bundle under her arm.

These were ordinary women, some young and some weathered, with calloused fingers and builds shaped by hard lives rather than noble schools.

But the precision of their formation, the quiet coordination in how they moved, and the way every one of them stood a little taller upon arriving before their master told a different story than their faces did.

”Master.” Emily dipped her head toward Quinlan, then swept her eyes across the assembled royals without so much as a blink. ”Congratulations on your victory.”

”Much appreciated. Has everything been prepared?”

”Yes, weʼre ready.”

”Capable as always, hmm?” Quinlanʼs voice carried a warmth the guests hadnʼt heard from him all day.

”We strive to please!” Emily beamed, and so did the others behind her hearing his praise.

He looked across the eight women, fond and genuine, then turned to the assembled kings and queens.

”Arenʼt my maids amazing? They worked incredibly hard to become as skilled as they are.”

His expression shifted, looking at his guests. ”Any insult thrown at them is the equivalent of declaring war on me, got it?” His tone was playful, jestful, yet Anna and Beatrice went scarlet in unison.

Eira ducked her head. Cecile bit her lip and couldnʼt suppress the smile.

The maids, with some struggle to retain their professionalism, moved.

Chairs were brought out, lightweight and collapsible.

They set them in a half-circle facing the settlement, so the guests could watch the winter city while the work was done.

Brushes, pins, powders, ties, and clothing bundles emerged from the remaining cases with the organized efficiency of kits that had been packed and maintained well before this morning.

”Please sit,” Emily asked.

Alexios dropped into his chair first, crossed his legs, and watched the proceedings with mild amusement, too old and too seasoned to find any of this beneath him.

The maid assigned to him, Ilde, began working on his armor straps, and the King of Vraven offered her the same cooperation he would have offered a field medic removing his plate after battle.

”Youʼre all so wonderfully trained,” Myrasyn chirped loud enough for all to hear, and the warmth in her voice was immediate and sincere. ”Any household would be proud to have such elegant and proper maids.”

Every maid in earshot straightened.

These were lowborn women, former captives, former nobodies, and a four-thousand-year-old elven queen had just told them they were wonderful.

The pride that rippled through the group was visible in lifted chins and brightened eyes across the line.

Eiraʼs hands trembled as she began undoing Myrasynʼs braids, replacing them with something simpler that wouldnʼt turn every head in the city below.

The young maidʼs fingers were careful and slow, hyperaware of every strand of the elven queenʼs hair.

”Whatʼs your name, dear?” Myrasyn asked, tilting her head to give the girl better access.

”E-Eira, Your Majesty.”

”How long have you served your master, Eira?”

Eira paused. ”Umm...”

Her hands stilled in Myrasynʼs hair, and her gaze drifted upward toward the winter sun hanging low over the treeline.

She studied its position for a moment, lips moving without sound, then looked back down with an expression that had lost every trace of nervousness.

”Two hundred and forty-two days, fourteen hours, and...” She glanced at the sun again. ”Roughly twenty minutes, Your Majesty.”

”Huh?” Myrasynʼs ears twitched.

The precision wasnʼt what sheʼd expected from a trembling young maid, and the warmth behind it even less so. ”You know the exact hour?”

”Itʼs very important to me...” Eira whispered softly.

”I see...” Myrasyn had a tender smile of her own. ”How did you come to be in his service?” Myrasyn tilted her head to study the girlʼs face, eager to hear the answer.

Eiraʼs hands faltered, and her eyes darted toward Jasmine three chairs over. The governor met her gaze and gave her a small nod, her smile warm and encouraging.

”Lady Amara and Lady Vivienne Greenvale...” Eira whispered, voice turning tense. ”The Greenvale Dukeʼs daughters purchased me to be their plaything. Master Quinlan attacked them on their way back from the slave auction and freed me.”

Hearing those words, Alexiosʼs expression had gone weary.