Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

At dawn, thunder cracked on the horizon.

The Earth Sovereign had come.

Quinlan stood beside Serika, Feng, and Nalai at the grand palace gates, their forms silhouetted by the rising sun. The smooth steps beneath them glistened with morning dew, and twin qi signatures approached, different as stone and sky.

The first was Sage Rongtai the Immovable, the Mountain of Stillness.

A line of monks in ochre robes followed silently behind him like waves rolling behind an unshakable cliff. But when they reached the palace steps, they all stopped. Only Rongtai kept walking.

Alone, barefoot, serene. He was the embodiment of the term ‘stoic.’

His every step felt like it weighed mountains—each footfall somehow quiet and yet louder than a man who was screaming. His bald head gleamed in the morning light, and a thick rosary hung from his neck.

He said nothing at first, simply halted before them and looked to Quinlan. His gaze, ancient and calm, passed over the young man like the earth assessing a seed.

“I am willing,” he said finally, voice like stone weathered by centuries. “To train the Avatar.”

Quinlan met the gaze with a small, respectful bow of his head. He wasn’t arrogant enough not to give respect to a man who clearly deserved it.

The rhythmic sound of boots and robes brushing stone echoed through the palace courtyard as the delegation from the House of Free Winds arrived on foot.

Three elders in white and green led the group, their expressions calm and composed. Behind them followed a formation of disciples and retainers, young cultivators with wind-glider tokens at their waists and short-handled spears on their backs.

“Strange,” Serika murmured. “I thought he was supposed to be with them. Where did that goofball run off to?”

As if on cue, the lead elder, a sharp-eyed woman with silver-streaked hair tied in a single braid, halted and cupped her hands respectfully toward Nalai.

“The Saint of Stillness. As promised, we of the House of Free Winds have come to fulfill our side of the agreement.”

Nalai nodded serenely. “And I will honor mine. Your people will find sanctuary within my lands.”

The elder gave a small bow of thanks, then glanced toward the sky and sighed.

“Young Master. We have arrived. Please come down.”

Quinlan blinked and followed her gaze.

That’s when he felt it.

A shift in the wind. The courtyard banners fluttered, and a playful breeze tousled his hair.

Then came the sound—fwip fwip fwip—soft and rhythmic, like a reed dancing across water.

And from the clouds above, he saw him.

A lone figure drifting downward in a slow spiral, standing atop a narrow wooden board no wider than a roof tile. His robes were loose, windswept, half open at the chest. One hand behind his head, the other resting lazily on his hip, the young man yawned mid-glide like the journey itself had been an inconvenience.

He looked barely twenty, with messy sea-salt hair and eyes that didn’t seem to care what they were looking at.

The wind gathered around him gently, like it didn’t want to disturb his mood.

The elders all bowed as he finally descended and touched down at the edge of the courtyard. He didn’t speak. Didn’t bow. He scratched his stomach and stared at the palace roof.

“…Is he always like this?” Serika whispered, raising a brow.

Nalai sighed, rubbing her temples. “Like a leaf on the wind. He moves when he wants to. Or when you make him.”

Quinlan tilted his head. “That’s supposed to be my duel partner?”

“… Yes…” Nalai sighed.

Quinlan raised a brow as he looked at the aloof young man.

For someone with that kind of title… he really didn’t seem to care.

The young man finally turned slightly and gave Quinlan the barest glance.

“Sup,” he said.

Then flopped down cross-legged on the edge of the courtyard, back to them all, like the whole trip had been exhausting.

Nalai sighed.

“This… is Zephyr Xian,” she said, gesturing to the barely-conscious cultivator. “Young master of the House of Free Winds. He may not look it, but he’s the deadliest wind user alive. The only one who’s in the Spirit Tempering stage.”

“Zephyr? Is he related to the fallen Wind Sovereign, Zephyra Whisperleaf?”

“Yes, he’s her younger brother,” Nalai confirmed.

Both Feng, Serika, and Quinlan looked at the young man with a strange expression. For someone who’d just lost his sister, he was acting very lax and disinterested.

Nalai rubbed her temples.

But regardless of appearances, they were here.

The Mountain and the Gale.

*Clap!* The Water Sovereign clapped her hands together before stating, “Let’s not waste any time, shall we?”

…

Rongtai stood in the center of the field, arms folded across his chest.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

He simply stood.

A mountain of a man—bare-chested, with skin like weathered bronze and muscles carved like ridges on a cliff face. His expression was serene. Not indifferent, not mocking.

Just… present.

“Let’s see what this old man can show me…” Quinlan said, stepping forward while cracking his neck.

From the sidelines, Serika and Nalai watched with arms folded. Feng stood nearby with a worried expression.

Zephyr had curled up into a fetal position and started snoring within minutes.

Quinlan inhaled, and his qi surged.

Three elements exploded to life around him.

Fire erupted at his heels, coiling around his legs like serpents ready to strike.

Water shimmered at his fingertips, a flowing liquid dance waiting to be shaped.

Earth rumbled faintly in the air, heavier than before, coarser and less refined than Rongtai’s.

He was no longer a single-element prodigy.

His foot slid forward with a smooth, gliding motion—like a wave flowing over stone—and his palm followed, shaped like a knife edge, aimed for Rongtai’s heart. The motion was swift, fluid, deceptively graceful.

A water-infused strike. He’d learned from Nalai how terribly powerful martial attacks bolstered by this element could be.

His open hand shimmered with translucent qi, his body moving as though caught in the sway of a tide. He landed the strike, and before Rongtai could even respond, he twisted his body, spun low, and followed the first strike with a sweeping kick that pulled water from the air into a coiling arc.

It struck Rongtai’s chest with the force of a crashing wave.

And splashed harmlessly.

The monk didn’t flinch.

Realizing water didn’t have enough weight behind it to penetrate this guy’s defenses, Quinlan flowed into the next form: an earth-rooted stance, legs braced, spine coiled like a spring. His fists pounded the ground, causing two thick pillars of stone to rise at Rongtai’s sides, aiming to box him in. But even as they thundered up, the monk stood unmoving, as if the earth itself wouldn’t dare harm him.

Then, Quinlan transitioned again. His heel scraped across the stone as he drew on fire with a burst of raw speed, and heat laced his limbs. His next punch was flaming, fast, and filled with explosive intent as he leapt toward Rongtai.

Still no movement from the monk.

The flames parted around him.

The stone cracked, not him.

The water hissed into steam.

The man was immovable.

Like a mountain watching a storm roll past.

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