Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

The training arena echoed with silence.

Polished tiles glimmered under the natural light of dawn, and banners etched with the Water Nation’s crest fluttered in the subtle breeze, though no doors were open.

That breeze came from the man floating lazily above the platform.

Zephyr Xian.

Barefoot, robe loosely tied, one hand tucked behind his head as he drifted in the air like a leaf suspended by nothing but whim. He didn’t flap or surge forward. He simply existed above the ground, untethered.

“Flying? Tch. That’s cheating,” Feng whispered irritably from the observation area.

Serika, sitting beside her, gave a small shake of the head. “He’s not flying, Feng. He’s flowing. When your qi becomes one with the wind, the world itself stops resisting your presence.”

Feng narrowed her eyes. “So he’s just… cheating spiritually.”

Quinlan, down on the arena floor, rolled his shoulders as he looked up at his opponent.

Zephyr yawned. “You done warming up? Can we begin?”

Quinlan had a wry smile on his lips. Looking up at this nonchalant guy showed him how his opponents must’ve felt when he barreled above them with his [Wind Manipulation] spell back in Thalorind. It was quite an unpleasant feeling. He steeled his heart, determined to unlock the ability to fly before the final encounter with the invader happened. “Yes, let’s start.”

Zephyr lazily descended, landing with the gentlest touch. His body swayed slightly even after settling, as if the wind refused to let go of him completely.

There was no battle aura. No sharp pressure. No bloodlust. Just calm air.

And then, without warning, he moved.

It wasn’t a rush. It was a slip. Like wind sliding through cracks in a doorframe, Zephyr exploded forward in a weaving blur. His foot tapped the tile, and he spun mid-step, delivering a lazy backhand swat.

Quinlan dodged.

Barely.

The wind pressure from the casual strike shaved the top layer off the tile behind him.

‘That didn’t even look serious… This fucker even came down from the skies for me,’ Quinlan thought grimly.

He retaliated, his pride not allowing him to look away at the disrespect.

Fire-infused fists. Earth-powered stances. Water-enhanced steps.

He surged in with Avatar-style martial arts, mixing crushing grounded strikes with fluid transitions and sharp elemental flares. He struck high, low, feinted right, swept left.

But Zephyr never clashed.

He twisted, bent, slid, and leaned—his movements more dance than dodge.

Even when Quinlan’s foot cracked the tile below them, Zephyr simply leaned to the side as though the wind had tilted him out of reach.

And then…

*Whoosh!*

A sudden spinning kick sent Quinlan flying across the arena, not from strength, but from sheer redirection. He landed hard, coughing, sliding against the smooth floor.

Zephyr scratched his head. “You’re too stiff… Like a grandpa whose joints refuse to bend. You’re trying to move like the wind without letting go of weight.”

Quinlan stood up, brushing blood from his lip. “And what do you suggest?”

Zephyr shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “Stop trying. Just move.”

Quinlan narrowed his eyes.

Serika muttered to herself again on the bench, “He’s a nightmare to fight, because he’s not even fighting you. He’s just… being.”

Feng crossed her arms tightly in front of her delicate chest. “He’s truly cheating. I don’t like him.”

…

Days passed.

Each morning, Quinlan would step into the vast training arena at the center of Nalai’s palace, where one of the Four Elemental Sovereigns awaited him.

Serika came with the fury of wildfire—her strikes explosive, her movements relentless. Every duel was a trial by fire, and she demanded he match her heat with his own.

Nalai brought the calm of still water, but beneath her placid expression lay treacherous undercurrents. She pushed him to read intent, to move with intuition, to let his emotions flow rather than fight them.

Rongtai was a mountain. Solid. Unmoving. Every blow from him hammered a truth into Quinlan’s bones: strength wasn’t only about force—it was about foundation.

And Zephyr… Zephyr danced. He moved like mist and mischief, with a grin half-hidden behind yawns. He taught Quinlan that true wind didn’t fight head-on. It slipped, glided, and teased. It avoided what could not be met, and found the cracks in everything rigid.

One element. One master.

And each master beat a different lesson into his body.

While he fought, the others rotated through their roles. Sometimes watching, sometimes meditating, sometimes disappearing for hours or days to fulfill sovereign duties or oversee their clans.

As the sun fell and the arena emptied, Quinlan’s evenings followed a rhythm of their own.

In the steaming pools of the palace bathhouse, he would sink into warm water, with Serika sliding in beside him. Together they washed, rinsing away the day’s grime, sweat, and bruises. She took her time, fingers tracing muscle and scar alike, and he did the same in return.

Afterward, she would lead him back to their chambers, where he lay on silken sheets as she poured fragrant oils across his back. Her hands moved with the same confidence as on the battlefield: firm, sensual, masterful.

By the end, his body felt as if it had ascended into some otherworldly realm. Every ache vanished. Every fatigue was undone. He drifted out of her room lighter than air.

And always, he returned to his own quarters, where a certain form waited under his blanket.

Feng.

She would already be tucked under the covers, arms crossed and cheeks puffed in silent protest.

The moment he slipped into bed, she would turn and bury herself into his chest, nose wrinkling.

“…You reek of that woman again,” she’d mumble.

Quinlan would yawn. “You’re welcome. She smells much better than I do, so it should be more pleasant on your nose than if I didn’t carry her scent.”

“Hmph!”

Yet no matter how much she pouted, she never once turned away. In fact, she curled deeper into his arms each night. Grumbling, but never letting go.

So the days passed, then weeks.

Each one brought him closer to balance. To understanding.

And still, news of the invader remained scarce.

Nalai, ever the strategist, kept them updated. Her spies and informants continued to trickle in what little intelligence they could gather.

“He hasn’t moved,” she reported one evening. “He’s still nested within the Wind Sovereign’s palace. Consolidating his grip on the Wind Nation, most likely.”

Her tone darkened.

“If I had to guess… he’s preparing to turn them into his army.”

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