Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem-Chapter 814: Rapid Advancing [Bonus]

With a sudden ripple that echoed through his core...

The Qi sank into the lake.

The water churned. Then stilled.

His entire dantian pulsed, and the space within him... changed.

He could feel it instinctively: the end of the Qi Gathering stage had arrived.

His dantian wasn’t just a vessel anymore. It had reached its limit. Not in size, but in potential. Like a sponge soaked to the brim, it could take no more without changing form. Every drop of Qi he gathered from this point forward would no longer simply sit inside him.

It would demand refinement. Transformation.

The next step was clear.

Not Core Formation. Not yet.

Meridian Opening.

He felt it like a whisper in his bones, a quiet truth his body had come to understand. His three lesser meridians were no longer enough. The Qi within him yearned to expand its reach, to burst outward into the deeper channels of his body. It wanted more paths. More freedom. More flow.

And he would give it that.

Once his major meridians were open, once the floodgates were cleared and his system ran like a river at spring thaw... only then could he begin to condense everything he’d gathered into a core.

Only then could he begin to command the essence that still slumbered within him.

He could feel it now, buried deep within him.

That ember.

The fire shard he’d consumed hadn’t burned away. It had hidden, coiled tight like a dragon within his gut, waiting. And now that his Qi had matured, it stirred. It pressed against the dantian’s edge like heat beneath ice, testing for weakness, testing for release.

The ember stirred all of a sudden.

It wasn’t hungry yet. Not fully awake. But it watched him from within. And Quinlan knew: if he didn’t open his meridians soon, if he let that fire press further into him without the channels to contain it...

He would burn.

As such, he straightened his spine, exhaled once, and began. It was time to create the bulwark so that he could wield proper elemental martial arts like that arrogant young master whom he beheaded.

Feng Jiai’s eyes snapped wide open. She felt a shift in the air. "Uncle... You’re already there... You’re about to enter the next stage, aren’t you?"

Her words were met with only four words.

"Watch me, Feng Jiai."

3

...

The first meridian opened without resistance.

Qi surged along the pathway from his dantian to the base of his spine. It wasn’t forceful but smooth. Trained. The result of a month of cultivation carved from mountain silence and cold discipline.

The second came next. It curved through his right shoulder like a hook catching into muscle, but he breathed through it. Pain was not the enemy. Distraction was.

The third was harder. He had to narrow the Qi stream, focus it like a scalpel used for precise surgical work, but it opened. And when it did, it flowed, stretching his endurance, opening new space for power to move.

By the fourth, sweat beaded at his brow.

The fifth clung to his ribs, and he had to force his breath to stay steady as it opened.

The sixth came with a tremble in his leg and a tight clench in his jaw, but he didn’t stop. Each new meridian added speed, density, and clarity to his circulation. His Qi wasn’t just moving anymore. It was running. It spun through him like a river of light.

And then he hit the edge of ease.

The seventh resisted. It curled along his back and looped under his arm. It was a complex channel. He guided his Qi in with care. But the moment the meridian cracked open, pain lanced through his side. He winced.

His control wavered for just a second, but he managed to recover in time.

The eighth was no better.

His breath shortened. His vision dimmed. The world narrowed to heartbeat and breath, pain and flow.

His Qi pushed too hard, then pulled back. He steadied it, like a craftsman sanding the edge of a blade.

Slowly... slowly...

It opened.

And the world snapped back into place.

He had done what he could, that being eight meridians. His body felt like a furnace. His Qi didn’t just flow but surged. His awareness extended beyond his skin. He could feel the air against his forearms, the ice under his knees, the heartbeat of the girl watching him with disbelief and excitement.

And yet... he wasn’t done.

There was one more he wanted to open right now. He felt he could do it.

The ninth.

The one tied to the center of his chest, the seat of will, of desire, of instinct.

And that... was where the fire waited.

The ember awoke.

Quinlan felt it unfold like wings behind his lungs. The fire essence, long silent, flared with sudden hunger.

His Qi reached for the ninth meridian.

The fire struck.

It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t raging. But it represented pure wildness.

A solar burst shot through his center, and his Qi caught alight. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually.

He burned.

A strong hiss clawed its way to his throat, but he held it in. His hands dug into his knees. His back arched.

The ninth meridian flared, opened halfway, then shuddered.

His control faltered. The fire surged upward, threading through unstable lines. One wrong pulse, one mistimed breath, and it would scorch every path he had carved open. It would destroy them all from the inside out.

His vision swam.

The Qi convulsed. He felt himself slipping down the path of no return.

And then he felt a presence.

Not a hand. Not a grip.

Just warmth. Controlled. Ancient. Gentle.

1

A voice spoke from behind him. Low, dry, steady.

"Slow your breath."

The Qi flickered.

"Narrow the stream."

The fire hissed, but it stilled, like a beast acknowledging something greater.

"You are not the fire, boy. You are the one who holds it."

The old man didn’t push his Qi into Quinlan. Didn’t intervene. Didn’t save him.

He simply reminded him of what he already knew.

And Quinlan remembered.

He wasn’t a cauldron boiling over. He was the one who forged the iron inside it. He didn’t need to overpower the fire.

He needed to shape it.

1

His breath slowed.

His Qi folded inward, guiding the flame. Not with fear, not with force, but with command. The wildness bent, not tamed, but channeled.

And the ninth meridian opened.

Qi raced through the path like fire down a fuse. His circulation burned clean. Nine meridians. His body thrummed with power. His previously mortal body suddenly felt hot, refined, expansive.

The fire within him had not vanished.

But it no longer lashed at the walls.

It breathed with him now.

He exhaled slowly, eyes still closed, shoulders trembling not from strain, but release. He could feel it in every thread of muscle, every line of Qi that now ran clean through him:

He had crossed a threshold.

Nine meridians opened.

He wasn’t ordinary anymore.

And behind him, the old man nodded once.

"You’re ready now," he said. "For proper training."

Quinlan’s eyes fluttered open.

His lips parted slightly.

’Proper?’

2

His breath hitched, just a little. The cold air stung his lungs.

What had the last month been, then? Climbing sheer cliffs, freezing under waterfalls, days of standing until his legs buckled, running until his feet bled, cultivating until his bones felt hollow?

If that was just preparation...

A flicker of disbelief passed over his face. Then something else.

A small, quiet smile.

His lips trembled with unadulterated excitement.

It was time.

No more just stances. No more just breath work. No more cultivating in silence.

He would learn to fight.

And though his muscles still ached and his Qi still burned... Quinlan bowed his head, and whispered to the ground beneath him:

"Finally."