Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem-Chapter 815: Strength of the Elites

It was time.

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

He would learn to fight.

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

"Finally."

Feng Jiai smiled. "Nine meridians opened right after your breakthrough... Uncle, it hurts me to admit, but you make geniuses look like ordinary cultivators. That bastard Zhang was only at five meridians, and it took him four years to get there!"

She then looked at the old man, seeking his reaction. However, his face showed no signs of surprise. He merely stared at Quinlan’s broad back with a face that made it look like he already expected this result.

"Follow me," the old man said before turning around and leaving.

Quinlan did as told, jumping down from the rock upon which he and Feng meditated, following after the stoic old man.

Behind him, Feng Jiai walked with a faint but proud smirk, as if her uncle’s achievement was her own. Though she stayed quiet now. Up ahead, the old man said nothing. His prosthetic arms were folded behind his back, and his long, frayed robes fluttered in the breeze like smoke.

Excitement burned in Quinlan’s chest, almost as fierce as the Qi within him.

"Old man," he asked, unable to hold it in any longer, "what sort of technique do we start with?"

The old man didn’t break stride. Didn’t even glance back.

"We don’t."

Quinlan blinked. "But I thought-"

"There is something else you’ll learn before any combat technique. You think cultivating nine meridians makes you ready? That power alone is enough to survive when blades are drawn and lives are on the line?"

Quinlan’s jaw tensed upon hearing that. Not out of disappointment, but excitement to learn something new even if they weren’t directly about combat arts.

Feng snorted behind him. She didn’t appreciate how much of a party pooper this old man was. If Quinlan displayed what he just did in front of normal clan elders, he would’ve instantly been promoted to the designated heir position, such was his achievement of unlocking nine meridians in one go.

The old man came to a stop at the edge of a scorched plateau. Blackened stone stretched in every direction, scorched and cracked from past battles. A few broken weapons lay half-buried in the earth.

He turned at last, and his eyes—those same eyes that had seen more hardships than most mortals could imagine—locked onto him.

"There is a reason weaklings die even with power in their veins," the old man said. "It’s because their Qi falters the moment they draw blood. They try to channel it like they do in meditation: calm, still, patient. But combat is chaos."

He took one step forward.

"Before you learn to unleash fire, you must learn to move your Qi while under pressure. Under strain. Under attack. Flow it through your body while your muscles scream, while your balance breaks, while pain clouds your mind."

His hand lifted and pointed at the cracked ground.

"This is your battlefield. For seven days, you will not be taught forms. You will not be shown strikes. You will move. You will fight. You will breathe while burning."

Quinlan’s lips parted, just slightly.

The old man didn’t miss it. His tone sharpened.

"You mastered the breath of Qi. Now you must master maintaining its rhythm. Because the moment your Qi stutters in battle..." He raised his prosthetic arm and tapped his chest. "You die."

No dramatics. No threats. Just truth.

Quinlan stood still. His mind returned, unbidden, to memories of Thalorind. The winds he had shaped. The tides he had bent. The roots and stone he had once commanded. There, it had all been second nature. Here, the rules had shifted. But the fundamentals remained.

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He smiled.

"Then let’s begin."

—

The sun burned high above the plateau.

The old man stood still as a stone. Then, without warning, he vanished.

Quinlan barely had time to react.

A prosthetic palm struck his shoulder like a hammer, sending him flying across the cracked earth. Dust exploded in his wake. His boots gouged a trench in the stone before he stopped with his chest heaving wildly.

"What the hell?!" Quinlan cried in shock. The old man increased his speed and strength all of a sudden, catching him off guard.

"Your Qi stuttered," the old man said flatly, already standing in front of him again.

Another strike came, low this time, at his ribs. Quinlan tried to block, but the impact still rang through his body like a drumbeat.

"You’ve already learned how to circulate when calm. But battle is not calm."

A sweeping kick came for his ankles. Quinlan leapt, flipped once in the air, and landed with a grunt.

"Adapt."

The old man didn’t wait.

He attacked again, and this time, the blows came faster than ever before. Each one forced Quinlan to shift, to dodge, to move not just his limbs but his Qi. The fire essence roared inside him, eager to respond, but wild and unfocused.

A jab to the chest.

A feint to the throat.

A heel coming down like a meteor.

Quinlan twisted, caught the strike with crossed arms, and pushed Qi into them, letting the fire circulate down through his bones and muscles, absorbing the shock.

The blow still hurt.

But it didn’t break him.

"Good," the old man murmured.

He pressed harder.

Faster.

The air cracked with each strike. The ground smoked where their feet landed. Quinlan could barely keep up, sweat flying from his face, breath ragged.

"Center it in your core. Flow it through the limbs, not just to them. Think like a river, not a torch!"

Another strike grazed his neck. Quinlan hissed and sidestepped. Fire surged through his right leg. He pivoted, swept his foot out in a counterstrike, but the old man caught it effortlessly.

"Too slow."

A palm pressed against Quinlan’s gut. Qi flared. But not his own.

The resulting blast hurled him back across the plateau like a rag doll.

He rolled, skidded, coughed hard as he hit the stone, but this time, he didn’t collapse.

He sat up with his chest heaving, and his Qi was still flowing.

Not smooth.

Not perfect.

But continuous. Alive. Responsive.

The fire inside him curled and licked against his skin, and for the first time... it obeyed him instinctively.

The old man approached. No scorn in his eyes. No pride, either. Just a calm nod.

"You’ve stopped thinking like a cultivator."

Quinlan wiped the blood from his lip and smiled as he finally understood what the old man wanted him to realize.

"My body isn’t just that of a cultivator. It’s a blade, forged to deliver my will."

The old man didn’t smile. Not even when Quinlan drastically surpassed his expectations, and instead of a week’s time, he learned continuous Qi circulation in a single session.

But he didn’t need to.

"Rest," he said. "Tomorrow, I teach you to ignite."

He turned and began walking away. "You will learn the first three forms of the Blazing Tyrant Fist. The others will come only once you prove that you’re ready."

"And when will that be?"

The old man didn’t break stride. His voice was calm. Cold.

"A proper blade is not forged in silence." freeweɓnovel.cøm

He stopped at the edge of the stone courtyard and finally looked over his shoulder.

"It must be tested in blood. You will fight rogue cultivators soon. Vagabonds, bandits. Killers. They’ll teach you what I can’t."

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