Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem

"When I took her in as a disciple, secrecy was-"

She stopped.

The sensation came first.

Cool.

His palm softened against her shoulder. Water spilled from his hand in a controlled sheet, flowing over her armor, her sleeves, her neck. It ran down her back, along her arms, washing ash and blood away in seconds. Grime slid off as if it had never clung there at all.

Then, the temperature shifted.

Warmth followed the water, steady and precise. Heat spread from his palm, chasing the dampness away without discomfort. Fabric dried. Skin warmed. The faint chill of battle left her frame.

In moments, she was clean.

Perfect again.

Once her face, which was also splashed with water, became clean, Black Fang's expression found Quinlan again. She was displeased.

A stern, flat look sat on her face like a judgment passed without words.

Quinlan's heart gave an involuntary skip. He enjoyed interacting with this cold beauty of a few words far too much. The little reactions, when he got them, felt like the best rewards for his efforts.

He could only imagine how it would feel to earn a big reaction from this woman.

But Quinlan ignored that stern expression completely and stepped behind her. Both hands rose and gathered her long, dark hair. His palms warmed again, gentle heat threading through his fingers as he worked the moisture out, careful not to tug, not to rush.

"How is it? I practiced my [Gorgeous Babes Deserve to be Pampered At All Times] skill a lot on my girls. I can shower them in moments, letting them feel fresh even in the midst of a lengthy monster-killing campaign in the forests."

Black Fang stood there, straight-backed, taking it with a poker face.

Only when her hair was dry and smooth did she speak.

"You have too much free time."

"Is that so?" Quinlan mused. "I didn't see you stepping away."

Black Fang did not answer.

She simply stepped forward again, boots crunching softly over stone, posture unchanged. The motion itself was the response.

Quinlan fell into stride beside her.

She did not comment on what he had done. She did not acknowledge it aloud. Admitting that being cleaned and warmed in seconds, without slowing their pace or leaving them exposed for longer than a few blinks of the eye, was one of the greatest comforts she had experienced in centuries, was not something she would voice.

Not here. Not to him.

Black Fang could already imagine the giant, cocky grin that would've welcomed her if she so much as implied the bath felt good, so she remained silent.

The street ahead stirred.

A figure shifted behind a collapsed stall. Black Fang's hand moved. The katana left its sheath a finger's width. The threat dropped without a sound. She never looked back.

They kept walking.

Quinlan spoke again, idly, as if they were strolling through a quiet district instead of a ruined city. He commented on the architecture. On how poorly the defenders had chosen their choke points. On how the dwarves seemed to have developed a kink for their cannons, probably because their wives were ugly as sin.

Sometimes she said nothing.

Sometimes she replied with a single word.

He smiled wider despite her seemingly dismissive attitude.

Quinlan did not mistake her silence for disinterest. He had seen boredom before, many times, when he interacted with women in his old life. He also knew what a woman's anger and dislike toward a man looked like.

None of what she showed was any such thing. Her steps stayed aligned with his. She did not widen the distance. She did not speed up to escape his voice, nor did she outright tell him to zip it.

She listened.

She was simply incapable of normal interaction, due to her being shaped by centuries of discipline, violence, and survival. A mind that was traumatized at a very young age, forced to endure things no adult should, let alone a young girl. Then that mind was sharpened to a narrow edge. Conversation had never been a skill she needed.

Until now, her method of conversation has been with her blade.

So Quinlan kept talking.

He did not push. He did not demand. He filled the quiet with small things, unimportant things, letting her take what she wished and discard the rest.

Black Fang walked beside him, blade ready, expression calm.

They turned a corner, and the street opened into a wider square.

The fight there had already ended.

Ayame stood near the center, katana lowered at her side. Just as it happened with her half-sister, blood coated her armor and splashed across her skin, dark and uneven. It streaked along her jaw and clung to the ends of her ponytail.

Blossom crouched atop a shattered statue base with her gauntleted claws extended. Chunks of flesh still hung between the metal talons, caught in the grooves where bone had given way. She tilted her head when she sensed Quinlan. First, she sniffed, then her eyes widened, before her long, lush tail began cosplaying a Boeing 787 propeller.

Lucille was… something else entirely.

Her skin was slick with red, layered so thick it looked like a second hide. It traced her neck, her shoulders, ran down her arms, and soaked into her clothes. The axe resting against her leg dripped steadily, each drop striking stone with a slow, heavy sound. Compared to her, Ayame and the rest looked almost clean.

The bloodmonger had eaten well today, that much was clear. This battle, where she was dropped into the midst of an unprepared army base, surrounded by her trusty allies, allowed the berserker to let loose.

The moment Quinlan stepped into view, all of them reacted.

Ayame's eyes found him first. Her posture shifted instantly. Blossom launched herself down from the statue and landed right in his arms. Lucille's head snapped up, a wide grin breaking across her face as she started walking, then broke into a jog.

"Master!"

"Quin!"

Just like this, his girls surrounded him.

Blossom hit Quinlan first, arms wrapping around his neck and legs around his waist. A hundred little, needy kisses were exchanged between the dog girl and her lifelong master, then, as the best girl she was, Blossom, flung herself over his head, clinging to his back instead, knowing the rest of her sisters also deserved to greet their lover.

She didn't want to get in the way of their joy.

Ayame followed a heartbeat later, pressing in at his side, one arm slipping around his back. Lucille didn't slow down at all. She grabbed him by the front of his armor and pulled him into a hard kiss, blood smearing across his chestplate and jaw without hesitation.

Quinlan laughed into it and kissed her back just as fiercely.

He didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. Didn't spare a thought for the state they were in.

If anything, his hands tightened around the berserker's delicate, feminine waist as he pulled her close. For a man who had a giant kink for badass, dangerous chicks, having his girls coated in the blood of their slain enemies was… Well… Not disgusting, let's just leave it at that.

When Lucille finally pulled back, eyes bright and breathing heavy, he rested his forehead against hers for a moment before looking at the rest of them, greeting them all fervently in the same manner.

"Looks like you ladies had fun," he chuckled, enjoying their warmth.

"You have no idea…" Serika grinned. The tanned redhead was visibly exhilarated. She must've gained a level.

Quinlan only smiled in response, stepping up. With Blossom still on his back and his hands resting on Serika's and Kitsara's perky behinds, the group began walking again.

They moved straight toward the slave district.