Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Despite the featureless mask, Var’Zhul knew.

He could feel it.

This man was having the time of his fucking life at his and his people’s expense.

The masked man turned his head toward the lionkin captain, and only two words left his lips.

“Your turn.”

Var’Zhul’s muscles coiled like a spring, instincts overriding thought. His powerful legs propelled him forward, his aggressively serrated blade poised to tear the man’s throat out.

But before he could reach him, the masked man soared.

Like an eagle catching an updraft, he rocketed into the sky.

Var’Zhul landed without ever managing to lay a finger on his target as his sharp eyes tracked the dark figure ascending into the heavens.

“Just what kind of monster is this?!” he cursed with a mighty roar. “Earth, fire, and now damned wind?!”

Be that as it may, Var’Zhul didn’t have the luxury to gawk at the airborne menace because two silver-blurred figures closed in on their spectral mounts that were thundering across the bloodstained ground. The dogkin bastards had recognized him as the defense’s leader and now sought his head.

Let them try.

Var’Zhul’s muscles tensed, his claws tightening around his large, serrated sword. The first rider lunged for the lionkin commander’s neck.

Too slow.

With an animalistic snarl, Var’Zhul threw himself forward. His blade met the dogkin’s mid-swing. The force of the clash sent shockwaves through the air. It quickly became clear that the two weren’t an equal match: the rider grunted as the impact sent him reeling back, but the strange shimmering shield around his body absorbed what should’ve been a bone-shattering counterstrike.

Var’Zhul’s golden eyes narrowed.

It didn’t flicker. It didn’t weaken. This enchanter-type mage was strange.

Even as the dogkin struck back from inside the barrier, his weapon passed through seamlessly. No restriction, no resistance. The magic didn’t break upon use.

Another rider came from his blind spot with a heavy downward swing of his weapon seeking to split his skull apart.

Var’Zhul roared and met it head-on. His blade slammed into the attack, deflecting the strike so fiercely that the second dogkin’s wrist almost buckled from the sheer force.

They fought like beasts locked in a death struggle. The dogkin had the advantage of magic—strange, bullshit magic—but he had the raw might of a lionkin warlord.

Blades clashed. Fangs bared. Sparks flew.

The two warriors gritted their teeth, frustration leaking into their movements. Even with their shields, even with their moonlit mounts, even with superior numbers, they couldn’t kill him.

The problem wasn’t defense. It was his offense.

Var’Zhul was too wild, too vicious, too overwhelming for them to land a finishing blow. He deflected their attacks with surgical precision and countered with feral abandon. Even when they were protected by their shields, he still threatened to break through.

They couldn’t afford to stay.

With a growl of frustration, the two dogkin pulled back, retreating toward their allies.

Var’Zhul didn’t chase, for his instincts screamed at him to turn his gaze elsewhere. Something was happening. A different kind of screaming filled Emberfang.

Panic. Terror.

He whipped his head toward the source, and what he saw made his breath hitch.

The masked one was back at it again, completely ignoring what Var’Zhul knew of combat and warfare. It was as if he didn’t care for the logic of the world at all, living freely while they were all restricted by its rules and laws.

Instead of ruining Var’Zhul’s day by burrowing under his city, he now elected to do so by ruling the skies.

High above Emberfang, the masked man flew like a hawk that was weaponized with legendary artifacts, his trajectory smooth and efficient. Water—not fire, not earth, not wind, but water—ripped through the air in precise, pressurized shots.

Each shot found its mark.

No wasted movement. No wasted mana.

Lionkin collapsed one by one, their armor punctured, their weapons dropped. It didn’t matter if they were soldiers braced for battle or citizens fleeing in terror. The masked one hunted everything that moved and looked like a lionkin.

From time to time, the masked monster’s strange, black saber that was wreathed in eerie blue flames would lift from his back, as if possessed by an unseen will, and snap into his waiting grip. But instead of slaying his enemies, the man used the blade for something Var’Zhul couldn’t even properly comprehend.

All he saw was that whenever he did that, something wrong would happen.

Var’Zhul couldn’t hear a chant, couldn’t sense any incantation, but each time the saber was brought out, the air around the fallen seemed to shiver. Wisps of something intangible—dark, shimmering, almost liquid in the way they twisted and curled—peeled away from the corpses. They slithered through the air, drawn irresistibly toward the masked one, sinking into the blade like water absorbed by dry earth.

It wasn’t magic. Not like anything Var’Zhul had ever seen.

It wasn’t mana, either.

It was something deeper, more fundamental. Something vital was being stolen from the dead before their bodies even had the chance to cool.

Var’Zhul’s claws dug into his palms.

He had fought countless battles, seen warriors consume the blood of their enemies for strength, seen necromancers reanimate corpses to serve them—but this? This was different.

The masked one wasn’t raising the dead. He wasn’t consuming flesh or drinking blood.

He was harvesting them.

It was as if he wasn’t just killing—he was feeding.

And when mighty javelins were hurled into the air with great precision and speed, he just twisted through the sky, dodging like a Goddess damned adult wyvern with centuries of hardened experience, weaving between projectiles as if he already knew their paths before they were fired.

It was a massacre. A slaughter. The fifty or so attackers were ruining his city, led by the otherworldly feats of the man dressed in black.

Var’Zhul’s claws dug into his palms.

“What the fuck is that thing?!” he bellowed once again, unable to come to terms with reality itself.

The streets of Emberfang became overwhelmed with war cries, dying screams, and the clash of steel upon steel. Blood ran thick, soaking the dirt beneath stampeding hooves and boots alike. But the sky… The sky belonged to the masked monster and his allies flying on their winged horses.

However, at long last, Var’Zhul’s earlier commands had finally taken effect. Lionkin warriors stormed onto the battlefield, mounted on armored trolls and other war-beasts they found in the kennels the dogkin infiltrators hadn’t reached.

Some rushed to subjugate the freed creatures rampaging through the city with their whips cracking loudly, while others bore down upon the two dozen dogkin infiltrators that had dared to unlock their prized war-beasts.

And then, the air itself became a war zone.

Dozens of wyvern riders took to the skies. Javelins rained upward toward enemies as both land and aerial units scrambled to wrest control of the skies from the monster and his allies that had humiliated them.

At long last, Emberfang managed to gather themselves properly to fight back. The enemies were impressive, but at the end of the day, the numerical advantage was too much to overcome, despite their flashy tactics.

Yet the masked monster didn’t falter.

He ceased his relentless pressurized water projectile attacks before his body came to a halt. His masked gaze swept over the battlefield as if searching for something. Then, in a motion too fluid to be anything but deliberate, he dove. Not toward his enemies, but toward his own allies.

A flick of his wrist.

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