Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 931: Going Home

The scent of blood mixed with the breeze.

Trampled earth. Cleaved trees. The stench of rotting greenskin corpses left behind.

A squad of women walked in practiced formation through the lush canopy of Thalorind’s wild forests.

They didn’t speak much.

They didn’t need to.

Even without Quinlan at the front, the fire in their stride made it clear: these were predators refined and reborn through war.

Even the ones who used to drag the group down due to their lack of experience, such as Aurora and Lucille, carried themselves with a fresh air of confidence.

Aurora’s hair was tied up into a tight bun, her enchanter’s robes blood-splattered yet unwrinkled, flowing behind her. Her mage staff—once something ornamental that she twirled in her fingers for fun—was now a genuine weapon. Her fingers coiled around it with the surety of someone who had cast hundreds of life-saving, battle-altering spells.

Beside her walked Lucille. The berserker’s axe rested on her shoulder, chipped from overuse, yet polished with care. Battle had molded this woman into someone who could wield her battle lust with lethal precision.

Ayame’s feet padded softly across the ground, her samurai armor bloody and worn from long use. Her hand rested casually on her sheathed blade, but her eyes remained vigilant of their surroundings.

She came to a stop and looked over her shoulder at the group behind her.

“We’re about to return home. Let’s bathe first, then we’ll conduct the usual meeting on which sector we should target tomorrow.”

There was no rebuttal.

Not even a grunt of protest.

Blossom, leading the way with her nose pointed at any scent her brain found worthy of further investigation, nodded in understanding.

Seraphiel gave a quiet “Mm,” brushing her fingers against a nearby leaf, sensing the life pulse of the forest in agreement.

Even Iris kept silent. She and Ayame had a grand rivalry going on between one another, even after all the things they’ve been through, but after these months of begrudgingly letting the samurai call the shots, the hierarchy had become clear. Ayame wasn’t a figurehead.

She was their general. The second-in-command of their group.

And she earned it.

Ayame had watched every fight. She noticed how Quinlan always relied on each of them for their unique strengths: Blossom’s tracking nose, Seraphiel’s nature sensing, Aurora’s impeccable buff timing, Lucille’s front-line chaos, and many more.

Ayame saw firsthand how effective that method of leadership was, so she didn’t try to overshadow any of them.

Instead, she used them.

Like a true leader.

And because of that, they moved as one.

No wasted motion. No idle chatter. Only cohesion and silent trust.

They were no longer his mere harem members who were eager to prove themselves and their worth to the world.

They were proper combatants now, here to rise to the very top.

Soon, the thick canopy of the forest opened, parting away to reveal a new sight.

Through the shafts of evening light filtering through the treetops, their home finally came into view.

The stronghold had grown since Quinlan’s departure. New watchtowers now stood tall. The great mansion remained the centerpiece, an elegant estate brimming with power and grace, but it was the large, living tree beside it that truly stole attention.

Rosie’s tree.

Glowing with a myriad of magical lights, its heartwood pulsed with life, its leaves shining magnificently. Hanging lanterns swung from its branches, placed there by various women to give Rosie an even more unique flair.

Suddenly…

“Mommies!!”

A green blur exploded out from the upper boughs like a cannonball of joy.

Rosie, a small dryad girl with leafy hair and forest-green skin, zipped toward them with a grin too wide for her little face. She was no bigger than a toddler, but her energy could match anyone a run for their money.

“Mommymommymommy!” she chanted, and pounced directly onto Blossom’s head as she was the woman furthest ahead in the group.

Blossom let out a happy little squeal of joy as two thin arms wrapped around her head, squeezing with all their might. The dryad giggled as she rubbed her cheek against the dogkin’s.

“Blossom Mommy smells like victory~! She must’ve ended the miserable lives of many ugly monsters!!” Rosie chirped, proud of her mother’s prowess.

Then she moved onto her next mother, to Ayame, twirling once before landing on the samurai’s shoulder and nuzzling into the crook of her neck lovingly. “Rosie missed her serious mommy, too!”

Ayame gently poked the girl in the cheek with one finger. “You’re supposed to be resting. You might not be human, but we’ve already established that you need to give your body proper-“

“But Rosie was sooo lonelyyyyyyy!!!”

The dryad wailed the words with tearless sorrow.

The dramatics only increased as she flung herself from Ayame’s shoulder in a daring escape, diving straight toward Lucille. She landed with a *pomf* atop the berserker’s axe blade, lying down on it as if it were a chaise lounge, legs swinging over the edge.

“Rosie wants to grow up big and strong like Lucille Mommy!” she declared with heroic conviction. “That way, she can kill monsters and protect Daddy! Rosie doesn’t like seeing him injured!”

Lucille blinked for but a single moment, taken aback by the unexpected declaration.

Then she grinned.

A wide, proud grin that softened her previously serious face. She placed a gentle hand on the handle of her axe, lifting it so that the dryad tipped and slid down into her palm, where the caramel-haired woman hugged the girl lovingly.

“Then you have even more reason to take proper care of your body, young lady…” she whispered into her ear with a warm chuckle. “You’ll remain small if you don’t get enough rest… and without strong arms, how will you ever protect Quinlan? Did you forget how strong he is?”

“Eh? Ehhh?!”

Rosie’s eyes went round like saucers. “Rosie doesn’t want to stay tiny!! Rosie wants big arms!!”

Lucille raised a brow in complete motherly victory as she declared smugly. “Then you’d better listen to Ayame. You need to sleep, eat well, and do your stretches.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” the dryad screeched, realizing she’d been played.

With panicked flutters, she shot into the air again like the fuzzy green comet that she was. Rosie zipped through the air and crash-landed into Seraphiel’s golden hair as if it were a curtain of sanctuary. She burrowed into the elven strands with the desperation of a squirrel hiding from an angry hawk, pressing her face into the silky locks and inhaling dramatically.

*Sniff-sniff-sniff!*

“Mommy Sera smells soooo good… even with orc blood all over! How?! Tell Rosie the secret! She wants to smell like her beautiful elf mother!”

Seraphiel raised a delicate brow, her hand slowly reaching up to stroke through Rosie’s soft, bark-brown curls in loving motions. Her usual expression softened with a strong hint of her developing maternal warmth.

But then her fingers paused, awfully aware that something was ’very’ fishy here. Her eyes narrowed into fiery slits as she examined her daughter.

There was simply too much flattery present. Too much sparkle in those eyes. Seraphiel’s experience with this cheeky little spirit-child had taught her all the warning signs.

Rosie wasn’t one to shower her mothers with compliments unless she was after something. Such unconditional praise was usually reserved for one person only: her beloved father. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mothers, far from it. She adored each of them deeply.

But Quinlan was her everything. Her sun, her moon, her absolute favorite person in the world. She was Daddy’s little girl through and through, and around him, she always tried to be her sweetest, most perfect self, his precious little princess.

With her mothers, however… well, the dynamic was a little different. She felt safe enough to be cheeky, to push limits, to tease and charm and test the waters if it meant getting something she wanted. They were her loving constants: strong, warm, and forgiving. And Rosie, ever the opportunist, had learned just how far she could nudge them when she smelled the faintest scent of personal gain.

“… What do you want? Spit it out,” she said, her voice calm and silky, but laced with suspicion.

Rosie froze.

Dead still.

“Did Auntie Yoruha fall asleep while playing with you again?” Seraphiel began the barrage, her tone laced in honey but her gaze sharp.

No response came from the unmoving, unblinking girl.

Seraphiel didn’t let up. “Don’t tell me you made Grandma Natalie faint again by asking where babies come from, and after listening to her awkward explanation, you ask whether your ’Blossom Mommy’ can make babies as well.”

There was the telltale flinch. Tiny, almost imperceptible, but caught by the observant elf nonetheless.

Seraphiel’s lips quirked.

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