Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

We kill them.

Not tomorrow. Not after retreating. Not once the dogkin army was at their gates.

Right now.

Their attackers numbered around fifty—just fifty. It was madness to let so few warriors bring ruin to Emberfang. They were lionkin. They had war beasts, they had wyverns, they had numbers. If they struck with everything they had, these bastards would die.

Only then could they regroup. Only then could they clean up the remaining beasts and evacuate the city’s civilians. The citizens would have to fend for themselves in the meantime—dealing with the rampaging monsters was their lesser concern now.

The true threat stood outside the walls.

“We charge.”

Var’Zhul’s voice cut through the chaos. He turned, eyes blazing with cold, ruthless determination.

“Form up! Mount up!”

A chorus of roars answered him as his warriors rushed to obey. The massive war beasts still under their control were mounted in seconds. Armored trolls bellowed, and wyverns shrieked as riders leaped onto their backs.

“We kill them all. Then we take back our city and evacuate the citizens.”

He shot a glance toward the ruined streets. Already, some of the lesser war beasts had turned their attention toward civilians, mauling those too slow to escape.

It didn’t matter.

The city could rot for all he cared.

Only victory mattered now.

With a final glare toward the enemy forces beyond the walls, he raised his blade high.

“KILL THEM ALL!”

With that, the lionkin surged forward.

The gates of Emberfang burst open.

And the hunters became the hunted.

Var’Zhul’s smirk widened when he saw Prince Darius’ amusement vanish.

The cocky ease drained from the dogkin prince’s face, replaced by the cold, honed focus of a warrior. His muscles tensed as he brandished his weapon, his fellow elites falling in beside him, ready to meet the charge.

Yes.

This was the right decision.

Var’Zhul shot a glance over his shoulder.

Five hundred warriors followed behind him, their battle cries filling the air. A hundred of them took to the skies, letting their wyverns and avian mounts screech their own cries of battle.

Then, his grin exploded into a full-blown snarl of savage glee when he saw that from the ruined underbelly of Emberfang, the monster emerged.

The masked one rose into the air with the strange, hovering black saber wreathed in blue flames orbiting around him.

‘Heh. He has to back up his allies, fearing we’ll easily overrun them,’ Var’Zhul thought.

Instantly, the aerial forces turned on him.

Good.

Let them chase the demon. Him pulling other bullshit magic tricks was the only way they had a chance.

But first, before he and his soldiers could reach their enemies, a final thunderous volley screamed after the cannons of the moon mage had been readjusted to aim at them, not the mirror in the sky.

“BREAK!” Var’Zhul roared.

The lionkin scattered just in time, zigzagging through the oncoming blasts. Three dozen warriors were erased in bursts of moonlit devastation.

But that was all.

The cannons ceased fire. They needed to reload.

And by then, they would already be upon them.

The dogkin braced themselves.

Darius’s eyes locked onto him as the prince bellowed, “It’s been a while, you old lion!”

Then he charged right at the lionkin captain.

Var’Zhul’s blade met his in a flash of steel.

The two warriors clashed in a whirlwind of speed and strength, each strike a calculated test, each movement a violent statement. Sparks flew as steel met steel, the ground beneath them cracking from the sheer force of their battle.

Var’Zhul snarled as he drove Darius back with a savage swing of his serrated blade. The prince dodged its arc before countering with a mighty downward swing.

The lionkin parried the strike by gripping onto the back of his blade with his free hand, after which a contest of strength occurred.

Neither warrior gained ground.

Neither warrior lost it.

But then, a sudden, blinding glow materialized.

A familiar golden barrier flared into existence, enveloping every combatant on the battlefield. The same shields as before.

Var’Zhul’s eyes snapped toward the elven mage.

No new silvery constructs. No ghostly minions.

The moon mage had run dry.

But two others took her place.

A human priest and an elven healer raised their staves, unleashing waves of rejuvenation. The wounded among the dogkin army mended in real-time, energy returning to their limbs as their injuries faded.

“Get behind this beautiful lady, children.”

A soft coo sounded.

Var’Zhul’s head snapped toward the source.

A white-haired woman stood among the enemy ranks, eyes lighting up with crimson-red pentagrams.

His stomach twisted.

“Red-Eyed Demon!” he roared, fury and recognition crashing together in his voice. The woman who’d been terrorizing lionkin lands for the past century, hunting his people as if they were nothing but prey before her.

Her lips curled.

She raised a single finger, tracing an arc in the air. Black sigils slithered into existence, shaping themselves into intricate words none but she understood.

Then she snapped her fingers. “[Bloodbinding Hex].”

A shockwave of cursed energy erupted outward.

Lionkin warriors froze mid-charge. Their weapons wavered in their grips, their weight suddenly tripling. Their bodies slowed, muscles stiffening like lead.

A curse-like spell, the trademark of this damned woman.

Before they could collect themselves, she purred, “Raika, kill.”

A black-haired woman was instantly among them.

She moved like a specter, a shadow of pure brutality.

Her fist shot forward.

*CRACK!*

A lionkin’s spine snapped in two as her arm burrowed through his chest, emerging from his back, dripping with blood.

A warrior wreathed his fists in fire, slamming a burning punch into another lionkin, sending him flying back with parts of his armor melting from the sheer heat.

Then, a woman with a katana spoke up with a competitive tone while turning to her comrades.

“We can’t let ourselves get outshone by the old guard.”

Her eyes gleamed behind the faceless mask while she reached for the hilt of her blade resting in its scabbard.

“Ambition. Let’s lead our teams to victory.”

And with that, the non-dogkins have activated themselves, joining the fray.

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