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Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem

Quinlan, a simple office worker finds himself transmigrated to an extremely dangerous fantasy land as a level 1 Commoner with nothing to his name but his wits- and a unique gift that accompanied his teleportation. No one in Thalorind could have predicted that this unassuming arrival would one day rise to the top, redefining the very meaning of the term 'power'... And that he may have achieved said result by joining a criminal organization and clawing his way through its ranks as well as establishing his own business empire that may or may not have relied on slave labor. In the beginning Quinlan was painfully weak and alone, but thanks to his severe trust issues, joining a team was... hard. However, he soon noticed that a lot of people have collars around their necks in this world... People that couldn't exactly betray him. "Oh, so you are a warrior who is looking for a master that strives to become the strongest? You found him." "Wait, you are an assassin with an amazing, rare class who has a cruel master? Let me help you have a change of ownership..." "I know that you might not be a slave, but one of my classes is 'Slave Master', which would make you stronger should you become one... So how about it?" Follow Quinlan's journey as he grows in strength, amasses wealth, fights to the death, and meets lovely ladies.

NecroBin · 奇幻
分數不夠
356 Chs

Fighting Ayame

"You would go that far to properly show me who's boss, huh?" I ask, my voice low and threatening as I take a step closer. Her smirk only widens, and I can see the challenge in her eyes- those deep, crystal blue pools that seem to sparkle with amusement. "You would even risk your own life for this?" My gaze flicks down to the saber in my hand, the edge gleaming dangerously in the light.

"Oh, please." she scoffs, brushing off my concern with an arrogant wave of her hand. "My life isn't going to be at risk at all."

"Dress up into your armor, Ayame." I command in a firm, demanding tone.

She doesn't budge.

Instead, she takes a slow, deliberate step forward, her bare feet barely making a sound on the floor, and only stops when are are so close to each other that our chests are meshing together. Ayame then arches her neck to look up at me with a defiant, confident smile. "Make me, Quinlan." She challenges with a tone that's laced with playful malice.