My Xianxia Harem Life

Ding!

From above, a brilliant white light descended. A manifestation took shape—majestic and serene.

A white dove, ethereal and vast, flared its wings open and enveloped Riley's forces in a dome of peace.

The light from the wings shimmered with golden patterns, resonating with the Dao of life and protection. Within its embrace, no harm could enter.

The soldiers, trembling and wide-eyed, stared at the glowing wings above them.

Some collapsed to the ground in awe. Others wept silently, unsure whether from relief or the overwhelming spiritual pressure still lingering in the air.

And then—silence.

The dust settled.

The earth had been reshaped. Hills were flattened, cliffs had crumbled, and entire sections of the battlefield were reduced to blackened craters.

It was a sight out of myth—of divine beings tearing open the sky in their wrath.

And yet, in the center of it all, the two figures stood exactly where they had begun.

Riley's arm was still raised, palm open.

Daoist Rusty Sword still smiled faintly, his hands behind his back.

Neither had moved an inch since the clash. Neither showed signs of injury, exhaustion, or even tension. But the devastation they had wrought spoke for them.

They had tested each other.

And everyone watching—whether from behind the Austere Clan's walls or aboard Riley's warships—understood one thing:

This was not a contest between men.

It was a battle between realms. Between forces that shaped history. Between cultivators who could flatten cities with their will alone.

Daoist Rusty Sword broke the silence with a chuckle. It was low, almost self-mocking. "Interesting. Very interesting. No wonder I couldn't see through your cultivation."

Riley lowered his hand and said nothing. His gaze remained calm, but there was now a subtle shift in the air around him—respect.

Not submission. Not fear. But recognition.

The kind only equals gave each other.

The gathered armies, though still shaken, began to stir. Whispers rose among them—half praise, half terror.

"What realm is Riley in…?"

"He blocked a peak Void Tribulation sword strike... with his palm!"

"No… that wasn't blocking. That was dominating it…"

The legend of Daoist Rusty Sword had stood for thousands of years, but today, a new story had begun to take root—a tale of a young man who came from an obscure continent, now standing toe to toe with one of the world's titans.

"What have we got here?" said an old man as he stepped forward, his voice coarse yet steady with age and power.

He came to stand beside Daoist Rusty Sword, his long beard swaying gently in the breeze.

A moment later, another elder emerged from the shadows, his eyes sharp and calculating.

Then a fourth arrived, his steps slow but deliberate, exuding a silent pressure that weighed on the surroundings.

Finally, an old woman joined them, her face lined with age but her gaze cold and commanding.

Together, they formed a crescent around Riley—the core elders of the Austere Clan.

These were no ordinary cultivators.

Each of them had reached the pinnacle of the Void Tribulation realm, and their presence alone was enough to terrify entire sects.

This was the clan's final line of defense, their last hope of resistance.

For a time, no words were spoken. The air between them grew heavy, thick with unspoken thoughts and ancient grudges.

Yet it was obvious who the center of their attention was. Their eyes all settled on Riley, burning with questions, suspicion, and a tinge of fear.

But Riley didn't care.

He stood there calmly, unmoving, like a god surveying ants. Let them have this moment, he thought. Their last moment in this world. He was gracious enough to grant them that small mercy.

Of course, before offering them their end, he had already taken what he needed. Their minds, their memories, their lifetimes of cultivation experience—he had downloaded it all into his own consciousness.

Every technique, every secret, every regret—they now belonged to him, and he would put them to use in ways they could never have imagined.

At last, the silence broke—not with words, but with action. All five elders attacked in unison, their combined power causing the very ground to tremble and the sky to darken.

Cultivation techniques lit up the air, swords gleamed with killing intent, and the full wrath of the Austere Clan was unleashed in a single, desperate strike.

Riley didn't even blink.

He ended the conflict with a single move.

"What?" gasped someone in the crowd, echoing the confusion rippling through the ranks of cultivators watching from afar.

The battlefield had been tense, teetering on the edge of chaos.

All eyes had been on Riley and the five peak Void Tribulation realm elders of the Austere Clan.

Many had gathered in secret, hidden behind formations and illusions, eager to witness what was sure to be a clash of titans.

They expected an epic exchange, a drawn-out struggle of will, skill, and power.

But what followed defied every expectation.

From high above, the sky darkened—not with clouds, but with the shadow of a palm.

Massive and radiant, it blazed like a sun forged from divine authority.

It was not just a technique; it was a judgment. A verdict from the heavens themselves, carried out by the hand of a god.

The crowd barely had time to react.

The giant palm descended.

It moved with terrifying speed, faster than lightning, faster than thought.

The very fabric of the world seemed to bend around it. Space rippled.

Mountains in the distance shuddered. Trees were uprooted. Birds fell from the sky, and the earth itself wailed as the palm approached.

Then—impact.

The ground exploded. A deafening roar shattered the silence as the palm struck with apocalyptic force.

An enormous crater formed in an instant, stretching hundreds of meters across.

The shockwave flattened everything in its path. Dust surged like a tidal wave, sweeping away the stunned onlookers who barely managed to shield themselves in time.

And just like that—five of the most powerful cultivators in the world were gone.

No bodies. No screams. No last words.

Just blood. A fine mist of crimson, scattered on the wind.

They had activated everything at their disposal. Forbidden techniques that consumed their lifespan.

Ancient artifacts passed down through countless generations. Defensive formations etched into their very souls.

But it didn't matter. In the face of Riley's overwhelming might, it was all meaningless. Their resistance was as flimsy as dry parchment caught in a storm.

The dust began to settle.

Riley stood alone in the center of the ruin, untouched, unfazed. His robes didn't even flutter.

His gaze remained calm, indifferent—like what had just occurred was beneath his concern.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then came the cries.

"No… this is impossible!" a member of the Austere Clan shouted, voice shrill with disbelief.

Another dropped to his knees, trembling. Others began to back away slowly, fear blooming in their hearts like poison.

"They were our ancestors… our guardians…"

"They can't be dead! Not like this!"

But the truth was undeniable. The strongest of their clan—gone in an instant. Vanished like dust before a storm.

And the one responsible stood there, silent, unbothered, godlike.

For the first time, the mighty Austere Clan knew fear.

True, soul-deep, irreversible fear.

They had thought Riley was a threat. Now they realized he was a calamity.

Riley was not one to waste time playing with his food.

Once the battle ended, he moved on without a second glance, focused entirely on the business at hand.

The five peak Void Tribulation cultivators, despite being annihilated, still held value to him.

After all, Riley could resurrect them later, crafting them into loyal puppets. With their power under his control, they could still serve his future plans.

But before he began harvesting the fruits of victory, there was one more debt that needed to be settled.

One hour later…

"Felix Austere," the executioner's voice rang out coldly before the silent crowd, "for the crime of raising a wicked man and shielding him until he rotted from the inside, inflicting pain and suffering upon all around him—you are no longer fit to walk this world."

With those words, the sentence was carried out.

Felix Austere, stripped of his cultivation, was hanged.

There was no resistance, no final struggle. With his powers abolished, the former patriarch of the Austere Clan was no more threatening than a common mortal—and so, he died as one.

By this point, Riley had already assumed control of the Austere Clan.

The once-mighty sect now bent the knee to him without resistance.

Their ancient pride, their high walls and long traditions, meant nothing before the overwhelming power he had demonstrated.

This, Riley thought, was a proper foothold. At last, he had a power base on the Golden Dragon Continent. A foundation. Influence.

And so, a grand feast was held that very night, celebrating Riley's swift and decisive victory.

The halls of the Austere Clan were filled with music and laughter, though much of it was forced—mingled with fear, awe, and silent prayers that the new master would prove to be more merciful to them.

Riley sat at the head of it all, expression unreadable, his thoughts already drifting toward the future.