My Xianxia Harem Life

"Are we really going to attack the Austere Clan, Father?" the young man asked, his brows furrowed as he stood beside his father on the deck of a large flying vessel.

The wind tugged at his dark hair, and his eyes, sharp and questioning, searched the older man's expression for any trace of hesitation.

He was striking to behold—handsome, poised, and already in the Golden Core Realm despite being in his twenties.

His cultivation talent was undeniable, the kind that stirred both admiration and envy among his peers. Yet now, standing amidst a mobilizing army, even he couldn't hide his uncertainty.

Veronica's father, a weathered man with lines of both wisdom and war etched into his face, didn't respond right away.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out over the horizon where dozens of flying boats hovered, awaiting his command.

The sky was streaked with clouds, the sun beginning to dip behind a distant mountain range, casting everything in shades of gold and crimson.

"That's a difficult question to answer, my son," he finally said, his voice deep and contemplative. "Truth be told, I don't have the answer myself—not yet."

The young man frowned. "Then why are we doing this?" he asked, stepping closer. "Is it really just for Elder Sister Veronica? Do you love her that much—enough to risk war with one of the most powerful clans in the region?"

He wasn't accusing, just confused. His father was a strategist, not a reckless man.

To see him commit so many resources, to watch their clan prepare for what could become a devastating confrontation, all for one woman—albeit his beloved daughter—was something the young cultivator couldn't quite comprehend.

A deep chuckle rumbled from the older man's chest. "Hahaha... That one's an easy question," he said with a glint in his eye.

"But I won't tell you the answer. No, I'll let you discover it on your own—one day, when you have children of your own. When you've held them in your arms and known that you'd raze mountains and tear open the sky just to keep them safe."

The young man fell silent, his father's words echoing in the vastness around them.

Then came the signal.

A deep horn sounded across the fleet, its call reverberating through the clouds. The time for questioning had passed.

Veronica's father raised his hand, and the fleet responded.

Dozens of flying boats surged forward in perfect formation, their sails catching the wind, their hulls glowing faintly with the light of embedded spirit stones.

The sky darkened beneath their mass—an omen of the storm they were about to unleash.

Below, the world remained unaware of the coming thunder.

***

"Fools! They're marching to their deaths!"

The furious voice echoed through the great stone hall of the Gray Clan.

The room, lit by floating spirit lanterns and adorned with ancient banners bearing the clan's insignia, was packed with elders and influential figures.

Tension crackled in the air like the hum of lightning before a storm.

Around the long, crescent-shaped table, murmurs rose and fell as the clan's senior members debated, their voices overlapping in urgency and frustration.

Though they bore the same crest on their robes, they were far from unified.

Politics, ambition, and personal vendettas had long fractured the Gray Clan into smaller power blocs.

But today, something else had brought them together—fear. Fear of what would happen if Veronica's father, the commander of their most powerful forces, were to fall.

"He's throwing everything away for one daughter," spat Elder Han, a stern man with silver-streaked hair and narrow eyes that burned with cold calculation.

"Does he think the Austere Clan will go easy on him just because he's acting out of love? This is suicide."

"What do we do?" a younger elder asked anxiously, his hand gripping the edge of the table. "If he dies, the Austere Clan will see it as a declaration of weakness. They'll strike us next."

"We do nothing," came the calm but firm response from Elder Mei, a regal woman clad in flowing gray silks. Her voice carried the weight of centuries.

"A father's love is boundless. Let him walk this path. It is not for us to stop him. But… we must be prepared."

She turned to one of her disciples and gave a curt nod. The young man bowed and vanished in a swirl of mist.

"Spies," she said. "Discreet ones. I want to know every move they make, every breath they take. If they fall, I want to be the first to know."

"Shouldn't we at least send reinforcements?" another asked, his voice laced with guilt. "If he falls, won't we all look like cowards for standing idle?"

"And what then?" Elder Wu snapped, slamming his palm on the table. "Do we throw our children onto the pyre too? Let the whole family perish in this madness? No. If we involve ourselves in this fool's errand, we all burn."

A few nodded grimly, while others looked away, ashamed but silent.

"Even with our ancestors awakened and standing at our side," Elder Han added, his voice low and grave, "we would still be weaker. The Austere Clan has five peak Void Tribulation ancestors—five. Each of them capable of destroying cities with a wave of their hand. Do you think love and loyalty will save us against that kind of power?"

He looked around the room, daring anyone to argue.

"This act is rash," he continued. "It's emotional. It's the act of a father who has forgotten his duty to the clan and placed his child above his people. I understand it—but I cannot follow it."

Silence gripped the chamber.

Outside, the distant sound of thunder rolled across the skies. Whether it was a natural storm or the tremor of armies taking flight, no one could say.

"But if he falls…" Elder Mei said softly, staring into the flickering light of the lanterns, "then we must be ready to pick up the pieces. For better or worse, his name is tied to ours. And the Austere Clan… they will not forget."

The elders exchanged looks—some wary, others resigned.

War was no longer a question of if. It was a matter of when.

***

While tensions rose across the continent and cultivators braced for a clash that could shake the balance of power, Riley, of course, remained entirely indifferent.

He paid no mind to the schemes of elders, the mobilization of armies, or the whispers of impending bloodshed.

He was, as always, surrounded by beauty and luxury.

In his private realm, nestled high above the clouds and hidden from the prying eyes of the world on his flying boat, Riley drank fine spiritual wine that shimmered with condensed starlight and enjoyed the company of his many wives—each one a peerless beauty, each one utterly devoted to him.

To him, the gathering storm was nothing more than a mild curiosity. A diversion.

Just another story unfolding in the endless stream of history, destined to rise, fall, and be forgotten.

In Riley's eyes, it was all play—no more significant than a passing dream.

He was utterly alone in this view.

Though many Void Tribulation experts had once walked beside him, none had followed him this time.

Not one dared accompany him on what they considered a doomed or at least inexplicable journey.

Even the famed Daoist Third Eye, an ancient seer whose name alone commanded respect across three regions, refused to get involved.

Long ago, out of both curiosity and caution, Daoist Third Eye had attempted to divine Riley's future.

He had expected difficulty—Riley was no ordinary man—but he hadn't expected what came next.

The moment he cast his gaze toward Riley's fate, a terrible backlash struck him.

Blood poured from his eyes as celestial fire roared through his soul, burning through his senses, blinding his spiritual vision.

Worse yet, for a single breathless instant, the heavens themselves stirred. A gaze—ancient, infinite, and utterly indifferent—had turned toward him.

Daoist Third Eye, a man who had peered into the fates of emperors, monsters, and gods, collapsed in fear. It was the first—and last—time he ever attempted to look into Riley's destiny.

"The heavens refuse to speak of him," he later whispered to a trusted disciple. "And when the heavens refuse… it is not out of mercy. It is because they fear what lies beneath."

From that day on, he distanced himself from Riley completely. The price of curiosity had been far too steep. The risks, incomprehensible. No one else dared to try.

And yet Riley himself remained blissfully unbothered. Whether the heavens watched or turned away, whether fate had plans for him or not, he lived his days as if untouched by time or consequence.

Time passed. Days melted into nights, and the world beyond Riley's hidden sanctuary grew ever more chaotic.

Then came the moment.

The massive army—led by Veronica's father and bolstered by thousands of elite cultivators—arrived at the gates of the Austere Clan.

The sight was staggering. Dozens of flying warships hovered in perfect formation, their armored hulls radiating spiritual energy.

On the ground, tens of thousands of cultivators stood at the ready, the banners of the Gray Clan and its allies fluttering in the wind.

The sky darkened beneath their numbers. The clouds trembled with tension.

From the towering stone gates of the Austere Clan's stronghold, ancient defensive arrays activated one by one.

Layer upon layer of shimmering light formed protective domes over the mountain, pulsing with power that had slept for centuries.

The war drums of the Austere Clan began to beat—a slow, heavy rhythm that echoed across the land like the heartbeat of a giant.

Riley, lounging on a jade couch, sipped from his cup and watched the storm unfold through a floating mirror.

He smiled faintly as he fed a grape to the woman curled beside him.

"So dramatic," he murmured. "But it's also nice to be welcomed in this manner." He chuckled, and his wives giggled around him, but none dared speak. They knew better.

There was something about Riley—something ancient and untouchable—that even they did not understand.

He played the fool, but the heavens themselves refused to predict his fate.

And far below, at the gates of a clan feared across the continent, destiny sharpened its blade.