My Xianxia Harem Life

Ding!

A deep chime echoed through the heavens as the Austere Clan's defensive arrays sprang to life.

An enormous ripple of spiritual energy surged across the skies, distorting the clouds and causing the earth to tremble faintly beneath the weight of its power.

Towering pillars of light rose from the ground, encasing the clan's territory in a fortress of ancient formations—silent guardians forged by generations of cultivators.

The air grew heavy, thick with spiritual pressure. Lesser cultivators would have fallen to their knees under such a crushing aura, their meridians straining to withstand the force.

But the army accompanying Veronica's father stood unshaken. They bore the pressure with eerie composure, their formation seamless, their eyes forward and unflinching.

These were no ordinary cultivators.

Clad in gray and silver robes embroidered with ancient runes, they radiated a quiet strength. Their cultivation technique was unique to the Gray Clan—a secret art passed down from the ancestors.

It allowed them to merge their spiritual energy into one harmonious flow, amplifying their strength exponentially.

Together, they were not a group of individuals, but a single, unified force. Even the overwhelming pressure of the Austere Clan's defenses seemed to part before them like mist before a blade.

A solemn hush settled over the field as a voice rang out.

"Why does the Gray Clan stand at our gates? Do you seek war?"

An aged Daoist appeared atop the front gates of the Austere Clan, his long white beard flowing in the wind, his gaze sharp like a falcon's. His presence alone seemed to command the very air around him.

With a single gesture, dozens of elite cultivators appeared behind him, lining the walls in synchronized motion.

Their weapons gleamed under the sunlight, their expressions resolute. Battle could erupt at any moment.

But Veronica's father didn't respond.

He sat calmly atop a spirit beast mount, his face unreadable. His army stood behind him in disciplined silence. There was no bloodlust, no aggression—only the quiet confidence of someone here not to fight, but to observe.

He was here for one reason: to see.

To see if the young man who had married his daughter was truly worthy of her. To see whether his bold words were just arrogance or something more.

And then, Riley stepped forward.

He stood at the helm of a majestic flying boat, its hull carved with golden runes and powered by spiritual stones that pulsed with light. He wore simple robes, but his bearing was anything but. Calm, unshaken, his eyes burned with purpose.

Behind him stood all of his wives, each a beauty in her own right, each a powerful cultivator. Their eyes sparkled not with fear, but with anticipation, as if they already knew what was about to unfold.

Riley's voice rang out, steady and sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade through silk.

"I have come for the head of Felix Austere."

His words were not shouted, but they echoed like thunder.

"That man dared to insult and threaten my wife, Veronica. For that, I've come to collect his debt in blood."

A ripple of shock passed through the ranks of the Austere Clan. Murmurs rose. Offending a wife? Declaring blood vengeance at the gates of one of the great clans? This was not the act of a fool—it was the act of a man who either had overwhelming strength... or unshakable conviction.

And Riley stood there, motionless, like an unsheathed sword poised to strike.

He wasn't bluffing.

He had come to make the Austere Clan pay.

The elder in charge was no fool.

Years of cultivation had sharpened his senses beyond that of any ordinary man. He had weathered countless storms, seen arrogant youths rise and fall, and encountered more than his share of braggarts who mistook bravado for power. But this… this was different.

The moment Riley spoke, the elder's instincts sharpened.

And then came the name—Veronica.

A flicker of understanding passed through the old Daoist's eyes. There was only one Veronica tied to their clan's history, and only one who left behind a trail of bitter conflict and unresolved matters.

Veronica Gray.

She had been a thorn in their side once. Not because she was strong—though she was—but because she refused to bend. Her pride had clashed with the Austere Clan's authority, and when she walked away, she took with her more than just a bruised reputation.

There had been tension, threats exchanged behind closed doors, and one particularly reckless young master who had crossed a line and then ultimately died in her hands.

Now, standing before him, was a man claiming to be her husband—demanding the head of Felix Austere, the very same who had stirred up that old conflict.

The elder narrowed his eyes and studied Riley closely. His appearance was striking—tall, poised, adorned in golden robes that shimmered with subtle spiritual threads.

His posture spoke of unshakable confidence, the kind that could not be faked. His eyes were calm, yet there was a quiet fury burning in them, like the eye of a storm waiting to be unleashed.

Curious, the Daoist extended his spiritual sense to peer beneath the surface.

Golden Core Realm.

That was all he could see.

A single ripple in the spiritual plane—well below the threshold of someone who should dare speak to the Austere Clan in this way.

But the elder didn't believe it for a second.

No one at the Golden Core level would stride up to the gates of an ancient clan, demand blood retribution, and carry themselves with such nonchalance—unless they were insane or deliberately concealing their true power. The elder leaned toward the latter.

Illusion or artifact? Concealed cultivation? Or perhaps... someone even stronger stands behind him?

Either way, this wasn't someone he could afford to treat lightly. In the world of cultivation, it was better to assume the tiger wore sheep's clothing than the other way around.

And so, the old Daoist bowed slightly, adopting a cautious but respectful tone.

"May I ask the name of this esteemed fellow Daoist," he said, "so that I may offer a proper greeting?"

It was a probe—subtle and polite. A chance for Riley to reveal more, to perhaps ease the tension with formality.

But Riley gave none.

"You'll know soon enough," he replied coldly. "If you don't bring Felix Austere to stand before me—now."

There was no rise in his voice. No explosive aura. No spiritual pressure released to announce his strength. Just words—sharp, direct, and unforgiving.

And yet, in the stillness that followed, the weight of his statement seemed to shake the very air.

Behind him, his wives remained silent, their gazes fixed on the elder, their postures as calm as if they were standing in their own home. There was no fear among them. No hesitation. Only expectation.

It was as though they had seen this scene before—many times—and knew how it would end.

The elder's expression darkened ever so slightly. He straightened his back and gave a subtle signal to the disciples behind him. Tension rippled through the Austere Clan's ranks. They were now on the edge between caution and confrontation.

He had hoped to end this with words, but Riley's tone made it clear:

This was not a visit. This was a reckoning.

"If that's the case, then it seems we have no choice but to fight, fellow Daoist," the old Daoist said, his tone hardening. "Our Austere Clan may not rank among the greatest sects of the Golden Dragon Continent, but we are not some soft persimmon to be squeezed at another's whim."

As his words fell, his spiritual energy surged like a tidal wave.

Boom!

His cultivation base erupted into full display—a fearsome Void Tribulation Realm, middle stage—shaking the air and pressing down like a mountain.

The disciples behind him steadied themselves, drawing weapons, their expressions solemn. The ground cracked beneath their feet, and the sky darkened faintly as the atmosphere distorted under the weight of his power.

But Riley?

He didn't flinch.

He didn't even blink.

He simply looked at them—like a sovereign gazing upon jesters performing for his amusement.

He could hear their thoughts. Through his divine sense, their minds were laid bare to him.

The memories, the blood on their hands, the pride, the fear—they couldn't hide a thing. Most of them were no better than common executioners, bathing in the blood of the weak and calling it cultivation.

Murderers. Hypocrites.

He would grant no mercy.

But there were a few—only a few—whose hearts still carried innocence or ignorance. These, he decided, would be spared.

The rest?

Riley sighed softly and shook his head.

"So noisy. So much useless posturing," he muttered. "I came for one man, and yet all of you insist on throwing your lives away."

Then, without warning, he acted.

No grand gestures. No glowing auras. No explosive buildup.

Just one whisper of divine sense—silent, swift, and deadly.

In an instant, it tore through the minds of his enemies like an invisible storm.

Puchi!

Soundlessly, bodies began to collapse.

One after another, Austere Clan cultivators froze in place—eyes wide with disbelief—as blood trickled from their noses, ears, and mouths.

And then, as if struck by some unseen executioner, they disintegrated into clouds of red mist. Blood fog filled the air, staining the sacred grounds in a crimson haze.

It was over in seconds.

The proud formation of the Austere Clan had been shattered like brittle glass.

Screams never had the chance to rise. Fear never had the time to spread. Death came too fast for either.

And in the center of it all, Riley stood unmoved, golden robes untouched by a single drop of blood, his expression indifferent—as if he had simply swatted a few flies.