My Xianxia Harem Life

Chapter 199: Chapter 199 Arsenal

”How did he do that?!”

”I didn’t even see him move...”

”Is he possibly... a...?”

The murmurs rippled through the crowd, stunned and disbelieving. Both the survivors on the battlefield and the spectators watching from afar stood frozen in place, their eyes wide with shock.

What had just occurred defied logic, shattered expectations, and overturned the very laws of combat they thought they understood.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

No one could comprehend what they had seen. A man—alive one moment, dead the next—without so much as a warning sign. No drawn weapon, no flash of movement, no telltale sign of aggression. Just a sudden, gruesome collapse, his lifeless body crumpled on the blood-stained earth as if struck down by an invisible hand.

Some rubbed their eyes again and again, hoping it was a trick of the light or some cruel illusion. Others looked around, silently pleading for someone—anyone—to explain what had just happened. But there were no answers. Only the chilling reality of a death that seemed to come from nowhere.

The air turned cold. A heavy stillness descended on the battlefield like a shroud. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Then, finally, one voice broke the silence.

Riley stepped forward, his expression unreadable, his posture relaxed—too relaxed for someone who had just taken a life. His tone was devoid of emotion, chillingly calm, as if he were discussing the weather, not the aftermath of murder.

”Bring someone who can take responsibility for your clan,” he said quietly, his voice carrying through the still air like a blade drawn in the dark. ”Otherwise, I’m afraid many more will meet meaningless deaths... all because of one man’s stubborn pride.”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a declaration. It was a simple, terrifying promise.

Those who heard him felt a shiver crawl down their spines. They had seen war-crazed warriors before—men who screamed, who laughed as they cut their enemies down, who let bloodlust consume their reason. But Riley was different. There was no madness in his eyes. No rage. No satisfaction. Just something far colder.

He wasn’t a berserker. He was a predator. A calculating killer whose every move was measured, whose every word had weight, and who only struck when the outcome was already certain.

And that made him all the more terrifying.

The survivors didn’t dare move. The spectators didn’t dare speak. Somewhere in the distance, a bird took flight, startled by the unnatural quiet. But no one else moved. No one even breathed too loudly.

Because in that moment, they all understood—

They weren’t standing before a man.

They were standing before something far more dangerous.

A dozen breaths passed, each one heavier than the last, before someone finally responded from deep within the somber depths of the Austere Clan.

From the shadows emerged a young man clad in flowing black cultivator robes, his presence as quiet as falling snow, yet more commanding than thunder.

His face was striking—refined, symmetrical, almost ethereal in its perfection. One might easily mistake him for an eighteen-year-old prodigy, barely on the cusp of adulthood.

But then you saw his eyes.

They were ancient.

Not old in the way of the elderly or the weathered, but in the way the stars are old—timeless, infinite, and unreadable.

It was as though his gaze could pierce through epochs, could see the rise and fall of empires, the fleeting nature of mortal life, and the turning of countless seasons.

Just one look and it became clear: this was a man who had lived through ages, a being who had long transcended the limits of the flesh.

Gasps and exclamations rippled through the crowd like wind through grass.

”Th-that’s Ancestor Rusty Sword!”

”I can’t believe it! I’m truly witnessing a peak Void Tribulation cultivator with my own eyes!”

”He’s a legend! He’s been famous for thousands of years, even before my grandfather’s grandfather was born!”

The army under Veronica’s father erupted into whispers and reverent murmurs, awe washing over them like a tidal wave. This was no ordinary appearance—it was a moment etched in the annals of history.

Daoist Rusty Sword, one of the most powerful beings of the Austere Clan, had deigned to appear before mortals once again.

He was not just a cultivator. He was a symbol of endurance, strength, and unfathomable wisdom.

”...”

For a moment, time itself seemed to pause as Daoist Rusty Sword stared directly at Riley. And Riley, composed and expressionless, returned the gaze.

But within his mind, thoughts surged like a torrent.

He had already integrated the daoist’s memories into his own soul—memories that had opened gateways of understanding and rewoven his perception of the world.

With them came insight into the mysterious and ancient Golden Dragon Continent, a land of towering sects, ancient clans, and brutal power struggles that dictated the fates of millions.

Through the inheritance of those memories, Riley had gained far more than just knowledge.

He had obtained context—the deep-rooted history of cultivator bloodlines, the rivalries between sects, and the subtle manipulations of the unseen hands that governed the world’s balance.

He now knew of the ten great continents: vast and mighty domains whose influence spanned oceans and skies, interconnected by trade routes both mundane and mystical.

Each of these great continents had their own hegemonies, their own sacred lands, forbidden zones, and world-altering treasures.

Yet for every major continent known to the world, there were dozens—perhaps hundreds—of lesser realms and fragmented lands lost to time.

Some were lawless voids where only the mad or desperate ventured.

Others, like Riley’s place of origin—the Nine Cauldrons Continent—existed in obscurity, seemingly insignificant on the grand stage of cultivation, yet hiding secrets older than the stars themselves.

And now, Riley stood here—no longer just a foreigner from a forgotten land. With the knowledge he had stolen and inherited, he was a player. Not yet a king, not yet a god—but the first move had already been made.

And Daoist Rusty Sword, that ancient titan of a man, was the first witness.

Daoist Rusty Sword could not gauge the depth of Riley’s cultivation. He studied the young man standing before him, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Riley stood relaxed, hands at his sides, not a hint of spiritual pressure leaking from his form. No visible aura, no trembling of the earth beneath his feet, not even a fluctuation in his breathing.

And yet, to someone like Daoist Rusty Sword—who had stepped over mountains of corpses and lived through countless battles across millennia—this silence was not reassuring. It was terrifying.

It was the silence of a still ocean before a tidal wave.

Unable to perceive Riley’s realm, the Daoist chose the only method worthy of cultivators at their level: not words, not threats, but action.

His lips curled into a faint, serene smile. Then, without warning, he raised his hand—and struck.

The sword light that burst forth was silent. It did not scream or roar like a mortal blade. It whispered. A single glint, thin as a hair and brighter than the sun, shot forward like a flash of judgment.

To the onlookers, it was as if the world itself had split.

Everyone froze.

Time seemed to slow. The soldiers, the generals, even the nascent cultivators within the flying ships—none could move. Their limbs locked. A searing cold gripped their necks. Many gasped in horror and confusion, clutching at their throats.

”I—I died!” someone screamed, falling to their knees.

Another collapsed entirely, his eyes blank, consciousness lost to fear.

That was the illusion. The sword intent carried within that single strike was so absolute, so refined, that the soul itself responded to it as if it were truly experiencing death. It was no technique.

It was Dao—pure sword Dao, honed over thousands of years of war, bloodshed, and solitude.

And then—

Bang!

The light collided with a palm.

Riley had not moved from his spot. His robes didn’t ripple, his hair didn’t stir. Only his arm extended, open palm glowing faintly with a golden light.

It met the sword intent directly—not dodging, not deflecting, but confronting it head-on.

For a moment, there was stillness. Then the world exploded.

An earsplitting thunderclap shook the heavens. Wind howled in all directions, lifting sand, stones, and men alike into the air. Mountains in the distance fractured like glass.

Trees were uprooted and hurled like twigs. Rivers surged and broke their banks, flooding the surrounding plains in muddy torrents.

The very fabric of the landscape shifted under the weight of the collision.

And then came the shockwave.

The flying boats shuddered violently. Men screamed as they were thrown into the air. Entire formations buckled and twisted under the force. Even seasoned cultivators could barely keep their footing.

The Austere Clan remained secure behind their defensive formation—a barrier forged by ancient ancestors, fueled by relics older than memory. It shimmered, resisting the force with a humming sound that resonated through the bones of everyone nearby.

But those accompanying Riley weren’t so lucky.

Had the shockwave struck them full-on, thousands would have perished in an instant.

But Riley had anticipated this.