My Xianxia Harem Life-Chapter 381 Plane

Riley and his men took control of the spiritual mine once again, their banners rising high above the rugged hills.

The dust had barely settled, and the scent of blood still lingered faintly in the air.

To the uninformed, it might have seemed like just another skirmish over territory and resources.

But those who understood the deeper currents of the cultivation world knew—this was only the beginning.

"I smell war in the air," an old merchant muttered as he watched soldiers patrol the city gates.

His voice trembled slightly, though he tried to mask it behind a calm facade.

"I know, right?" replied a younger cultivator standing nearby. "The Starry Sky Pavilion won’t take this lying down. They’ve already lost a great elder—one of their pillars. This is a humiliation they won’t let go unpunished."

Another man leaned in, whispering, "I heard the Ash Maker is a wise master despite his age. Maybe that’s why he’s still here. He must be expecting retaliation."

The chatter spread like wildfire, filling taverns, marketplaces, and inns with restless energy.

Everyone could feel it—the tension that made the air heavy, as if lightning was waiting to strike.

The city had turned into a tinderbox, and one wrong move could ignite a war that would swallow everyone within its walls.

Excitement and dread warred in the hearts of the people.

For some, the coming storm was an opportunity—to earn glory, to seize power, to side with the victors.

For others, it was a nightmare in the making.

As the sun began to set, caravans of mortals were already leaving through the eastern gate, their faces pale, their belongings hastily packed.

Children cried while elders prayed to whatever gods still listened.

Most cultivators, however, remained.

They stood on rooftops or watched from the shadows, eyes sharp, senses alert.

They knew that strength brought freedom—and if worse came to worst, they could always flee faster than any mortal could hope to.

But one thing was certain: the city was no longer peaceful.

And as night fell over the horizon, the winds carried a single unspoken truth—war was coming.

***

A week later, the long-awaited storm finally arrived.

"Look—they’ve arrived!" someone shouted from the city walls, their voice cracking with panic.

In the next instant, the entire city stirred to life.

Merchants abandoned their stalls, guards scrambled to their posts, and cultivators rushed to the rooftops to witness the sight that loomed in the distant sky.

On the horizon, a vast armada of flying boats appeared, blotting out the sun like a swarm of metal leviathans.

Their surfaces gleamed with engraved runes, and each vessel radiated a faint but oppressive aura that made the ground tremble.

The air itself seemed to warp from the spiritual pressure they exuded.

Then came the beasts—giant magical monsters that accompanied the fleet.

Their scales glimmered like molten iron, their claws dug trenches in the clouds, and their roars rolled across the desert like thunder.

Some had wings of fire, others were wrapped in storms of lightning or shrouded in shadows that devoured the light around them.

The mere sight of them was enough to make mortals collapse in terror.

Moments later, the sky cracked open as countless cultivators descended from the armada.

They fell into formation with military precision, their armor reflecting the sun, their spiritual energy intertwining like a raging tide.

It was an army that stretched beyond the horizon—millions strong, each carrying the insignia of the Starry Sky Pavilion.

"The Pavilion brought their entire might..." someone whispered, awe and fear trembling in their voice. "This isn’t a skirmish anymore—it’s extermination."

"Stay back!" came a powerful voice, booming through the chaos.

"The Ash Maker is a master of formations. If you enter without caution, you’ll be devoured by his traps before you even lift a sword!"

All eyes turned to the one who spoke—a great elder of the Pavilion.

His robes fluttered against the wind as he floated above the sands, a living monument of power and experience.

His hair was long and white, his skin weathered but glowing faintly with the essence of a profound cultivation.

He had lived for over a million years, seen thousands of wars, and buried countless disciples and enemies alike.

This was not a man who acted in haste.

Descending slowly from his flying ship, he stepped onto the scorching desert below.

Each step he took sent ripples through the sand, his presence alone bending the natural energies around him.

Behind him, his disciples watched in reverent silence as he began his solitary walk toward the distant walls of Hot Sand City.

The city gates loomed like the mouth of a slumbering beast—silent, motionless, yet filled with unfathomable danger.

The faint hum of spiritual energy resonated beneath the sands, subtle yet menacing, as if the desert itself was alive and waiting.

The elder paused for a moment and closed his eyes.

The wind howled across the dunes, carrying whispers of tension and killing intent.

He could feel it—the hidden formation that lay beneath, intricate and deadly, woven into the very bones of the land.

"The Ash Maker truly lives up to his name," he murmured. "Even the sand itself hides his wrath."

Behind him, the army stood ready. The air was thick with anticipation, blades drawn, hearts pounding.

Above them, the beasts roared again, shaking the heavens.

And from within Hot Sand City, a faint sound echoed back—a low, resonant hum, like the awakening of something ancient.

The sand began to shift, glowing faintly under the setting sun.

"The Starry Sky Pavilion has come to seek justice. Can the fellow Daoist Ash Maker show his face and accept his punishment?" the old elder intoned.

At the sight of him, the crowd fell into a hush—there was no mistaking who he was.

"That’s Elder Raiden!" someone breathed, awe cutting through the fear. "The strongest elder in the Starry Sky Pavilion — they say he slew ten Primordial Dao Fragment experts at once."

Gasps and excited whispers rippled through the city.

None had expected to witness such a living legend today; a hero of an age told in hushed stories had stepped onto their sands.

All eyes swung toward Riley’s camp.

In answer, Riley strode out from the ranks, his silhouette flanked by a thousand of his fiercest men.

They formed into a stubborn, immovable line outside the gates, their armor catching the dying light.

Facing them was an endless sky full of enemy cultivators and warbeasts — an army that wanted their blood.

Yet Riley’s men showed no tremor. Their faith in their leader was absolute.

"Justice?" Riley’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

A sardonic smile curled one corner of his mouth. "Don’t make me laugh. That spiritual mine was ours from the start. Your lot came to steal what didn’t belong to you." He stepped forward, eyes hard as flint.

"Leave now. Ten breaths. After that, my hands will show no mercy — and every one of you will die."

His words spread like chill wind.

Even among the millions above, a ripple of unease passed through the formations.

For a moment the battlefield stilled, as if the world itself were holding its breath — sensing the hunger behind Riley’s threat, as dangerous and patient as a coiled serpent ready to strike.

Silence pressed down—an audible, heavy thing that made even the warbeasts hover mid-roar.

For a heartbeat the whole battlefield felt smaller, concentrated around those two figures: the battle-seasoned elder afloat on a ripple of power, and the warlord rooted like a spear in the sand.

Elder Raiden’s eyes did not widen. He did not sneer.

He simply watched Riley with the steady, unfathomable patience of someone who had watched centuries unfold like pages in a book.

Around him, the Starry Sky cultivators tightened their formations, an ocean of banners and runes that hummed in unison.

The beasts circled, wings beating in time with a thousand hearts.

Five breaths passed. Then Elder Raiden made his move.

He had watched Riley for long moments—probing with eyes that had learned to read intent as clearly as a blade reads a throat—and still could not find the telltale tremor of spiritual pressure.

Riley stood like any mortal man: no visible auras, no quivering ripples of cultivation.

Yet every syllable that left the warlord’s lips carried the weight of a threat that set the hairs on Raiden’s arms on end.

It was a contradiction that prickled the elder’s seasoned intuition: a man who seemed ordinary in form but extraordinary in consequence.

Raiden smiled, a small, almost fond bend of his mouth.

Wisdom, he decided, would be his answer this day.

He stepped forward until the sand at his feet whispered under the weight of his presence, and his voice carried clean over the hush of the battlefield.

"I challenge you, Ash Maker, to a single duel. If I fall, let this conflict be ended—let the Starry Sky Pavilion send reparations for this incident and take their banners away."

A murmur ran through the masses—relief, curiosity, a hope that the bloodshed might be contained to a single exchange between two names.

Raiden’s laugh rang out then, bright and a little reckless.

His intuition warned him that Riley was not a simple man, that crossing him could prove costly, perhaps fatal.

Still, courage and duty braided together in his chest; he would not let an entire city be sacrificed on the altar of pride.

"This is a good day for death!" he shouted, and the cry was less bravado than acceptance.

With that, he closed the distance in a blink of an eye.