My Xianxia Harem Life

Riley stepped into the clearing, staying just within the shadows of the towering trees. His eyes swept over the scene before him—an ambush in progress, and a dire one at that.

"Haha! Can you believe it, boys? The famed Maiden of Milfwood, right here in our grasp!" a gruff voice boomed. The speaker was a broad-shouldered man with a cruel grin carved across his face.

There was lust and excitement in his eyes as he looked at the woman that was about to fall on their lap.

He stood with confidence, clearly the ringleader of the unruly crowd of thugs around him. Nearly two dozen men flanked him, forming a rough circle around their prey.

At the center of it all was a woman—tall, proud, and devastatingly beautiful.

Her long dark hair clung to her sweat-drenched skin, and her once-elegant purple dress was torn and dirtied, clinging tightly to her form.

She spun and twisted, blocking blows and countering with desperate precision, though it was obvious she was flagging, failing, and weakening by the second.

Riley's gaze sharpened. Something was wrong with her.

Her strikes were half a second too slow. Her parries lacked power. Every movement she made seemed to take more effort than it should, like she was dragging her limbs through molasses.

She stumbled slightly, only just recovering in time to deflect a wild swing aimed at her side.

They must have poisoned her, Riley thought grimly. Some kind of weakening agent—enough to keep her standing but slowly rob her of the ability to fight and resist.

Her sword, once an extension of her will, now hung heavy in her hand, its tip barely raised from the ground.

She was gasping now, her chest rising and falling with each breath. Beads of sweat rolled down her neck, soaking through her torn dress and causing it to cling even tighter.

Her eyes scanned the ring of enemies, defiant but fearful—searching for an escape that didn't exist.

The men around her jeered and laughed, circling like vultures. Their eyes were lit not with respect for her skill, but with vile anticipation.

One of them moved closer, emboldened by her clear fatigue, and lashed out with a crude spear. She barely dodged in time, stumbling backward until her heel caught on a tree root, forcing her to one knee.

The leader stepped forward, licking his lips. "Not so high and mighty now, are you, Maiden?" he sneered. "A true void tribulation realm powerhouse soon to be our bitch and whore in this secret realm. HAHAHA!"

Riley's fists clenched as he watched the scene unfold. He didn't know who the woman was beyond her title, but it didn't matter. This was wrong. Every part of it.

He felt his anger simmering beneath the surface, cold and focused.

The woman rose unsteadily to her feet again, clutching her sword with both hands now. Her lips were set in a firm line. Even as her body failed her, her spirit hadn't yet surrendered.

"She's still fighting?" one of the men said, incredulous.

"She's got fire," another chuckled. "Let's see how long it lasts."

Riley's jaw tightened.

Enough was enough.

He stepped into the clearing without a word, a sleek, black mask obscuring his face and casting his eyes in shadow.

The light filtered through the trees behind him, giving his silhouette an almost ghostly aura. His presence alone made the air feel heavier—dense with something unspoken but undeniable.

The mask wasn't to hide weakness—far from it. Riley wore it because being the strongest cultivator in the land came with an endless parade of problems.

If people knew who he was, they'd either beg for help, challenge him out of arrogance, or worse, try to latch onto him like leeches.

He didn't have the patience for fools, and certainly not for attention-seekers who mistook his indifference for vulnerability.

In truth, Riley didn't fear anyone. But he feared the time he'd waste dealing with everyone.

And so, the mask.

His gaze swept over the scene—nearly two dozen brutes surrounding a battered but beautiful woman, her dress torn, her breath ragged, yet her spirit unbroken.

She still held her sword in trembling hands, though her body was clearly failing her.

"Enough," Riley said, his voice low but thunderous in its effect. It rippled across the clearing like a wave, stopping the men mid-motion. Heads turned toward him, some startled, some amused.

The leader turned slowly, arching a brow. He was taller than most, with a scar that ran from his temple down to his jaw. His sneer widened.

"Well, well," the man said with a mocking chuckle. "A masked hero come to save the beauty. Haven't seen that before."

He gestured casually, like he wasn't even slightly threatened.

"Listen, boy. Turn around and walk away. You don't want to see what happens next. We'll even let you leave with your legs intact, out of kindness."

Riley didn't stop. He walked forward with the ease of someone strolling through a garden, unbothered by the blades around him.

"I said," the boss growled louder now, "turn around."

"I don't think so," Riley said flatly, never breaking stride.

That was enough.

The boss spat to the side, then barked over his shoulder, "Keep playing with our food, boys. I'll deal with this little hero wannabe."

The other men laughed, returning their attention to the struggling woman. A few of them moved in closer, confident she couldn't fight back much longer.

The boss stepped out to meet Riley alone, grinning like a man who thought he already won.

As they closed the distance, he reached into a leather pouch tied to his belt and withdrew a small pinch of shimmering powder. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the air.

A fine mist scattered toward Riley, glittering in the light, and carried on the wind.

Immediately, the scent hit him.

It was sweet. Too sweet. A thick, cloying perfume that made the senses blur and thoughts drift. Almost floral—like lilac mixed with opium.

Riley paused.

Most would've taken a deep breath before realizing the danger too late. Most would have felt their limbs slow, their mind cloud, their strength seep out of them.

But Riley wasn't most.

His eyes narrowed behind the mask, and his fingers twitched.

So this was probably how they'd weakened her—the famed Maiden of Milfwood. A cultivator of legend, brought to her knees by poison. Cowards' tactics.

His voice dropped to a deadly whisper.

"Poisoned air. Cute trick."

The boss laughed. "Cute enough to drop her, wasn't it? Don't worry, yours'll kick in soon."

Riley tilted his head slightly. "Do you really think something like that would work on me?"

He took another step forward. Then another. Unhurried. Unfazed.

That was when the boss's grin wavered just slightly. "How are you still standing?"

Riley cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp and crisp in the tense silence.

"Because I've already seen what true power looks like," he said. "And you're not even close."

The wind shifted.

Behind Riley, a faint pressure began to ripple through the clearing, like the calm before a storm. Leaves rustled. The soil seemed to pulse.

And suddenly, even the thick-headed men encircling the woman began to feel something was wrong. One by one, they looked up—some clutching their weapons tighter, others exchanging nervous glances.

The woman, half-conscious and struggling to stay upright, blinked through sweat and haze as her blurry gaze landed on the masked stranger.

She didn't know who he was, but for the first time that night, a flicker of hope sparked in her chest.

Riley stepped forward again, now close enough that the boss could see the cold gleam in his eyes.

"I'll give you one chance," he said. "Step aside and live another day."

The boss tried to laugh—but it came out wrong. Uncertain. Shaky.

"You're insane," he muttered.

Riley's reply was soft. Final.

"No. I'm just tired of talking."

And with that, Riley made his move. He surged forward, closing the distance to confront the boss.

Although the thugs had likely taken an antidote—explaining their immunity to the airborne poison—they were in for a rude awakening.

For Riley had not approached in person—this was one of his clones, unaware and unaffected by the trap.

"Die, fool!" the boss roared, swinging his sword in a deadly arc.

The blade came fast, but Riley—fast as thought—was faster. Though all the men around them operated at the Body Refinement Realm, Riley's real body resided in the Void Tribulation Realm.

The gulf in cultivation, experience and skill was like heaven and earth.

The boss's strike whistled through the air, but Riley slipped aside. His momentum carried him forward.

In a fluid motion—a quick pivot—he struck back. In the span of a single breath, he was within arm's reach of the boss.

He targeted the fragile area between neck and collarbone. With calculated force, he snapped it.

"Crack!"

The boss's head jerked sideways. His final word, a strangled gasp of disbelief, lingered in the air:

"How?"

His voice cut off as his sight went dark.

Riley drew back instantly, crestfallen yet composed. Around him, the henchmen froze—shock and fear rooting them to the spot.