My Xianxia Harem Life

"Fuck! He killed the prince! What the hell do we do now?" One of the men shouted.

"Does that even need to be asked?" another of them snarled, his voice shaking with a mix of fear and fury.

"The prince is dead—that means we're already corpses walking."

A heavy silence fell over the group for a moment as the weight of the situation crushed their lungs like an invisible hand.

The two dozen guards, elite warriors trained since birth to protect royalty, were now nothing more than pawns left abandoned on a bloodstained battlefield.

Their prince, their charge, their ticket to life and honor—gone in an instant.

"If we return now…" another muttered, his voice barely a whisper, "the prince's clan will butcher our families. They'll think we betrayed him. That we stood by and watched."

"Then we have no path left but vengeance!" and another shouted, raising his blade high into the air. His eyes burned with a twisted sense of resolve.

"We die here—but we take him with us! KILL!"

A war cry erupted as all twenty-four men surged forward, their weapons gleaming with reflected rage, desperation, and resolve.

The ground trembled beneath their charge, dust rising, steel ringing, hearts pounding with one last purpose—to kill the man who had taken everything from them.

But Riley stood still. Silent. Calm.

His eyes flicked over the incoming wave with neither concern nor cruelty—just clarity. A predator surrounded by prey that didn't yet know they were already dead.

The first man lunged.

Crack!

A palm to the chest—his ribs shattered inward, and he collapsed with a whimper.

The second swung wildly.

Riley ducked, stepped in, and struck with a gentle touch beneath the jaw. The man went stiff, then limp, eyes rolled back as he dropped without a sound.

Three more tried to surround him.

Snap. Crack. Thud.

One palm each. Neck broken. Spine twisted. Heart stopped.

It wasn't a fight—it was a slaughter. Graceful, effortless, cruel in its indifference.

"Mon… monster!" one of the younger guards cried, stumbling back, his sword slipping from numb fingers.

But there was no mercy.

Riley was already upon him. A single tap to the forehead—and the light left the man's eyes forever.

Minutes passed. Screams rang. Then silence.

Dust settled over blood-soaked earth. Twenty-four corpses lay scattered like fallen leaves.

Riley stood at the center, untouched, his hands still open and clean—like he hadn't just butchered trained killers with his bare palms.

He looked around, expression unreadable.

"They were loyal," he murmured. "But loyalty to filth only leads to death."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving behind a battlefield of broken bodies and the scent of vengeance that had come too late.

He walked over to check on the woman, who now lacked even the strength to sit up.

The once proud and graceful beauty was crumpled on the ground, her limbs limp, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.

Her long hair stuck to her flushed face, damp with sweat, and her gown clung to her body, soaked in heat and suffering.

Her eyes, half-lidded and glassy, struggled to focus as she looked up at him.

"Are you okay?" Riley asked softly, crouching beside her. His voice was calm, measured—but laced with concern.

"Ahhh…" she moaned, her lips barely parting. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed with effort. She tried to move her hand, but it twitched uselessly.

Her head shook ever so slightly—a weak, fragile motion that confirmed it. She was still conscious. Aware of him. Aware of what was happening. And trapped inside a body no longer under her control.

Riley's eyes narrowed. Something was wrong—very wrong. He had seen poisons before. He had treated deadly venoms, paralytics, toxins that could boil blood. But this… this was something else.

"Don't worry," he said gently. "I'm a doctor. I need to check your pulse, okay?"

He didn't move. He waited. Even in this state, he would not violate her boundaries.

Seconds passed. She blinked slowly, then gave the faintest of nods.

"Ohhh…" she moaned again, a sound that seemed to tremble in the air. Her body shifted slightly, but even that simple motion left her shivering like a leaf in a storm.

Riley reached out carefully and took her wrist.

The moment his fingers brushed her skin, her body reacted violently.

"Ughhhh…" she moaned, louder this time. Her back arched subtly. Her thighs clenched. The sound that escaped her was something primal—raw, involuntary, and deeply suggestive.

Her entire frame trembled under his touch, her breath catching in her throat.

It was as if her nerves were on fire, every inch of her body hypersensitive, every brush of contact amplified tenfold.

Riley's expression darkened. He didn't need to continue the diagnosis. He already had a quick guess of what this was.

"I knew it," he muttered, releasing her wrist gently and staring down at her with a grim expression. "A high-grade aphrodisiac. Bastards…"

It was a rare and vile concoction—designed not to kill, but to torment. To break. It attacked the nervous system, flooding the body with unbearable heat and sensitivity.

The victim would be left helpless, drowning in waves of unwanted arousal, every touch turning into agony and shame.

It wasn't just poison. It was a weapon of humiliation.

The woman lay there panting, unaware that tears had begun to leak from her eyes. Her body betrayed her, her moans sounding too close to pleasure, too far from dignity.

But her gaze—Riley could see it—was full of fear, confusion, and silent pleading.

This wasn't what she wanted. This wasn't what she chose.

And that enraged him more than anything.

"I'm going to help you," he said softly. "Trust me."

She let out another moan, her body jerking slightly, her legs trembling. The look in her eyes was both desperate and embarrassed, as if she hated herself for reacting this way, for not being able to stop it.

Riley gently lifted her into a more upright position, placing a rolled cloth under her head. Her body quaked under the touch, and another soft gasp escaped her lips.

He tried to remain composed, focused on his task, but even he couldn't deny it—this was torture for her.

Riley turned away from the near unconscious woman and walked back toward the battlefield littered with corpses.

His boots crunched against the blood-soaked earth as he approached the fallen men, their lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.

He went to the prince's body first.

If anyone had an antidote, it would be him.

Storage space was restricted in this secret realm—dimensional rings and spatial pouches didn't function here.

Everything these men brought with them had to be carried on their person, meaning any cure would have to be somewhere on the body itself.

Riley knelt beside the corpse, ignoring the blood pooling beneath it. His fingers moved quickly and methodically as he rifled through the prince's belongings.

It didn't take long.

In one of the side pouches—the very same pouch the prince had used earlier to scatter the airborne poison—Riley found a small vial nestled beside it.

The glass bottle was a pale green color, its contents swirling with a faint glow.

He narrowed his eyes.

This must be it.

Still, Riley wasn't the type to blindly trust appearances—especially not when a woman's life was on the line.

He pulled out the cork and carefully placed a single drop of the liquid on his tongue, then closed his eyes and focused, his senses sharpening as he monitored his body for changes.

Almost instantly, he felt a gentle wave of energy course through him—cool and soothing, like a breeze sweeping away heat.

His mind cleared, his fatigue faded slightly, and the oppressive aura of the battlefield seemed to lift, if only just.

"This should be the cure," he muttered.

Without wasting another moment, he rushed back to the woman and gently lifted her up into a sitting position, supporting her head with one hand.

She was burning hot, her skin feverish, her lips slightly parted as she gasped for air.

"I think I got the antidote for you," Riley said softly.

He uncorked the vial again and carefully tilted it against her lips, helping her drink a mouthful of the liquid.

The effect was almost immediate.

Her trembling slowed. Her flushed cheeks began to regain a more natural color. The tension in her body eased, and her breathing started to stabilize.

Relief washed over her face as the fire inside her seemed to dim, even if just a little.

Riley sighed in relief.

But just as he was about to pull away, she did something he didn't expect.

Her hand—still weak, still trembling—suddenly reached up and grabbed his wrist.

Her eyes, though still hazy, locked onto his.

"Thank you… for saving me."

Her voice was soft—barely louder than a whisper—but it carried a melodic grace that made Riley pause.

It was the kind of voice that could melt ice, delicate and gentle like the brushing of silk, yet it struck deep.

"Please… take me somewhere private," she added, her eyes lowering, cheeks flushed with lingering heat.