My Xianxia Harem Life

"It seems some people have come here without even receiving an invitation," Riley said calmly, but his voice resonated like a divine decree.

The moment those words left his lips, the entire crowd stiffened as if time itself had paused.

The sky, once bright and vast, darkened ever so slightly.

Clouds halted mid-drift, birds froze mid-flight, and even the wind seemed to fall silent in reverence—or perhaps fear.

No one dared to speak.

No one dared to move. Millions stood frozen, heads bowed slightly without thinking, as if by instinct.

Even the mightiest cultivators—those who had crushed empires, slain ancient beasts, and lived for thousands of years—felt as though they were children once more, standing before a mountain they could never climb.

Riley's voice, though not shouted, had reached every corner of the gathering.

Not through sound alone, but through sheer spiritual will.

It pierced barriers and formations, whispered into ears, and echoed in hearts.

His divine sense was all-encompassing—no one could hide.

The weight of his presence pressed down like a great mountain range, and cultivators gasped quietly as their knees buckled under the pressure.

Even breathing became a conscious effort. Every heartbeat felt like a drum of doom beneath his gaze.

This wasn't intimidation.

This was authority.

And then, just when it felt as if the heavens themselves might split open, someone finally found the courage to speak.

An old man stepped forward from among the countless thousands.

He wore flowing azure robes etched with the symbol of water currents—marks of the ancient Nine Streams Sect, a mid-tier force on a distant continent known for its reclusive ways.

Though he stood tall and straight, age had carved deep lines into his face, and experience had hollowed his eyes.

His cultivation base was solid—peak Void Tribulation Realm—but it paled before the oppressive force radiating from Riley.

And yet, he moved.

He knelt. Without hesitation, he prostrated himself on the sacred ground of the Austere Clan.

"It is my greatest honor to be in your presence, Senior Riley!" he declared, voice rising above the stillness.

Every word echoed across the landscape, and cultivators turned to look, unsure whether to admire his courage—or pity his audacity.

"I am Harry Hugo, Patriarch of the Nine Streams Sect. My clan has journeyed across oceans and savage wilderness to arrive at this sacred moment. We have heard that you, the great ascendant of this era, will soon lead a crossing to the Immortal Realm… and that you may take others with you, for a price."

His head remained bowed low.

"I do not ask for charity. We have brought treasures, artifacts, spirit veins, techniques, and all that our ancestors ever gathered. We will offer it all."

Behind him, a wave of cultivators knelt in perfect unison—disciples, elders, sons, daughters, grandchildren—numbering in the thousands. Their robes bore the same symbol, and every face showed a mixture of reverence and desperation.

"Please, Senior Riley!" their voices cried in unison.

"Please allow us to ascend with you!"

Some had tears in their eyes.

Others clutched bundles of scrolls and interspatial rings, as if ready to present everything they had the moment they were granted an audience.

They were not just begging for a future—they were begging for the chance to survive the dying era of the lower realms.

For a future where their bloodline could continue, where their sect might rise beyond its meager status.

The sea of kneeling figures was a moving sight.

Even hardened cultivators watching from the distance felt a twinge in their hearts.

Some lowered their heads out of respect. Others clenched their fists, their own hopes rising—and their fears growing.

If Riley accepted these people… how many more would he accept? And how many would be left behind?

In the sky above, ancient formation disks began to rotate slowly, responding to Riley's will.

Dim golden light shimmered at the peak of the sacred mountain, where spiritual energy from heaven and earth began to converge into a growing vortex.

The aura of ascension had already begun.

Riley stood there silently, watching the kneeling thousands with unreadable eyes.

And yet, in his silence, the world waited.

Even the heavens paused to hear what he would say next.

Would he open the path?

Or would he close it forever to those who arrived late?

"I am…"

"Greetings, Senior Riley. My name is…"

"Honored to stand in your presence, Senior…"

One by one, the voices rose.

It began with a few bold souls, then quickly swelled into a flood of names and titles that echoed across the sacred mountains of the Austere Clan.

Patriarchs of declining sects, lone wanderers with ancient bloodlines, rogue cultivators seeking redemption, alchemists, beast tamers, sword cultivators, even mortal scholars—all had gathered here with a singular purpose: to place themselves before Riley Mason and humbly ask for the impossible.

They stood, they spoke, they bowed.

Over an hour passed, but still the line continued, stretching beyond the horizon like a pilgrimage of desperation and reverence.

The crowd was so vast that spiritual sound-transmitting artifacts had to be used just to carry their voices forward.

Some cultivators had flown for weeks to reach this place.

Others had walked on foot, refusing to waste even a single spirit stone that might serve as tribute.

Many knelt with their heads pressed against the cold earth, unmoving, as though supplication itself was the price for a new fate.

By the time the final name was spoken, the valley and surrounding mountains were filled with a sight no words could truly capture.

A sea of people.

Not standing with pride, but kneeling with humility.

Tens of thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—had gathered without invitation.

There were no banners, no alliances, no unified force. These were strangers to one another, yet now they knelt side by side, sharing the same prayer on their lips:

Please, let us ascend.

It was painfully obvious that the majority of them had come with no prior ties to Riley, no credentials, no claim to this event.

In any other setting, many of them might have been turned away at the gates, or worse—slain for trespassing.

But here they were, kneeling as one.

Not because they were fools. But because they dared to believe.

In the crowd, some had even brought their families—tiny children, trembling elders, those too weak to defend themselves in this treacherous cultivation world.

Many clutched interspatial rings packed with the last of their sect's treasures, or rare cultivation techniques passed down for centuries.

To them, it wasn't a gamble—it was everything.

The surrounding cultivators, even those who had been officially invited, couldn't help but feel the emotion in the air.

A soft murmur rippled through the crowd.

"Even they came…"

"Some of these people have nothing… and yet they came here anyway."

"They're risking everything for a chance to survive the next era."

"Will Riley accept them? Can he even afford to take this many…?"

"Shhh! Just watch."

The pressure in the air was still immense, but it had shifted. It no longer felt crushing, but weighty—solemn, divine.

As though the heavens themselves had taken notice.

At the peak of the mountain, Riley stood still, arms crossed behind his back.

His expression was unreadable. The wind moved around him but did not dare touch him.

His robes fluttered slightly, but his presence was as unmoving as a heavenly pillar.

Around him, his wives and closest followers waited silently. Some of them had expressions of surprise.

Others showed pity, admiration, even resolve. But none spoke. They all awaited his decision.

He had not said another word since his first sentence, yet the entire continent seemed to hang on his breath.

Above the mountain, the skies had begun to change.

Golden clouds gathered into a slow spiral, and distant thunder rumbled like a slumbering beast.

Light gathered at the center of a growing vortex—where the gateway to the Immortal Realm would soon tear open the skies.

Time was running out.

And still, Riley did not speak.

Not yet.

Because when he did—he would speak not just to the kneeling crowd, but to the heavens, to fate itself.

"Very well," Riley finally spoke, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of mountains.

"Since I am not a selfish man, I will allow you to follow me."

A wave of relief, disbelief, and awe rippled through the kneeling masses—but his next words swiftly tempered it.

"However… let me make one thing clear. The Immortal Realm is not a paradise. It is not some land of endless fortune and peace. It is a world far crueler than this one. Stronger. Colder. Bloodier. In that realm, power is everything—and weakness is death. Don't blame me if you perish without even a grave to mark your end."

His voice deepened, his spiritual will pressing down like thunderclouds ready to break.

"You have one hundred breaths of time. If you wish to stay in this world, turn around and leave. No one will judge you. But once you choose to follow me, there is no turning back."

The silence that followed was absolute.