My Xianxia Harem Life-Chapter 217 Time

One day later, the representatives of the Golden Dragon Clan made their way back to their domain. The journey, though not long, felt heavy with unspoken tension.

Whispers and grumbling filled the air, echoing their collective frustration and disbelief.

Riley’s behavior during the gathering had stunned them all—it had been bold, defiant, and completely outside their expectations. To say they were caught off guard would be a gross understatement.

They did not even see him or his shadow.

"I can’t believe Riley had the audacity to act like that," one of the younger cultivators muttered, shaking his head. "He humiliated us in front of everyone."

"I’m excited to hear what the Patriarch will say when we report this," another chimed in, his tone tinged with anticipation. "He won’t let this go. No one disrespects the Golden Dragon Clan and walks away unscathed."

"I hope we retaliate," someone else added, eyes gleaming with ambition. "We should take over the Austere Clan’s territory and make them kneel before us. That’ll teach them a lesson they’ll never forget."

"I agree," said another, puffing his chest out with pride. "Our clan has been too quiet for too long. People have clearly forgotten the might of the Golden Dragon Clan. It’s time we reminded them."

"Idiots, the lot of you," an older cultivator snapped, his voice cutting through the chatter like a blade. He turned his sharp gaze toward the younger ones, his expression a mixture of disappointment and frustration. "Are you seriously wishing for war? Do you even know what war means?"

The group fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in.

"War isn’t glorious. It’s not a game of pride or territory—it’s blood, loss, and suffering. Once it begins, it won’t stop just because you change your mind. Villages burn, families die, and there’s no honor in watching your comrades fall beside you. War should always be the last resort."

Some of the younger cultivators looked away, chastened. Others frowned, still clinging to their indignation.

"I doubt the Patriarch will be as foolish as you all are," the older man continued. "He’s lived through real battles. He knows the cost."

The group lapsed into uneasy silence. The excitement of imagined revenge gave way to quieter, more thoughtful expressions.

Though they disagreed among themselves, it was clear that many had never experienced the brutal reality of war firsthand. Their youthful arrogance had yet to be tempered by scars.

Still, the incident with Riley had shaken their pride, and even those who feared war could not deny that something had to be done.

As the group pressed on through the mountains and forests that marked their homeland, one thing was certain: change was coming, and the Golden Dragon Clan would not remain passive for much longer.

***

The group arrived home just before dusk, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and unease.

Without delay, they submitted their formal report to the inner court attendants, who immediately began the process of transcribing and distributing the contents to the higher echelons of the clan.

In a place as vast and well-organized as the Golden Dragon Clan, even rumors didn’t spread as fast as formal reports reached the Patriarch.

And indeed, it didn’t take long before the parchment found its way into the hands of the man who ruled the clan with iron authority.

High atop the central spire of the clan’s ancestral palace, the Golden Dragon Patriarch sat upon a throne carved from the bones of an ancient wyrm, said to be an ancestor of their bloodline.

Golden dragon motifs twisted along the walls and coiled around the marble pillars, their jeweled eyes glittering in the torchlight.

The room was vast and silent, save for the occasional flicker of flame or the rustle of robes when the Patriarch shifted.

He held the scroll in one hand, the seal already broken. As he read through the report, his expression remained unreadable.

But in his eyes, sharp and cold as glacier-forged steel, a flicker of thought passed—first curiosity, then calculation.

The scroll was brief but impactful. Riley’s actions had been utterly unpredictable—an affront to their pride, but also a warning.

The representatives had hoped to pressure or at least intimidate him; instead, they had been the ones humbled. The strength he revealed was not just formidable. It was overwhelming.

The kind of strength that disrupted the balance of power.

For a long time, the Patriarch sat alone in silence, his gaze distant.

Then, his voice echoed across the empty chamber.

"Elvis."

The name was spoken plainly, yet the very air seemed to bend around it. A heartbeat later, a shadow peeled away from one of the massive pillars.

A cloaked figure appeared in the center of the hall, not from a door or corridor, but as if summoned from the void itself.

He did not kneel. He did not bow. He simply stood there, his presence silent, still, and watchful.

The Patriarch didn’t mind. Elvis had long earned the right to forgo such formalities.

He was no ordinary servant—he was a ghost in the dark, a blade in the night, the man the Patriarch trusted for matters where politics failed.

"Have the diviners discovered anything useful about Daoist Riley?" the Patriarch asked, his voice level.

Elvis shook his head, his face hidden beneath his hood. "They are trying their best, Master. But so far, all efforts have failed. They cannot see through the veil around that man’s past. Which could mean one of two things."

The Patriarch nodded slowly. "Either he is using a high-grade artifact or a technique to shield himself... or he is of such cultivation that even Heaven dares not look too closely."

"This isn’t the first time such a thing has happened," Elvis said. "But the depth of concealment is unusual. Even our senior diviner, Elder Wu, said he felt a backlash when he tried to peer deeper."

"I see," the Patriarch murmured again.

He leaned forward, resting one arm on the dragon-shaped armrest of his throne. It was true—cultivators at the peak of the Void Tribulation Realm and beyond often employed methods to block divination.

No one who reached that level of power did so without enemies, and only fools left themselves exposed. But Riley was a different matter.

The display of power reported—killing five Void Tribulation experts with a single strike—was no small feat. It bordered on the mythic.

And that troubled him.

If Riley had been a boastful upstart, the Patriarch would have crushed him like an insect without hesitation. But someone who could do that was not to be trifled with.

A sense of unease settled in the room.

It had been a long time since the Golden Dragon Clan was made to pause. They were one of the great clans, their name commanding fear and respect across the continent.

Yet now, a single man had brought uncertainty into their halls.

Silently, the Patriarch weighed his options.

War was tempting—some elders would no doubt cry for it.

Pride was not easily swallowed, especially when it was publicly bruised. But war against someone like Riley, without understanding who or what he truly was, could be a mistake they would never recover from.

And the Patriarch, above all else, was not a man who gambled without knowing the odds.

After a long moment, he finally spoke again.

"Summon all the elders, Elvis. I will convene the council in one hour."

"As you command," Elvis replied, and then he vanished—gone without sound, like a phantom slipping back into shadow.

Left alone once more, the Patriarch rose from his throne and walked toward the great window at the far end of the hall.

Beyond it stretched the vast lands of the Golden Dragon Clan—valleys full of training disciples, pavilions where elders meditated, towering mountains where ancient beasts still slept beneath layers of stone.

And somewhere beyond those mountains, Daoist Riley moved like a storm wrapped in mist—unseen, unknowable, and perhaps unstoppable.

The Patriarch narrowed his eyes.

"Who are you really, Riley?" he muttered. "And why now?"

***

The great hall was filled with elders—men and women whose hair had long since turned silver or white, whose eyes held the weight of millennia.

Each one of them was a powerhouse in their own right, and the oppressive pressure in the room was nearly suffocating.

These were not ordinary elders.

Every single person present was at the Void Tribulation Realm or beyond—a gathering of monstrous cultivators that could shake entire regions with a flick of their sleeves.

At a glance, there were easily over a thousand present, and that was despite the incredibly short notice. The fact that so many had arrived so quickly was a testament to the Patriarch’s authority.

And yet, it was also clear that this was only a fraction of the clan’s true strength. Many more elders were too far away to make it in time, secluded in distant lands or deep in closed-door cultivation.

Still, it didn’t matter—whatever decisions were made here would soon echo throughout the entire clan. Word would spread. Messages would be sent. Everyone would hear.

The hall buzzed with conversation. Elders spoke in low, serious tones, some discussing the contents of the report, others speculating on the Patriarch’s next move.

Disagreements flickered here and there—some advocated for war, others for caution. But all fell silent the moment the great doors at the front of the hall opened.

The Patriarch had arrived.

Clad in majestic golden robes embroidered with dragons that seemed to shimmer with life, he walked with calm, deliberate steps.

His presence alone seemed to still the very air, and the entire hall rose to their feet in silent respect. Not a single soul dared speak.

They expected him to walk to the elevated platform at the end of the hall, to sit upon the Wyrmbone Throne and address them from a place of authority, as was tradition.

But to their surprise, the Patriarch did not sit. Instead, he stopped at the center of the hall and turned to face them.

His voice was calm, but carried unmistakable weight—one that cut through the silence like a blade.

"I want a woman to marry Daoist Riley," he said. "My ears are open for names."

The silence that followed was thunderous.

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