My Xianxia Harem Life-Chapter 400 Caster

Riley breathed in—deeply, calmly—yet the calm itself was terrifying.

With that single inhale, the entire multiverse seemed to tremble, as though every star, every plane, every conceptual law paused mid-function, awaiting the verdict of its new master.

The void held its breath.

Worlds slowed.

Dimensions bowed.

Riley’s heartbeat echoed like a cosmic drum, and the sensation of omnipotence surged through him.

It wasn’t illusion. It wasn’t borrowed power. It wasn’t a taste of something fleeting.

It was absolute.

He raised his hand, and the particles of creation vibrated as if begging for direction.

A thought could recreate the origins of life. A whim could unmake civilizations.

Every thread of fate was nothing but a string between his fingers.

His divine sense expanded outward—smooth, effortless, infinite.

It washed across galaxies, brushed through time itself, skipped through past and future like turning pages in a book.

And then he found him.

Apollo.

The old man, with his tired back and his forced smile, walking toward a peaceful city like any old wanderer hoping for a quiet end.

Riley’s lips curled in a slow grin.

"If I were a fool," he said softly, voice vibrating with contained power, "I might have believed you. A kind old daoist... tired of responsibility. Ready to retire." He chuckled, low and almost pitying. "But I know better."

He didn’t release lightning, or tear open a portal. There was no blast of power.

He simply willed, and the universe around him obeyed instantly.

His figure blurred—

Then vanished completely.

Not teleported. Not transferred.

Removed from the very logic of Apollo’s dimension.

***

"What...?"

Apollo froze mid-step. The city gate ahead of him wavered as his focus shattered.

For the first time in countless ages, a tremor crawled down his spine.

"Impossible."

He extended his divine sense.

It stretched across the world, the heavens, the realms beyond—like an endless net cast by a fisherman who had never once failed to catch his prey.

But there was no Riley.

Not even a remnant aura.

Not a trace of soul signature. Not a fading footprint of temporal presence.

It was as if the boy had never existed.

No—worse.

As if he had moved somewhere Apollo’s senses could not reach.

Apollo swept his power toward Riley’s clan, expecting at least the comfort of familiar souls.

A void.

He reached for the pocket dimensions where Riley housed his loved ones, loyalists, disciples.

Empty.

Every single one.

"A... trick?" Apollo muttered, though even as he said it, he felt the wrongness in the thought.

His face darkened, and he called upon the divinity he had implanted in Riley—the power that tethered them, the power he believed he could reclaim at any time.

"Return," Apollo commanded.

Nothing happened.

He poured more will into the command—enough that stars quaked in their orbit.

"Return!"

Still nothing.

The divine energy he had parted with was gone. Not dormant. Not stolen.

Severed from him entirely.

"How...?" Apollo whispered, his voice cracking. "That is not—cannot be—possible."

His plan had been simple, elegant even. He would retreat. Let Riley fight back the invaders.

Let a "young talent" shoulder the blood and burden of battle while he enjoyed a quiet life under the guise of fatigue.

But Riley had rewritten the script.

Entirely.

Apollo clenched his fists. The air around him distorted.

The mortal city before him flickered, unable to withstand the pressure leaking from his body.

"This child..." he breathed, a mixture of dread and awe forming in his chest. "What did you do?"

He tried tearing through layers of time.

He tried piercing through the walls of destiny.

He tried reshaping the realm to drag Riley back.

All attempts failed.

For the first time in eons—maybe even since creation—Apollo felt something unfamiliar coil in his heart.

Fear.

A fear born not of losing power...

...but of something else entirely.

A realization.

If Riley could hide from him—out of his reach, out of his domain—

Then Riley was no longer a pawn.

No longer a successor.

No longer a vessel.

He had become something else.

Something equal...

...or perhaps something greater.

Apollo swallowed, the weight of the truth crushing the calm façade he once wore.

"Riley..." he whispered, voice trembling. "What are you planning?"

The wind offered no answer.

The multiverse remained silent.

And Riley—wherever he had gone—did not look back.

"This is not over." Apollo’s voice was low, shaking with a blend of fury and disbelief.

His pupils contracted as he surveyed the spot where Riley had once been.

Reality should not have allowed that kind of disappearance. Not from him.

Not from the creator of the multiverse.

He clenched his fists. The air trembled.

With a sharp inhale, Apollo drew upon the authority that had once made him the strongest in his realm.

He reached into the roots of creation—the underlying laws he had woven, the worlds he had crafted, the realms he had shaped with his own hands.

He would retake everything.

He would gather every shard of power left to him.

If Riley wanted to run, then let him run.

Apollo would rebuild his strength, reclaim each realm, and pursue him across eternity if he had to.

He extended his will.

"Return to me," he commanded.

At first, the multiverse obeyed.

Then... it shattered.

The city around him flickered like a dying flame.

The people froze mid-motion—faces of joy, fear, curiosity—all turning blank, then evaporating.

The buildings, the air, the very light dissolved into drifting motes.

The sky above cracked like fragile glass.

One by one, every plane of existence folded inward until only darkness remained.

Only a single landmass—scarred, fractured, drenched in the remnants of machine blood—remained beneath Apollo’s feet.

Black smoke curled from broken craters. Metallic debris littered the ground like corpses of extinct beasts.

This was the main battlefield. The place where Riley had fought the endless mechanical horde.

A wasteland.

The rest of the multiverse... simply no longer existed.

Apollo stared in silence.

Once, his imagination had birthed worlds. His whims had shaped stars.

But now, the vast cosmos he ruled was reduced to a wounded continent floating in a sea of emptiness.

He understood instantly what this meant.

"Riley..." he whispered, voice thin.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

A small chuckle escaped. Then another.

Until the ancient immortal threw back his head and laughed loudly, wildly, almost hysterically—like a man who finally understood the joke that had been played on him since the beginning.

"Hahaha! Oh, I truly must be getting senile in my old age!" he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "How long have I lived? How many enemies have I faced? And still—still!—I was outplayed!"

Bitterness melted into genuine admiration.

Because only one being could have erased entire realms from under his nose.

Only one being could hide from his divine sense, steal the foundation of existence itself.

Riley.

Or rather...

"You play a very long and dangerous game, Riley Rice," Apollo murmured. "Or should I call you... fellow daoist?"

As if summoned by acknowledgment, space before him tightened. The empty air folded.

And Riley appeared.

Not with arrogance. Not with triumph.

But with a solemn, heavy expression—as though every victory he had earned had cost him a part of his soul.

"I’m sorry it has to be this way, fellow daoist," Riley said quietly.

His voice held regret, guilt, and determination all mixed into one. "I was desperate too."

Apollo studied him for a long moment.

Riley’s aura had changed—no longer the power Apollo had bestowed.

No longer something borrowed. Something new. Something unbound by the old rules.

Apollo exhaled slowly.

"I know," he said, his tone soft but tired. "We all are desperate. We all cling to whatever sliver of hope we can. Even gods fear the end."

His eyes swept across the ruined land—his last remaining domain.

"In the end," Apollo whispered, voice almost mournful, "it’s a dog-eat-dog world. Eat... or be eaten. Even immortals cannot escape that truth."

Silence fell between them.

Ancient creator and ascended usurper.

Mentor and successor.

Old era and new era.

Two beings who understood each other better than anyone else in existence.

Apollo finally smiled—a sad, weary smile.

"And now," he murmured, "it seems this old dog has been eaten."

"It doesn’t have to be that way," Riley said softly, his voice echoing across the barren, floating continent.

It carried neither arrogance nor pity—only a quiet sincerity that felt almost out of place between two beings who had just torn a multiverse apart.

"You can still peacefully retire in my realm. Or—if you prefer—your realm. I left it untouched. Not a blade of grass was altered."

His gaze was calm, almost gentle.

Riley continued, explaining without gloating, "I only managed to take your power because... I was already the same kind of being as you. A creator. Without that, you could have easily reclaimed everything you gifted me. You took a risk, old man. A gamble with cosmic stakes." His expression hardened slightly. "This time, it backfired."

Apollo didn’t flinch.

He simply looked at his own hands—hands that had once shaped suns, crafted beasts of myth, built realms where gods were born.

Now they looked frail. Mortal. Empty.

"No," Apollo finally said, shaking his head slowly. "I’m defeated." His voice was quiet, not in shame, but in acceptance.

"You don’t understand yet, but you will one day. Once you lose the power to create, to mold existence... life feels hollow. Like wandering a house where every room is locked, and every key is gone. When your realm is swallowed by another, bit by bit, you too shall know of my pain."

He stared up into the endless void surrounding the lone continent.

"Do it," he said. "Be the butcher who ends my burdens. Set me free from the endless worry of threats at the edge of reality. I am tired, Riley. Tired in ways you cannot imagine."

He closed his eyes.

His posture shifted—not desperate, not frantic—but peaceful, like someone ready to sleep after a thousand years of waking.

He waited.

He waited to feel his head leave his shoulders. To feel the soul severing.

To feel the cold, clean release that only true death could bring to an immortal.

One breath passed.

Two.

Three...

Four...

Five...

Nothing.

Silence.

A silence that felt almost amused.

Apollo slowly opened his eyes.

And the battlefield was gone.

Instead, he stood once more in the peaceful city he had longed to retire to.

Lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze. Merchants called out their prices.

A mother pulled her child out of the road. Somewhere, a dog barked.

The sun dipped behind the rooftops, painting the sky orange and gold.

It was... perfect.

Untouched.

Alive.

Then a soft chuckle drifted into his ear—Riley’s voice, carried by a breeze that didn’t exist a moment ago.

"If you truly want to die to escape your burdens, fellow daoist... you are free to choose that path on your own terms. But I won’t kill you." Riley’s tone was firm but warm. "I refuse to take part in unnecessary murder. And..."

A small pause.

"...I owe you one."

The warmth in his voice lingered like a candle flame.

"If you ever need anything... just say my name."

The voice faded, leaving Apollo alone in the crowd.

The old man let out a long, shaky exhale. He felt something he hadn’t felt in millennia.

Relief.

A strange, foreign lightness settled in his chest. He looked around again—really looked.

The smell of grilled meat. The laughter of children. The clatter of wagon wheels on stone.

The warmth of a setting sun.

For so long, he had been too distracted by cosmic threats, divine duties, endless wars.

He had never allowed himself to experience anything so simple.

A small smile crept onto his lips.

"Riley Rice..." Apollo whispered, the name tasting different now. "I’ll remember you."

He took a hesitant step forward. Then another.

The world felt delicate beneath his feet, fragile yet inviting.

He passed by a baker who waved at him without knowing who—or what—he had once been.

Apollo waved back awkwardly, almost shyly.

After a long while, he found himself standing before a modest wooden inn with a faded sign swinging overhead.

Light spilled from the windows. Laughter drifted from inside.

He touched the door, feeling the warmth of the wood.

"A fool’s life isn’t so bad, I suppose," Apollo murmured to himself, a chuckle slipping out. "Perhaps this is what I wanted all along."

Then he stepped inside.

The door closed behind him.

And for the first time in countless ages...

Apollo felt truly, beautifully mortal.

He felt free.