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My Xianxia Harem Life

Chapter 430 Wisdom · Oct 28, 2026

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Chapter List (444)

Page number / 9

401 Chapter 401 Mineral 2026-10-28
402 Chapter 402 Formula 2026-10-28
403 Chapter 403 Calculus 2026-10-28
404 Chapter 404 Bumper 2026-10-28
405 Chapter 405 Signature 2026-10-28
406 Chapter 406 Variation 2026-10-28
407 Chapter 407 Controversy 2026-10-28
408 Chapter 408 Bound 2026-10-28
409 Chapter 409 Character 2026-10-28
410 Chapter 410 Tropical 2026-10-28
411 Chapter 411 Inheritance 2026-10-28
412 Chapter 412 Rampage 2026-10-28
413 Chapter 413 Jest 2026-10-28
414 Chapter 414 Brain 2026-10-28
415 Chapter 415 Prime 2026-10-28
416 Chapter 416 Intern 2026-10-28
417 Chapter 417 Books 2026-10-28
418 Chapter 418 Mountain 2026-10-28
419 Chapter 419 Culture 2026-10-28
420 Chapter 420 Carpet 2026-10-28
421 Chapter 421 Versatile 2026-10-28
422 Chapter 422 Tropical 2026-10-28
423 Chapter 423 Company 2026-10-28
424 Chapter 424 Bard 2026-10-28
425 Chapter 425 Sarcasm 2026-10-28
426 Chapter 426 Planner 2026-10-28
427 Chapter 427 Documentary 2026-10-28
428 Chapter 428 Judge 2026-10-28
429 Chapter 429 Margin 2026-10-28
430 Chapter 430 Wisdom 2026-10-28
431 Chapter 431 Cushion 2026-10-28
432 Chapter 432 Survey 2026-10-28
433 Chapter 433 Remote 2026-10-28
434 Chapter 434 Skeleton 2026-10-28
435 Chapter 435 Stream 2026-10-28
436 Chapter 436 Console 2026-10-28
437 Chapter 437 Theatre 2026-10-28
438 Chapter 438 Caption 2026-10-28
439 Chapter 439 Camper 2026-10-28
440 Chapter 440 Berserker 2026-10-28
441 Chapter 441 Handler 2026-10-28
442 Chapter 442 Wheel 2026-10-28
443 Chapter 443 Nation 2026-10-28
444 Chapter 444 Garden 2026-10-28

Chapter 430: Chapter 430 Wisdom

Riley reminded her, again and again, of the killer she had married: the man who had single-handedly turned the tide of battles, who feared no blade or shadow.

Monique clung to him, lost in the storm of sensation, until exhaustion finally claimed her.

She drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, sprawled across the rumpled sheets, her dark hair fanned out like spilled ink on the pillow.

Riley watched her for a long moment in the dim glow of the dying fire, brushing a stray lock from her flushed cheek.

A soft smile touched his lips, though his jaw tightened with resolve. He pressed one last kiss to her forehead, whispering,

”Sleep well, my love. I’ll return to you soon.”

At the first light of dawn, while the manor still slumbered and mist clung to the rolling hills outside, Riley rose.

He dressed in his weathered leather armor, strapped on his sword, and gathered his traveling cloak.

Down in the stables, his men had already prepared the dozen horses he’d requested—strong, swift mounts laden with supplies for the journey.

With a final glance toward the upper windows of the manor, Riley swung into the saddle of his favored black stallion.

He urged the horse forward, the hooves thundering against the dirt road as he rode hard toward Deep Coast City, the rising sun painting the sky in streaks of gold and crimson behind him.

Riley moved with ruthless efficiency, wasting neither motion nor breath.

He traveled fast, faster than any ordinary man should have been able to, and by the time the city guards of Deep Coast City changed shifts, he was already there.

He arrived like a wandering shadow—unseen, unfelt, and unnoticed.

There was no hesitation in him, no doubt.

The moment his feet touched the city’s streets, his objective was clear.

His first target was Monique’s cousin, Brian.

Closing his eyes briefly, Riley got help from the divine sense of his true body back in his own realm.

The world unfolded before him in layers—walls, streets, breathing figures reduced to faint points of awareness.

Among them, Brian stood out clearly, surrounded by indulgence and filth.

Pinpointing the fool was effortless.

Riley felt no guilt. Not even a trace.

As the man’s past surfaced through whispered rumors and half-remembered reports, Riley understood that Brian was no victim of circumstance.

He was a predator in his own right.

A man who delighted in power over the weak, who took particular pleasure in humiliating others—stealing their wives, breaking their spirits, and defiling them while their husbands were forced to watch.

Such a man did not deserve mercy.

Brian’s residence was well-guarded by mortal standards, but to Riley, it may as well have been empty.

He slipped inside without triggering a single alarm, moving soundlessly through dimly lit corridors.

Servants slept behind closed doors, blissfully unaware that death was walking past them.

Brian lay sprawled across his bed, breathing deeply, face relaxed in sleep.

Riley stood over him for a moment, knife already in hand, his expression cold and detached.

He could have drawn it out.

He could have made the man wake, made him beg, made him understand fear.

But Riley was not here for indulgence.

In one smooth motion, he plunged the blade into Brian’s neck and then his heart, ending the man’s life before a single sound could escape his throat.

The body twitched once, then fell still. Riley wiped the blade clean and moved on without looking back.

The night was far from over.

One by one, Riley hunted down the heads of the clans who had allied themselves with Brian’s cause. Each death was swift and precise.

No screams. No drawn-out struggles.

Riley knew his limits—he was still bound by the constraints of a mortal body in this world, and unnecessary complications were to be avoided.

Speed and certainty mattered more than satisfaction.

Less than two hours later, Deep Coast City had been quietly decapitated of its conspirators.

By the time the first corpse was discovered, Riley was already gone.

He left the city behind under the cover of darkness, mounted his horse, and rode hard toward White Bone City.

The wind erased his tracks, and the night swallowed his presence whole, leaving only silence—and the consequences of his actions—in his wake.

***

One week after Riley’s departure, he returned to White Bone City just as quietly as he had left it.

There were no trumpets to announce his arrival, no guards rushing to greet him.

He passed through the gates like a man coming home from a short journey, unnoticed by the wider world.

Inside the residence, Evelyn and Monique were waiting for him.

Both women were visibly pregnant now, their movements slower, their presence softer—but their eyes sharpened the moment they saw him.

Relief crossed Evelyn’s face first, followed by warmth.

Monique, however, searched his expression with a ruler’s instinct, looking past appearances and into results.

”It is done,” Riley said.

That was all.

He kissed Evelyn gently, one hand resting protectively at her waist, then turned to Monique and pressed his lips to hers with quiet certainty.

There was no pride in his eyes, no bloodlust—only completion.

Monique exhaled, tension she had not realized she was carrying finally loosening.

”Good,” she said simply.

She did not ask how. She did not ask who. Some answers were better left unspoken.

Several days later, the region erupted.

The news did not come as an official proclamation. There were no declarations from Deep Coast City, no public trials, no executions meant for display.

Instead, the truth emerged in fragments—discovered bodies, sealed estates, missing clan heads, and terrified servants who could only stammer about silent nights and locked doors.

By the time the full picture became clear, it was already too late for anyone to react.

”An uprising was crushed by the duchess—and she didn’t even have to lift a finger!”

People said it in disbelief at first, then with awe.

”She wasn’t even there! She’s still in White Bone City!”

”That’s the terrifying part. If this happened while she was away, what could she do if she truly moved?”

Rumors grew teeth as they spread.

Some claimed Monique had raised a hidden organization of assassins loyal only to her.

Others whispered that she possessed an ancient artifact that allowed her to kill from afar.

A few, more daring than most, suggested darker things—divine contracts, forbidden arts, or a shadow ruler acting in her name.

What everyone agreed on was this: the efficiency was unprecedented.

Entire clan leaderships were erased in a single night. No alarms. No resistance.

No survivors bold enough to speak.

The deaths were not discovered until morning, when servants went to wake masters who would never rise again.

Fear followed swiftly.

Minor nobles canceled secret meetings.

Ambitious schemers burned correspondence and swore renewed loyalty.

Those who had once entertained rebellious thoughts suddenly remembered urgent family matters and retreated into silence.

”She doesn’t even need to be present to rule.”

”That city is hers completely.”

”Even if she never sets foot in Deep Coast City again, no one will dare move against her.”

In White Bone City, Monique listened to the reports with a calm expression.

Outwardly, she was composed, the image of a duchess in full control of her domain.

Inwardly, she understood the truth better than anyone else.

Power was not always loud.

Sometimes, it arrived unseen in the dead of night and left behind nothing but obedience.

As the weeks passed, the region settled into an uneasy peace. Trade resumed.

Officials reaffirmed loyalty. The name Monique Flint began to carry a different weight—no longer just respect, but fear edged with reverence.

And beside her, always unseen and uncredited, was Riley.

The blade in the dark.

The hand that ensured her rule remained unchallenged.

From that day on, no one doubted it anymore.

Deep Coast City—and everything connected to it—was held firmly in the duchess’s grasp.

Even when she was nowhere near it at all.

***

Three months later, Evelyn and Monique each gave birth to healthy, robust boys.

The deliveries went smoothly, and the cries of newborn life filled the residence, marking a new Chapter for White Bone City.

Evelyn named her son Dale, a simple yet strong name, filled with quiet hope.

Monique named hers Francis, a name chosen with intention and weight, as befitted the heir of a ruling duchess.

It was only after the births—when names, records, and bloodlines had to be formally registered—that the two women finally learned Riley’s surname.

”Mason,” he told them.

The name carried no ancient prestige, no long history carved into noble stone, yet its meaning was undeniable.

With that single declaration, the centuries-old Flint line of succession quietly came to an end.

From that day forward, the ruling bloodline would no longer bear the Flint name—it would be replaced by Mason.

There was no public outcry.

Monique stood firm, and none dared challenge her decision.

Among the people, expectations quickly gathered around Francis.

As Monique’s son, he was seen as the natural future leader, the child who would one day inherit her authority and carry the weight of the duchy upon his shoulders.

Whispers followed him even as an infant—hopes that he would grow wise, decisive, and strong enough to rule in an era shaped by fear and order.

Of course, such expectations came with a price.

For Francis to become the leader everyone believed he could be, he would need to learn early and train relentlessly.

He would be raised not as a sheltered noble, but as a future ruler—disciplined in mind, hardened in body, and taught from childhood that power was something earned and defended.

And so, beneath the quiet joy of new life, the future of the duchy was already being forged.

Not in bloodshed.

But in preparation.

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