My Xianxia Harem Life-Chapter 410 Tropical

A scent that clung to the throat like smoke.

A few soldiers gagged quietly. Nicolas grimaced.

"Move him," the captain ordered.

They descended down a narrow ramp into the gloomy underground.

Torches sputtered along the walls, their weak light casting long, dancing shadows.

Chains rattled in distant cells. Somewhere nearby, someone cried in pain.

Somewhere else, someone laughed—slow and broken.

As they passed a row of barred cells, a prisoner stirred.

He was tall but gaunt, missing several teeth, his long hair matted against his skull.

His eyes gleamed with hunger—not for food, but for cruelty.

"Ohhhh... what do we have here?" the man rasped, dragging his fingers along the iron bars with a scraping metallic screech. "Fresh meat?"

He leaned forward, breath foul even from a distance.

"And such a pretty little boy, too... I’m going to enjoy your ass later, sweetheart."

His words echoed down the corridor.

Sick laughter erupted immediately.

Dozens of hands reached through cell bars, filthy fingers grasping at the air.

Whistles, taunts, vulgar comments filled the space like a swarm of flies.

"Bring him here, soldier! Let’s see his face!"

"Pretty boys break the loudest!"

"Let us have him first before the guards do!"

They howled and cackled, banging on the metal bars hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.

Their voices overlapped into a chorus of madness and hunger.

But Riley didn’t even blink.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t react. He didn’t spare the prisoners a single glance.

His eyes remained calm, steady, distant—as if he were walking past noisy children rather than dozens of violent, broken criminals determined to tear him apart.

And that expression, that unsettling calmness, sent a chill spreading down the backs of more than one soldier.

Even Nicolas, hardened by years of duty, found himself glancing at Riley with a flicker of unease.

Because normal men weren’t this calm.

Normal men weren’t this composed in a place like this.

Normal men didn’t walk into hell as if they owned it.

"Stay here for now," Nicolas said coldly, his fingers tightening around Riley’s arm as he shoved him toward the damp, empty cell.

The dungeon smelled of rusted chains and old blood, the torchlight flickering weakly against the stone walls.

Nicolas reached for the iron lock, fully prepared to throw Riley inside without another word.

But then—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The rapid pounding of boots stormed down the corridor.

Nicolas paused, turning his head sharply just as three soldiers appeared from the shadows.

Their armor rattled, their chests rising and falling as if they had sprinted the whole way.

The man leading them stepped forward immediately, bowing slightly as he extended a sealed letter toward Nicolas.

"It’s urgent, Sir," the messenger said, still catching his breath.

Nicolas snatched the letter and tore it open. The torch beside him flickered, illuminating his eyes as they scanned the contents.

Slowly... very slowly... his brows knitted together.

Then his gaze shifted to Riley.

Confusion first.

Then disbelief.

And finally—a deep, burning irritation.

"It seems," Nicolas said, clenching his jaw, "that you have... friends in very high places, Riley." His voice dripped with accusation, as if Riley had personally insulted him by merely existing.

Riley didn’t speak. He just watched Nicolas, calm, unbothered, waiting.

Nicolas’s nostrils flared. He slammed the letter against his thigh and barked, "Set him free! Now!"

The soldiers jumped.

Two of them rushed to unlock the cell door—though it hadn’t even been closed yet—clearly unsure what to do but too terrified to hesitate.

One of them stepped back nervously, giving Riley a wide berth as if he might explode at any moment.

Nicolas turned on his heel, fury vibrating through every step he took.

His boots slammed against the stone floor, echoing down the entire dungeon hall like rolling thunder.

Even after he vanished up the stairs, the sound of his angry stomps lingered, refusing to fade.

Riley brushed the dust off his sleeve, his expression unreadable.

The soldiers avoided his eyes, whispering among themselves, suddenly aware that the man they had just been ready to lock away was someone far more important than they had assumed.

"Please follow me, Master Riley," the lead guard said, his voice respectful but tense.

He gestured forward, and Riley simply nodded, walking with an unhurried confidence that made the guards slightly uneasy.

The walk was long.

They passed through iron gates, marble hallways, and luxurious corridors that felt too clean and elegant for a man who had been inches from a dungeon cell an hour ago.

Every guard they passed stepped aside, some bowing, others staring in confusion at the seemingly ordinary young man receiving such treatment.

Eventually, they stopped before two towering wooden doors carved with the crest of the Edward noble household.

The lead guard knocked twice, swallowed hard, and pushed the doors open.

Inside was a room dripping with wealth.

Golden chandeliers, silk carpets, towering bookcases, velvet curtains shutting out the sunlight.

A faint scent of incense floated in the air, masking something else—perfume, maybe, or sweat.

Behind a polished dragonwood desk sat a man in his early forties. Broad shoulders. Sharp eyes.

Duke Edward.

A man whose single signature could raise or destroy entire families.

He didn’t speak at first. He just studied Riley from head to toe, his gaze cold, calculating—like a hunter observing something unexpected in its trap.

Riley didn’t react. He walked in casually, hands in his pockets.

The Duke finally broke the silence with a voice heavy as a drawn blade.

"How did you know?"

The air thickened instantly.

Riley didn’t. Instead, he walked to a nearby table, grabbed a pristine bottle of wine, uncorked it, and poured himself a full cup without asking.

He took a slow sip.

"I was lucky," Riley said, a faint smile touching his lips. "Saw something amazing one night."

The Duke’s expression didn’t change, but something in the room tightened—like a bow being drawn back.

"So," Duke Edward murmured, leaning forward, "you’re a thief... a murderer... and a blackmailer."

His eyes darkened with murderous intent.

"What’s stopping me from having you tied up in the deepest cell of this mansion," he said softly, dangerously, "torturing every detail out of your mouth, and then killing everyone who knows about this?"

The guards behind Riley shifted uncomfortably. The threat was real. The Duke had killed for far less.

Riley swirled his wine. Completely unfazed.

"You can try," he said calmly. "But I’m a dead man walking anyway. My life? Useless."

He finally turned to look at the Duke, and the smile he wore was sharp—too sharp.

"But you? You’ve got everything to lose."

The Duke’s eyebrows twitched. Riley leaned in.

"You touch me," he said, voice low and casual, "and three separate people—people you don’t know, people you can’t find—will immediately send a detailed report to the City Lord. The very same people that sent a letter down here earlier this morning."

He paused for effect.

"About you," Riley said slowly, "pleasuring his wife... more successfully than he ever could."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

The Duke didn’t move. But the vein on his forehead pulsed so hard it looked ready to burst.

Riley set down his cup, crossed his legs, and smiled wider.

"So ask yourself, Duke. Is destroying everything you’ve built worth getting rid of a little thief like me?"

Silence.

Tense. Heavy. Dangerous.

Even the guards didn’t dare breathe.

Finally... after what felt like a full minute...

"...Fine," Duke Edward growled, each word squeezed through clenched teeth. "What do you want?"

Riley brightened as if the Duke had asked what he wanted for dinner.

"Wise choice," he said, leaning back comfortably. "First, I’ll need twenty thousand gold coins. Five thousand for each of my people. And another five thousand for me... you know, personal allowance. Comfort costs money."

The Duke’s jaw tightened.

"And I’ll also need guaranteed safety passes for travel," Riley continued.

"Some high-quality equipment. A few high-grade scrolls. A big house in the inner district. Two servants. Actually—make that three. One of them must know how to cook."

The Duke’s face darkened like storm clouds gathering.

Riley wasn’t done.

"Oh, and I’ll need access to the city archives. And permission to buy restricted materials. And..."

He kept listing item after item. Demand after demand.

Some ambitious, some outrageous, some absurdly specific.

With every sentence, Duke Edward’s expression sank deeper into murderous frustration.

His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair. His teeth ground together.

But Riley continued speaking, smooth and calm, as if reciting a grocery list.

And the Duke continued listening—because he had no choice.

In the end, Riley returned to the inn as if nothing unusual had happened.

The moment he stepped through the doors, dozens of eyes snapped toward him.

Whispers spread instantly.

"Isn’t that Riley?!"

"Wasn’t he imprisoned just this morning? How is he walking around?"

"What happened? Did he escape? Did someone bail him out?"

Shock, confusion, and even fear filled the room.

A few people stepped aside instinctively, not daring to block his path.

Others simply stared, unable to comprehend how a man who was supposed to be rotting in a dungeon was now strolling into the inn looking perfectly calm.

Riley ignored all of them.

He walked straight to the table where Evelyn and the rest were waiting.

Their eyes widened the moment they saw him—Evelyn even dropped the spoon she was holding.

"Riley...?" she whispered, stunned.

He sat down casually, like he had only gone for a short walk.

"Let’s eat," he said, picking up a plate.

Still in disbelief, the group watched as he served himself food, as calm as a man who hadn’t just confronted one of the most powerful gangs in the city.

Eventually, their shock melted into relief, and they began eating too.

Lunch that day was surprisingly peaceful—almost cheerful.

And Riley?

He enjoyed every bite, as if the morning’s chaos had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.