A month had passed since Riley first founded his camp, and in that short ti, the once modest refuge had transford into a thriving settlent teeming with life.
The number of inhabitants had already exceeded five thousand.
The vast plains that had once been empty were now filled with tents, houses, workshops, and cultivation fields.
Smoke rose from countless cooking fires, and the scent of food and sweat lingered in the air.
He got these people from the mortal world in his clan using the portal elder Adam had given him.
The cost of maintaining the portal was imnse for most, but Riley could afford it easily—the treasures and resources he had looted from the evil sect were abundant beyond asure.
Spirit stones, rare tals, and enchanted relics filled his storage rings to the brim.
To him, wealth was no longer a concern.
The camp’s wooden walls had long been replaced with towering stone barriers reinforced with spiritual arrays.
Guard towers dotted the periter, manned by his n who kept a vigilant watch for beasts or intruders.
What was once a simple encampnt now resembled a small city—a fortress of order and ambition amidst a chaotic world.
Riley, however, remained unmoved by the growing fa of his sanctuary.
Countless people begged to enter and ascend into this immortal realm.
The number of requests had already reached into the millions.
Yet he stood firm in his decision: only those who had proven their loyalty to the Rice Clan or had rendered great service to the people under his protection would be granted passage, and only the most worthy among them would ever be allowed to ascend to the immortal realm.
Each day, the camp echoed with the rhythmic sounds of hamrs striking stone and saws cutting through timber.
The air was filled with the hum of activity—n shouting instructions, won carrying supplies, and children laughing as they helped however they could.
At night, the city glowed softly under the illumination of spiritual lanterns, the faint hum of protective formations wrapping the settlent in a gentle aura of safety.
Though peace seed to reign within the walls, Riley knew the world beyond remained cruel and restless.
For now, however, Riley’s camp—his city—stood as a symbol of hope and strength.
While all of this was unfolding within his growing city, Riley’s na had already begun to echo across realms.
What started as whispers among travelers soon beca tales carried by spiritual ssengers and scrying mirrors.
In the immortal realm, where power and reputation shaped destiny, the na Riley Rice was now spoken with both awe and unease.
The story of Elder Harren’s fall had spread like wildfire.
So said Riley had reduced an entire army of cultivators to ashes with his own hands; others claid he had called down divine fire from the heavens.
Though the accounts varied, one thing was certain—Riley’s title, The Ash Maker, was now recognized and feared by all.
It wasn’t just a nickna anymore; it was a warning.
Clans of every size began to take notice.
The great sects debated his potential in their council halls, and the weaker clans—those struggling to survive between rival powers—saw in him either salvation or ruin.
Many sched to attach themselves to his rising star, hoping to "hug his thick thigh," as so crudely put it.
For them, aligning with Riley Rice ant protection from stronger predators.
Others, however, viewed him as an upstart from the mortal realms—a dangerous anomaly who had to be crushed before he grew too powerful to control.
In the shadowed corners of ancient pavilions, heated debates broke out among clan leaders.
"We cannot let a mortal-born cultivator rise unchecked!" shouted one elder, slamming his hand on the table.
"He humiliated the sacred heart sword sect and slaughtered immortals. Today it’s Elder Harren—tomorrow, it could be any of us!"
Another snorted coldly. "Then what do you suggest? March into his city and start a war? He’s no longer so lowborn nobody. Do you want to be the second Elder Harren?"
This was the major sentint but a few clans were forced by the circumstances to act more actively.
In the end, one desperate clan decided to act—not out of courage, but necessity.
Their lands were taken by force, they were forced into a corner, and were at the cusp of defeat.
They had no allies left, no powerful patrons to shelter them.
And so, swallowing their pride, they sent envoys to the Rice Clan.
The delegation was small—five cloaked figures bearing gifts of rare spiritual herbs, divine crystals, and ancient relics.
As they journeyed toward Riley’s domain, they could feel the imnse spiritual pressure radiating even from afar.
What had once been a simple camp was now a fortress city surrounded by shimring barriers and patrolling warriors.
Upon arrival, the envoys bowed deeply before the towering gates engraved with the sigil of the Rice Clan.
Their leader, an aging cultivator with trembling hands, spoke softly to the guards.
"Please... tell your lord we seek an audience. We co not as enemies, but as supplicants. The fate of our clan rests upon his rcy."
And thus, the first emissaries from the immortal realm arrived at Riley’s city—unaware that their decision would soon ripple across realms, altering the balance of power between mortals and immortals forever.
The grand hall of the Rice Clan was quiet save for the flickering of spirit lamps and the faint hum of protective formations.
The five envoys from the adow Clan knelt respectfully before Riley, their heads bowed low.
Behind them, a faint chill hung in the air; even the guards stationed by the doors could feel the tension pressing down like a storm about to break.
Riley sat upon a simple, elevated seat—not ostentatious, but his presence alone made it seem like a throne.
His gaze was calm, his voice steady, but there was an edge of authority in every word.
"So," Riley said after listening patiently to their proposal, "you’re asking to defend your clan from the Tanner Clan?" He tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest, his tone flat and unreadable. "And in return, you’re offering ... a handful of resources?"
The envoys stiffened. They had hoped to sound sincere, but even they knew their offer was pitiful.
Riley leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes glinting in the lamplight.
"Do I look like soone desperate for scraps? Do you think I built a city of five thousand souls and fought off an enemy stronger than yours just to play guard dog for your failing clan?"
One of the envoys opened his mouth, but no words ca out.
The other two lowered their heads even further, trembling under the pressure of his spiritual aura.
"Thanks," Riley said finally, his tone dismissive. "But no thanks. You can go back now. I wish you luck in your fate—whatever that may be."
He waved his hand casually, already turning his attention elsewhere. To him, the matter was over.
But the five envoys exchanged desperate looks. They had already prepared for this possibility.
They knew this eting would decide the fate of their clan. Without hesitation, they acted.
Thud!
All five fell to their knees, their voices uniting in a single cry that echoed through the marble hall:
"The adow Clan is willing to beco your subordinate for life and death, Master Riley!"
The sound lingered in the air, heavy with sincerity and fear.
Riley’s brows rose slightly.
He looked down at the kneeling envoys, his expression unreadable at first—then, slowly, a faint smile curved his lips.
"Well," he said at last, his voice low and amused, "that’s more like it."
He stood, walking toward them with asured steps. His shadow fell over the five envoys as they trembled beneath his gaze.
"You offer submission rather than scraps. At least you understand the difference."
He stopped before them and looked each one in the eye.
"From this day forward, your adow Clan stands under the banner of the Rice Clan. You’ll enjoy our protection—but you’ll also carry our mark. Betray , and not even ashes of your souls will remain. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master Riley!" the five shouted together, their foreheads pressed against the polished floor.
Satisfied, Riley turned and gave a faint nod. "Good. Then return to Yellow Sand City."
He paused briefly, his voice turning cold and certain. "Your problem will be gone before you arrive."
The envoys looked up, wide-eyed. "M-Master Riley, do you an—?"
But Riley had already turned away, waving them off. "Go," he said simply. "I’ll handle the rest."
The five envoys bowed deeply once more, their relief mixed with disbelief.
As they were escorted out, the guards could feel the spiritual pressure around Riley shifting—his aura sharpening, like a blade being drawn.
When the last of the envoys left, Riley’s calm deanor faded into a smirk.
"The Tanner Clan," he murmured, his voice low. "Let’s see how loud they can scream before they burn."
Riley used his divine sense and then did the most direct thod in solving this little problem of his.
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