Novel Full Chapter 1077 - 1077: New Wives?!
Messengers rode like arrows, scrolls burned with urgent seals, and spiritual birds cut across the horizons. By nightfall, every market stall, every tea house, every palace hall in the Seven Nations buzzed with the same words:
“Kent King, the mysterious warrior with the heavenly sword, has claimed the Golden Heir’s title!”
In noble estates, anxious elders murmured about the rise of a youth whose face was still hidden beneath the beast veil mask. In sects, disciples whispered as though his name itself carried thunder. In taverns, drunkards slammed cups on tables and retold the story, exaggerating how Shui Lan was strangled by flaming chains and nearly roasted alive.
And in the grand halls of power, patriarchs and matriarchs counted the risks, the alliances, and the fortunes waiting to be seized.
But Kent, the center of this storm, was not in a war council.
He reclined in the lavish embrace of a pleasure house of the syndicate, its halls perfumed with sandalwood and filled with the sound of zithers. Soft silks framed the couches, and wine cups glittered on golden trays. He was not drunk, nor distracted, but resting, letting his breathing return to the calm rhythm of tides.
Guests lined up outside Kent’s room.
Fatty Ben stood outside proudly, his round belly jiggling as he laughed and accepted gift after gift. Chests of jade, scrolls of forbidden techniques, rare beast eggs, spirit treasures glowing like captured stars—all piled into a separate chamber.
“Ah, Sect Master Dan! A fine jade phoenix carving, yes, yes, Kent will surely appreciate it,” Fatty said with oily charm, while discreetly sliding the gift aside. He leaned closer, whispering to an attendant, “Mark this one as mid-value. Send him back with thanks.”
Then, turning to another trembling noble: “Oh? A thousand-year lotus root steeped in Nirvanic dew? Wonderful! Of course, I’ll arrange a private audience.”
So it continued. Fatty Ben smiled, joked, and separated wheat from chaff. Only the most important sect leaders and the richest houses were allowed beyond the curtains to meet Kent himself. The rest left with only polite words and the sting of rejection.
Kent accepted the chosen guests with serene politeness. He neither promised loyalty nor rejected friendship. Instead, he let them speak, let them sweat, and listened.
“You have created a new era with your sword,” said one elder of the Silver Moon Sect, bowing until his forehead nearly touched the floor.
“Our young miss has admired your courage from afar,” murmured another noblewoman, slyly, her eyes calculating.
Kent only nodded, his tone even, “The sea teaches patience. Tides rise slowly, but when they rise, they drown all shores.”
Every word was like bait. The guests left trembling—half in awe, half in terror—yet each returned to their nations declaring that they had glimpsed the dawn of a new sovereign.
Kent did not reject alliances outright; nor did he clasp hands too quickly. This was his chance to weave a net wider than his Nirvanic chains—one made of people, promises, and debts.
But power never comes without strings.
Soon the flow of gifts was joined by a flood of marriage proposals.
Scrolls arrived in jeweled cases. Patriarchs sent daughters draped in silks. Sects offered their saintesses as if laying flowers at an altar.
“Marry into our house, Golden Heir,” one emissary begged. “Bind your lightning to our roots, and together we shall rule two nations.”
Kent’s reply was a faint smile. With a gesture of his hand, attendants drew open a long curtain. Behind it, a line of women stood—his wives, each radiant in her own right, their presence filling the chamber with its own kind of thunder.
Amelia, the sharp-eyed strategist whose gaze could slice a lie in half.
Sophia, serene as moonlight, her voice like balm yet her silence heavier than swords.
Lily, fiery and proud, who stood at Kent’s side like a banner in stormwinds.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, their beauty undeniable, their authority unshakable.
“Do you still insist?” Kent asked the emissary, voice calm but deadly.
The poor man stammered, bowing, “N-no, of course, the Golden Heir is well accompanied—our offer was merely—merely—” He fled before finishing.
Yet not all were so easily dismissed. Some sects pushed harder, declaring their daughters saints blessed by heaven. Others argued it was duty for the strongest man in the nations to unite bloodlines.
Kent waved them away, but his wives, instead of ignoring, leaned into the opportunity.
Amelia crossed her arms, her sharp gaze piercing every proposal. “If they send daughters, we verify their histories. If they send saintesses, we uncover the stains behind the titles. I won’t let weak links slip into this family.”
Sophia, gentle yet unyielding, smiled faintly. “Beauty fades, but character endures. We will accept no woman who brings rot into this house, no matter the jewels offered.”
Lily, more fiery than both, slammed her palm on the table. “If they think they can bribe Kent with painted faces, they insult him. Only those who bring true strength or strategy may even stand in the line.”
The three of them together formed a council of steel. They began to sift the endless stream of women—sect saints, noble daughters, merchant princesses—rejecting most with quiet disdain.
Yet, for a very few, they nodded after careful scrutiny.
“This one,” Amelia said, “her clan controls half the trade routes between two nations. She is calm, clever, and trained in swordplay. Useful.”
“This one,” Sophia murmured, “has been praised for her charity. Her influence among the commonfolk could anchor Kent’s name in the hearts of the masses.”
“This one,” Lily admitted grudgingly, “is beautiful, yes, but her beauty is the least of it. Her cultivation is genuine, her loyalty proven. She could guard the household with her life.”
Thus, instead of Kent bending to marriage contracts, his wives chose women who could strengthen the family—not ornaments, but allies.
And Kent? He simply smiled, watching his women weave a fortress more-intricate than his own chains.
Night after night, emissaries came. Gifts piled high. Promises spilled like wine. Fatty Ben’s laughter echoed down the corridors as he counted treasures and dismissed sycophants.
Through it all, Kent remained calm. He was not greedy for trinkets nor swayed by flattery. He accepted only what added weight to his net—power, connections, leverage.
–
Soon, the academy phase will begin.