Shen Yu stepped out through the heavy double doors of the private suite, his expression tranquil and unreadable, though a faint, heavy scent of musk and medicinal herbs drifted out behind him before the doors clicked shut.
Li Na, the fierce bodyguard, was standing frozen by the doorframe. Her usual stoic expression was gone, replaced by a complexion that was burning a deep, furious shade of crimson from her neck all the way to the tips of her ears.
She had spent the last hour in a state of torment.
When the first high-pitched scream had torn through the thick oak, her hand had instinctively flown to her sword, ready to kick the door down and slaughter the cripple for hurting her mistress. But she had frozen. The scream hadn't been one of agony, it had been a long, drawn-out wail of earth-shattering pleasure.
She had been forced to stand guard, listening helplessly to the rhythmic creaking of the bed and the unmistakable, wet sounds of her Matriarch unraveling completely.
Now, through the wood, the suite was silent save for the steady, powerful rhythm of Meng Yan's breathing. It was a sound of deep, resonant vitality that Li Na hadn't heard in over a year. The rasping wheeze of the Fire Poison was gone.
She looked up at Shen Yu. Her eyes were wide, swirling with a chaotic mixture of disbelief, wariness, and something darker.
The contempt she had held for the "crippled waste" had evaporated. In its place was a grudging, terrified respect... and lust.
She couldn't help it. Her gaze involuntarily dropped to Shen Yu's long, slender hands as he adjusted his cuffs. Her mind, betrayed by the sounds she had just heard, couldn't stop wondering: If he could make her Master scream like a broken animal... what could those hands do to her?
Shen Yu didn't stop to gloat. He didn't even acknowledge the heated, hungry look in her eyes.
He simply smoothed out a wrinkle in his sleeve, exhaling a long breath to maintain the perfect air of an exhausted but accomplished physician who had just fought a war against death. Without a word, he walked past the flushed bodyguard and headed toward the stairs, leaving her alone with her imagination.
As he descended the seven floors of the Golden Leaves Pavilion, the atmosphere shifted. The oppressive silence of the private suite gave way to the bustling noise of the restaurant below. Wealthy merchants and cultivators drank spirit wine and discussed the upcoming auction, completely unaware that the political landscape of Thousand Waves City had just shifted in the room above them.
When he reached the entrance, the Shen Clan's carriage was still waiting. The old driver, Uncle Fu, was dozing off on the reins, his head bobbing rhythmically.
"Uncle Fu," Shen Yu called out softly.
The old man jerked awake, hurriedly wiping a bit of drool from his mouth. "Young Master! You're back! Forgive this old servant, I—"
"It is fine. Let us return home," Shen Yu said gently, stepping into the carriage. "Aunt Yilan is likely pacing a hole in the floor by now."
"Yes, yes! Right away, Young Master!"
The carriage lurched forward, the wheels rattling rhythmically against the cobblestones as they began the journey back to the Tang Estate.
Inside the dim confines of the moving carriage, the saintly smile instantly vanished from Shen Yu's face.
His expression went blank, cold, and terrifyingly weary. He leaned back against the plush cushions, closed his eyes, and took a long, deep breath to center himself. When he opened them again, he stared out the window at the passing city lights, his gaze distant and freezing.
Maintaining the act of a righteous, benevolent person was exhausting for him, a man who had been a demonic cultivator in his past life.
His mind drifted back, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels pulling memories from the depths of his soul.
In his first life, he was a NEET, a shut-in who wasted his days playing video games and reading web novels. But that isolation wasn't a choice born of laziness; it was a prison built by fear, cowardice, and relentless pressure.
It had started in middle school. At first, it was just teasing, strange names whispered in the hallways, which he had responded to with awkward smiles, trying to stop them with kindness. But kindness was weakness to wolves. The teasing turned to shoving, then to beating, and finally to extortion. School became a living hell.
He had tried to fight back. In the safety of his room, he had trained his body, learning boxing from videos, throwing punches at the air, dreaming of standing up for himself. But when the moment came, he could never overcome the paralyzing fear. He retreated into his room and never came out, eventually dying with a heart full of regrets.
In his second life, he woke up in a cultivation world. He thought his destiny had finally turned. He believed he would become powerful, ruling the world like the protagonists in the novels he used to read.
But reality was cruel. He had average roots. The dream of easy dominance was shattered.
Yet, he didn't give up. Determined to live without regrets this time, he joined a Righteous Sect. He wanted to be a hero, to protect people who were weak and bullied as he had been on Earth.
That was when he learned the hardest lesson of all: this world was far crueler than Earth.
A nobody like him existed only to be trampled upon. The "Righteous Sect" used him like a slave, treating him as cannon fodder. He realized then that the "righteousness" they preached was nothing but a mask. They were hypocrites, smiling wolves who would commit any atrocity for resources and profit, all while claiming the moral high ground.
Disillusioned and desperate, he had stumbled upon a forbidden technique: the Blood Burning Art. It allowed him to ascend rapidly by consuming the blood of others. He started practicing it in secret, finally gaining the strength he craved. But he was discovered.
Those same "righteous" bastards hunted him down like a dog, not because he was evil, but because he was a threat to their order. He fled, running until his legs gave out, and eventually joined a Demonic Sect.
That place was a true hell, brutal and unforgiving, but at least it was honest about its nature. It wasn't a hell disguised as heaven.
Through centuries of bloodshed, he learned the truth. Yes, real righteous figures existed, he had seen a few rare souls who genuinely cared for others. But they were the minority. The vast majority of cultivators were driven by greed, wearing masks of virtue. Demonic cultivators were hunted and killed, while righteous hypocrites were praised as heroes.
From the ashes of his two past lives, he had forged his philosophy for this third life.
He would be the ultimate "Righteous Hypocrite."
He would never let his inner demon show in the open. He would wear the white robes, smile the saintly smile, and speak of benevolence. Because in this world, that mask provided the ultimate shield. It meant stability. It meant peace. It meant no one would hunt him while he grew strong.
He stared at his reflection in the darkened window of the carriage.
'I will control this fucking world through the facade of righteousness,' he vowed silently.
He didn't care about morality anymore. He didn't care about being a hero. He just wanted absolute power and beautiful women. That was his ultimate goal, and this time, no one would stand in his way. Not even Fate.