Mò Yán's flawless face remained pressed against the cold black rock of the plateau. She had sold her own clan and her own life in a single whispered sentence, submitting entirely to the abyss. The silence that followed her surrender was broken only by the soft sound of water splashing.
A few steps away, Yù Méi shook a leather flask, pouring fresh water over her own hands. The girl's newly healed, immaculate skin bore no swelling, but was stained with Hán Léi's dark blood. After washing her hands, she took a small cotton cloth and began scrubbing the skirt of her stunning golden silk dress, trying to clean the red splatters that had soiled the luxurious fabric during the carnage.
"Useless trash," Yù Méi muttered, her instinctive, literal mind overflowing with profound annoyance as she rubbed the silk hard. "How does a coward like that have such thick blood? It won't come off at all. Pathetic even in death."
A low, velvety laugh laden with amusement cut through the plateau's cold breeze.
Yù Qíng, whose bare feet hovered millimeters above the pool of blood using the Floating Lotus Step, watched her sister's irritation with the indulgence of someone watching a child play in the dirt.
"Let's go," said the navy‑blue priestess, her voice soft and threatening, turning her back on the disciple's remains and floating toward the colossal carriage.
Before reaching the vehicle's veranda, Yù Qíng turned her body slightly in the air, looking over her shoulder at the white‑haired diplomat who still knelt.
"Follow me, little snow flower," ordered the dark goddess, using her customary poetic metaphors in a tone that allowed no disobedience.
Mò Yán swallowed hard, rising slowly. Her legs trembled beneath the silver‑gray tunic, but she maintained her perfectly polished posture, walking in absolute silence behind the woman in blue.
Yù Méi huffed, giving up on cleaning the stubborn stain on her golden dress. She tossed the dirty cloth into the abyss of clouds and turned to the trembling, pale figure of the Shattered Heaven Sect's Great Elder.
"Hey, old man," called the Untouchable Petal, her voice laden with impatience and instinct, tilting her chin toward the carriage's driver's seat. "Get up there and take the reins. I'm too bored to guide these horses, and since diplomacy failed, you'll serve as coachman."
The eighth‑stage cultivator, whose pride had been shattered watching his sixth‑stage disciple torn apart by sheer physical force, dared not hesitate. In silence, with trembling hands, he climbed onto the wooden bench, taking the reins of the four pure‑blood black horses.
Meanwhile, Mò Yán climbed the small access steps and crossed the heavy door of the armored cabin. As soon as she entered, the young genius's breath caught.
The cabin was incredibly spacious and luxurious, adorned with two long, comfortable benches of black velvet facing each other along the sides, leaving a plush carpet in the center. The air inside smelled of sandalwood, fresh tea, and a density of Primordial Qi so oppressive it made Mò Yán's mortal lungs burn.
And, casually reclined in the corner of the rear bench, was Zhì Yuǎn.
He was comfortably settled on the velvet, his arm resting on the carved window frame, his black eyes watching the misty horizon and the invisible currents of space outside. He exuded an absolute indifference to mortal politics and dogmas, manifesting only for the Dao.
Mò Yán felt her defenses crumble in a fraction of a second. She had spent her entire life surrounded by the leaders of the South—arrogant cultivators who flaunted their auras to appear majestic. But the man before her displayed nothing; he simply was.
His beauty transcended any standard of mortal flesh. His features were sculpted with the perfection of an ancient entity, and his eyes seemed to contain the void of a starless sky. Mò Yán, who had always felt disgust at the dirty lust of her sect's men, felt a shameful, completely involuntary heat rise up her neck. The immaculate skin of her small ears and cheeks gained a febrile pink hue, betraying the physical impact that divine presence had on her Refined Body.
Swallowing her hesitation, the silver‑gray silk tunic straining violently against the generous curve of her breasts due to her uneven breathing, Mò Yán knelt on the carpet in the center of the cabin. She curved her spine in a rigorous bow, pressing her palms flat on the plush floor.
"My Lord," Mò Yán's voice rang out, melodious, unshakably formal, and laden with the deepest submissive reverence. "This servant, Mò Yán, thanks you for the mercy shown to our Great Elder. I will guide your carriage through the paths of my clan with my own life."
Zhì Yuǎn did not even turn his face fully toward her. His unfathomable eyes looked away from the window for a second, fixing on the kneeling figure. He gave a minimal nod—a restrained gesture that accepted her servitude as an obvious fact of nature—and returned to watching the mist outside, the Wisdom in his mind dissecting the pillars of black stone.
Yù Qíng glided to the opposite bench. The priestess settled elegantly on the velvet, pouring two cups of porcelain tea. Her black eyes noted the subtle redness on Mò Yán's neck and the slight tremor in the diplomat's shoulders.
A vessel of immaculate modesty, Yù Qíng thought, appraising the girl's pure Yin with her utilitarian, distorted vision. Untouched soil. With the mind properly shaped, this forged body will be perfect to bear my husband's weight and serve as an auxiliary furnace for his hungry universe.
"Raise your head, snow flower," Yù Qíng murmured, her voice sweet, inviting, and terrifyingly calm. "And drink with us. The journey to your pillar requires that the body be warmed."
Mò Yán obeyed. She sat on the edge of the empty velvet bench, aligning her knees perfectly, and accepted the cup with both hands, not daring to look directly at Zhì Yuǎn again.
Suddenly, the carriage lurched violently, and the heavy creak of rusted chains and old wood invaded the cabin subtly. They had reached the first great suspension bridge crossing the abyss between the rock peaks.
The Great Elder's voice echoed from the driver's seat outside, laden with panic:
"S‑Stop! The wooden bridge will not support this weight! The chains are rotten; the armored carriage and horses will break the foundations, and we will sink into the clouds!"
Mò Yán's scarlet eyes widened, her heart missing a beat. The ancestral bridge had been designed to bear the light step of pedestrians. A fortress on wheels would tear through the wood instantly. She opened her mouth to suggest an alternate route, maintaining her usual politeness, but before the first word could come out…
Zhì Yuǎn raised his index finger.
He remained reclined on the bench, his gaze lost out the window. He formed no hand seals, emitted no flashy glow of Qi. With the apathy of one turning a page in a book, he flicked the air lightly.
The Wisdom connected instantly to the Law of Space. The colossal gravity anchoring the multi‑ton carriage simply ceased to exist.
Below them, the carriage rolled onto the suspension bridge. Mò Yán held her breath, waiting for the crash of splitting wood and the fall into the void. But there was no sound. The rotten planks did not even creak. The immense iron chains did not sway a single millimeter. The carriage advanced over the abyss as if made of smoke, space distorted to isolate the vehicle from the weight of the mortal world.
Mò Yán's brilliant mind went into total meltdown. He nullified the weight of the world with a finger flick. Without emitting a visible spark of Qi. This is not cultivation. He rewrites reality!
"You tremble, Mò Yán," Yù Qíng's voice cut through the young woman's terrified trance.
The blue goddess was reclined on the velvet, her eyes piercing the diplomat. The process of corruption needed to begin. Yù Qíng needed to break the sterile dogmas of that girl, pruning her loyalty to the sect to transform her into obedient soil for the Infinite Universe's will alone.
"The Shattered Heaven Sect prides itself on its rules," Yù Qíng continued, her lips brushing the rim of her cup. "You sit with perfection. You repress your own breath so as not to offend. You carry your clan's burden as if blind obedience and disgust for instinct were the highest virtues a woman can achieve."
Mò Yán lowered her gaze to her tea, her knuckles whitening.
"Discipline maintains order, Lady," Mò Yán replied, her tone melodious, strictly formal, and unshakable. "My duty is the pillar that sustains me. A life lived for one's own instincts is the life of an animal. Like the man who perished this morning."
Yù Qíng smiled, poetic malice darkening the cabin's atmosphere.
"Duty is the refuge of dead roots, little flower," the priestess hissed, using the botanical metaphor with a voice dropping to a seductive, venomous octave. "A vessel kept intact by pure dogma is sterile for the Dao. You delivered your clan to my husband today because it was your political duty. But I ask you: what use is perfectly disciplined soil if it feels disgust at being plowed, and refuses to receive the seed to bear fruit?"
Mò Yán lifted her scarlet irises, secretly terrified by the carnal, visceral analogy.
"What does the Lady mean?"
"I seek utility, Mò Yán," Yù Qíng declared, the cruelty of her worldview—a vast garden of resources—echoing in every word. "My husband's universe is infinite and hungry. And the weight of feeding it would crush ordinary mortals in the blink of an eye. To share this space and be truly useful to the heaven seated beside you, your diplomatic submission is not enough. You will have to abandon the disgust your modesty imposes on you, melt this untouchable posture, and offer your own flesh."
Mò Yán's breath caught. The belief system of the Restrained Flower, her absolute aversion to the dirty lust she had cultivated her whole life, collided violently with that woman's raw demand. Yù Qíng was not asking her to be a mere guide. She was saying she would be shaped for the bed, to serve as a cultivation furnace.
"My… my body belongs to the purity of cultivation, Lady," Mò Yán whispered, the walls of her modesty beginning to show deep cracks as panic leaked from her always‑polished voice.
Mò Yán's scarlet eyes instinctively fled from Yù Qíng, seeking refuge in the perfect, oblivious, terrifying face of Zhì Yuǎn near the window. The sight of that divine profile struck her again, and the dense heat of shame rose violently through her chest and neck.
Yù Qíng leaned back on the velvet bench, laughing softly, savoring the slow corruption with the patient sadism of one who knows that snow cannot resist the furnace for long.
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