The darkness in the depths of the Central Pillar was different from the mortal night. It was a thick, silent darkness that smelled of ozone and eons of abandonment.
Zhì Yuǎn walked through the corridors of the Ruin of the Throne, his steps the only sound echoing off the walls of black rock. The crystal chandeliers that the Shattered Heaven Sect had installed centuries ago lit the path precariously, but to his eyes, light was unnecessary. The Wisdom mapped the environment not by brightness, but by the flow of dead laws embedded in the stone.
He passed the meditation chambers where the Sect Master and elders used to lock themselves away to absorb the crumbs of Qi that leaked from the walls. They were rooms adorned with silk carpets, golden incense burners, and velvet cushions. Mortal trash piled upon a divine altar.
Ignoring the stagnant luxury, Zhì Yuǎn descended even deeper, to where the air became thin and the cold of the stone penetrated the bones.
He came to a colossal door of dark metal, sealed by gears that no cultivator of the mountain had ever been able to turn. Without hesitation, he raised his hand. The Inner Universe in his dantian pulsed, and a fragment of the Law of Space wrapped around his fingers. He touched the center of the door.
The millennial metal groaned. The gears, dead for ages, turned in obedience to the authority of one who understood their language. The door yielded, opening into a vast, spherical hall—the true core of the mountain.
The floor, ceiling, and walls formed a three‑dimensional labyrinth of veins of dark‑green jade inlaid in oxidized silver. It was the skeleton of the Principal Matrix, the foundation that had once connected all the bridges of the Southern domain to tear open the sky.
Zhì Yuǎn walked to the center of the matrix and touched the cold surface of one of the jade pillars.
The Wisdom in his mind dissected the structure instantly. The metal and stone held the echoes of the past. He saw the dry receptacles at the bases of the pillars, designed to accommodate colossal sources of energy. The foundation required High‑Grade Spirit Stones to function. In the Golden Age of the Transcendents, the soil of this world had been rich and dense enough to produce pure ores that pulsed with stellar energy.
But the Wisdom also revealed to him the cruel scale of the cosmos. What the ancient mortals of this world had considered "High Grade"—the divine apex that generated wars and moved mountains—was merely average density, the common gravel of the higher realms. And now, after the matrices had sucked the planet's vitality to open the sky, the degraded soil could at best spit out Low‑Grade Spirit Stones, pathetic remnants of a dead age.
Zhì Yuǎn raised his face, letting the billions of pores in his body open to the ruin. The Hunger of his infinite universe, contained beneath the apathy of his mortal countenance, finally found the echo of a meal. The dead jade around him began to hum, responding to the call of the god who had come to devour its last secrets.
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Thousands of meters above, on the peak lit by the morning sun, the atmosphere in the Main Hall of Shattered Heaven was very different.
The audience hall, an imposing structure of red cedar pillars and curved ceramic roofs, had been emptied of its guards and servants. The enormous double doors were thrown wide open, letting the cold wind sweep across the carpets embroidered with the clan crest.
Yù Qíng floated into the room using the Floating Lotus Step. Her bare feet hovered millimeters above the varnished wood, the short navy‑blue dress gliding through the air with a grace that did not disturb the dust. She crossed the hall in a straight line, passing the elders' tables, until she reached the raised dais at the back of the room. There, imposing and lined with spirit beast hide, sat the Sect Master's throne.
The priestess turned and settled into Mò Tiān's throne, sliding her back against the plush fur with feline, seductive slowness. She crossed her legs with sovereign elegance, the subtle slit of her dress revealing the pale, immaculate curve of her thigh, while she rested her chin lightly on her hand. Her black, astute eyes swept over the domain she had just harvested, dissecting the possessions of that sect with pure possessiveness.
Behind her, Yù Méi entered with heavy steps. The stunning golden silk dress rustled noisily as the girl surveyed the luxurious decoration with a mixture of curiosity and profound boredom.
"So much useless wood and shiny ornaments," grumbled the Untouchable Petal, throwing herself without ceremony into the armchair reserved for the Great Elder, just below the dais. She spread her long legs and crossed her arms, her stomach growling audibly. "And to think I was expecting a real fight. Where's the food in this sect?"
Mò Yán, who had escorted the two in silence from the lower courtyard, stopped in the center of the hall. The silver‑gray tunic strained dangerously against the diplomat's full bust, her posture impeccable, her scarlet eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to look directly at the usurped throne of her lineage.
"I will arrange a banquet immediately, Ladies," Mò Yán bowed in a polished reverence, her melodious voice betraying none of the dread crushing her ribs. "Would you prefer that the servants bring the refined delicacies from our spiritual pantry, or something more specific?"
"Have them roast the hindquarter of the heaviest beast you have in the kitchens," Yù Méi ordered, tilting her head back and closing her eyes with impatience. "Rare. And if it comes covered in leaves and flowers, I'll make the cook swallow the whole tray."
Mò Yán nodded rigidly and turned toward the entrance, relaying the order to a terrified servant lurking in the hallway. The man vanished like smoke.
The white‑haired young woman returned to the center of the hall, approaching a small tea table made of ebony. With contained grace that demanded absolute physical control, Mò Yán bent her knees onto the plush carpet. The movement made the structured silk of her tunic pull violently against the generous curves of her hips and thighs. Her movements as she prepared the infusion were a poetic dance; each pour of hot water, each inclination of her torso, displayed a purely involuntary sensuality.
Yù Qíng watched the scene from the throne. The blue goddess's gaze was not on the tea leaves, but on the skin burning beneath the silver robes of the attendant. She noticed how the long snow‑white hair swayed over the young woman's lumbar curve, and how the small pale ears gained a febrile pink hue, betraying the physical effect that dominating scrutiny had on Mò Yán's untouched Yin.
Mò Yán rose with the silver tray, walked to the dais, and bowed to offer the steaming porcelain cup to Yù Qíng with both hands. As she inclined, the collar of her tunic loosened subtly, offering the provocative, panting view of her cleavage.
Zhì Yuǎn's wife accepted the cup, but as she took the object from the saucer, she let the tips of her cold, pale fingers deliberately slide over Mò Yán's warm knuckles.
The physical touch was like an electric shock. A violent shiver ran up the diplomat's arm, her breath faltering as a thick blush rose up her pale neck.
Yù Qíng brought the cup to her parted lips and took a small sip, savoring the tension in the air even before tasting the drink. The tea was rich, permeated with a refreshing energy that only leaves cultivated on high‑altitude peaks possessed.
"The tea is excellent," Yù Qíng murmured, her moist lips curving into a slow, satisfied smile. She lowered the porcelain, fixing her unfathomable eyes on the diplomat. "A leaf harvested at the right time and steeped in the perfect water yields all its essence without resistance. Tell me, Mò Yán. A millennium of absolute dominion over the central pillar must have yielded heavy fruits. What are the real reserves of your mountain? What does your father keep in his vaults that is most valuable?"
Mò Yán did not hesitate. The blind loyalty she had dedicated her entire life to Shattered Heaven had been consciously torn from her chest. Her devotion, rigorous and calculating, now belonged to the woman on the throne and the god in the abyss.
"Our main vault holds a little over three million bars of solid gold, Lady," Mò Yán reported, keeping her arms joined before her stomach in strict formality. "Beyond the mortal fortune, we control the monopoly of the cultivation peaks where we harvest the Night Frost Herb, and we possess six hundred chests of Low‑Grade Spirit Stones. It is, unquestionably, the greatest wealth in all the Remnants."
Yù Qíng slowly shook her head, releasing a velvety laugh laden with incredibly sensual mockery.
"Three million gold bars and low‑grade ores…" the priestess hissed, refined disappointment dancing in every syllable as she reclined seductively into the plush upholstery of the throne. "A colossal fortune for stagnant parasites, little flower. My husband already taught us the truth about you. Your clan is nothing but a swarm of insects crawling over the bones of a dead age. What your leaders consider the divine apex of wealth is, to my heaven, nothing but gravel and useless dust. And today, you kneel to protect that trash."
Mò Yán's scarlet eyes widened slightly. The cosmic scale of those words crushed the diplomat's conception of reality. The greatest wealth of the mortal world was treated as inferior filth by the mouth of that indolent divinity.
Yù Qíng leaned slightly forward on the throne. The scent of lotus and sandalwood from her skin invaded Mò Yán's space. The priestess raised her free hand, the tips of her pale fingers lightly brushing the line of the white‑haired girl's perfectly sculpted jaw. The icy contrast of Yù Qíng's skin against Mò Yán's febrile heat served as the perfect trigger for the poison that would follow.
"My heaven has an infinite hunger," the devoted wife whispered, her tone dropping to a husky octave that prickled the diplomat's spine. "What lies in your grandiose vaults would not fill even a drop of his void. And as I am the root that sustains my husband's earth, it falls to me to ensure that terrible hunger never reaches him."
Mò Yán's breath became shallow and trembling under that scrutiny and touch. The air in the hall suddenly seemed scarce.
"When the resources of a soil prove barren for our harvest," Yù Qíng continued, her black eyes overflowing with sadistic, luxuriant adoration as she described her husband, "true utility must be extracted in another form. Can you even imagine, snow flower, the carnal weight of bearing a god?"
Mò Yán swallowed hard, her throat dry, her white lashes trembling with pure apprehension and fascination. The priestess's tactile manipulation kept her body on alert, but it was the words that delivered the lethal blow.
"The way those divine hands dissect your defenses…" Yù Qíng's voice became a warm, intoxicating whisper, sketching the visceral promise in the young genius's mind. "How his infinite Yang melts your deepest dogmas, crushing your body until nothing remains but the most devastating exhaustion. And in the end, a fullness and satisfaction so absolute that you would beg on your knees, weeping, to be devoured by him again."
The seed of terror planted in the carriage finally bloomed. The last pillar of resistance of the restrained flower shattered. Her belief system, her absolute aversion to lust cultivated her entire life, shattered upon colliding with the image of Zhì Yuǎn's unfathomable, divine profile as the bearer of that possession. Mò Yán's full lips parted in a dense, panting sigh. The silver‑gray tunic strained to its limit, hugging the rapid rise of her heavy breasts, as the shameful, intoxicating heat of involuntary lust flooded her lower belly, fueled by the imagination of what those hands could do to her.
She felt no disgust. She felt a terrifying hunger begging to accept that burden.
"This servant understands her function, Lady," Mò Yán replied melodiously, her voice unshakably formal, but with her red eyes clouded by unconditional submission.
She stepped back from Yù Qíng's touch and bowed, lowering her torso slowly and deliberately. The reverence was so deep and meticulous that it exposed the full tension of her breasts beneath the silk in a naked, raw surrender of her femininity.
"Where the earth fails, the body will compensate," Mò Yán concluded, delivering her very soul and flesh into the hands of the abyss.
In the wooden armchair just below the dais, Yù Méi rolled her eyes so hard the movement was almost audible.
But beneath the luxurious golden silk, the long legs of the Untouchable Petal pressed together instinctively. Her sister's words about "divine hands that dissect defenses" hit her like a punch to the stomach, unearthing the fresh, overwhelming memory of the reward on the Serene Wind Plateau. The memory of her brother‑in‑law's warm, heavy touch kneading her lower back, the pure Qi penetrating her muscles until her hyper‑dense flesh completely melted on the velvet divan. She remembered her own languid moans muffled by the pillow, the shameful wetness that soaked her legs. The mere thought made her center pulse violently, thickened by the sexual tension she had been accumulating.
The younger sister's carnivorous, instinctive mind short‑circuited with secret excitement and extreme impatience.
The Brutal Blade uncrossed her legs abruptly, threw her arms up, and pointed furiously at the wide‑open doors of the hall.
"For heaven's sake, stop this hot whispering and this soft garden‑and‑harvest talk!" Yù Méi grumbled, violently rejecting the botanical metaphors to try to hide her own febrile blush. "The only thing that matters now is whether that meat will arrive before the end of the day. If I stay hungry listening to you two drooling over my brother‑in‑law for another minute, I'll go down the stairs and punch the door of that gold vault clean off."
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