The immense doors of red cedar in the Main Hall of Shattered Heaven remained wide open, swallowing the last lazy rays of the setting sun. The sharp wind of the high altitudes swept across the plush carpets embroidered with the clan's millennial crest, but the icy breeze could not dispel the dense smell of rare‑cooked meat and fresh blood that now dominated the once‑sacred space.
In the armchair reserved for the Great Elder, just below the dais, Yù Méi completely ignored the refined silverware. The Untouchable Petal held the hindquarter of a mountain beast with both hands, tearing the meat fibers with aggressive pulls. Hot juice stained the stunning golden silk dress, but her carnivorous mind did not care. Her only goal was to quell her physical hunger and drown the absurd sexual tension she had been accumulating over the past nights.
On the elevated dais, dominating the hall, Yù Qíng reclined on the usurped throne. The blue goddess lay back against the beast‑hide backrest with feline slowness. Her crossed legs displayed the pale, immaculate curve of her thigh through the subtle slit of her short navy‑blue dress.
"A beast that runs free on the slopes builds dense muscles, but in the end of its cycle, it serves only as soft fertilizer to sustain higher roots," Yù Qíng murmured, her moist lips curving into a lethal smile as she watched her sister devour the meal.
Yù Méi stopped chewing for a second. The Brutal Blade rolled her almond eyes hard, rejecting the poetry.
"It's just a piece of dead animal with a lot of coarse salt," Yù Méi grumbled, swallowing noisily. "For heaven's sake, stop trying to plant trees in my dinner. And eat some real food."
In the center of the hall, oblivious to the exchange of barbs, stood Mò Yán.
Kneeling on the plush carpet, the diplomat kept her chin lowered. The silver‑gray tunic strained to its limit, hugging the rapid rise of her heavy breasts and the wide curve of her hips with every trembling breath. The genius's mind had been shattered. Yù Qíng's poisonous words about "divine hands dissecting defenses" boiled in her head, activating the pure Yin of her meridians uncontrollably.
The intoxicating heat painted the tips of her small ears and her immaculate neck a febrile pink. She no longer felt the disgust of before; she felt a terrifying, submissive hunger.
Suddenly, the air in the hall became solid.
Mò Yán's breath caught in her throat. There was no sound of doors, but the temperature plummeted and burned simultaneously with an invisible radiation that pulled the world's gravity toward a single point.
Zhì Yuǎn emerged from the darkness of the corridors. The charcoal‑gray tunic was impeccable, the black silk cloak swallowing the pale light of the oil lamps. The cosmic weight of his presence crushed any trace of the old political pride of Mò Yán. Moved by a gravity that annulled her free will, she dissolved her kneeling posture and curved her torso to the floor. A carnal, absolute prostration that exposed the full tension of her breasts against the silk in a naked ceremonial surrender.
"This servant welcomes the return of her Lord," her melodious voice flowed across the carpet, formal but undeniably laden with a warm, submissive tremor.
Zhì Yuǎn did not lower his eyes to the stunning woman at his feet. Ignoring her like a detail in the stone furniture, he walked directly toward the dais.
On the throne, Yù Qíng did not rise, but her sadistic dominance melted instantly. The cold mask slipped away, giving place to the obsessive woman. She tilted her face, her eyes overflowing with adoration, and made room by sliding her legs to the side.
Zhì Yuǎn stopped before her. The academic coldness with which he had dissected the world below finally yielded. The Dao made way for the man's humanity. He raised his pale hand and slid his fingers through his wife's black hair, caressing her jaw with dense, possessive tenderness.
She closed her eyes at the touch, a languid sigh escaping her lips, tilting her face against his warm palm.
"Did the soil of these depths meet your hunger, my heaven?" the priestess whispered, her velvety voice kissing his hand.
Zhì Yuǎn continued caressing her face, but the answer that came from his lips carried the coldness of a cosmos in ruins.
"The soil is dead, Qíng," his deep voice reverberated, intimate yet absolute. "The matrices were built to drain High‑Grade Spirit Stones. But the veins of this pillar are exhausted. What remains of the world can barely spit out low‑grade gravel. The ambient Qi is dry."
Yù Qíng's hand tightened on the carved wood of the throne. The welcoming smile hardened into a dangerously calculating line.
"This clan's vault holds three million gold bars and only six hundred chests of those pathetic stones," she reported, disappointment dancing in every syllable.
His fingers slid to the back of his wife's neck, resting there protectively.
"They wouldn't fill even a crack in my universe," Zhì Yuǎn declared, incontestable. "The physical foundations have failed."
The silence that followed was not a shock to him, but it was thunder in Yù Qíng's mind.
If the stones were dead and the air sterile, the revelation fell entirely upon her. Her husband's Universe Hunger was infinite. The only furnace capable of forging the Primordial Qi to fill it was flesh. The monumental weight of sustaining that god would depend solely on Dual Cultivation. And no matter how vast her Sea of Devotion, the physical capacity of her body had clear limits. His hyper‑dense Yang always brought her to the collapse of pleasure and exhaustion long before the hunger receded.
Yù Qíng's astute eyes slid slowly across the hall.
They rested on Yù Méi, who was tearing meat from the bone with raw vigor and violently repressed lust. Then they descended to Mò Yán. The restrained flower remained prostrate, her hips raised in submission, overflowing with the most untouched and disciplined Yin the priestess had ever seen.
My ocean cannot drown this abyss alone, Yù Qíng's utilitarian mind calculated, her lips curving into an icy smile. If the world failed to offer stones, we will harvest flesh.
"Serve wine to my husband, little snow flower," Yù Qíng ordered, breaking the silence, her voice dropping to a husky octave. "The dust of these dead ruins has dried his throat."
Mò Yán obeyed. Demanding torturous body control to mask the excitement boiling in her veins, she rose from the carpet. Each step toward the dais pulled at her pure Yin, responding involuntarily to the thermal gravity of the Yang emanating from the protagonist.
The diplomat knelt docilely beside him. As she leaned to pour the red liquid into the cup, the collar of her tunic loosened subtly, offering the dense, panting view of her full cleavage. She raised the porcelain with both hands, her scarlet irises clouded with expectation.
Zhì Yuǎn took the cup.
As he did so, his knuckles casually brushed against Mò Yán's burning hand. It was not a provocation; it was the indifferent touch of one who collects what belongs to him by right.
The impact was like a spark thrown into gunpowder. An electric shiver arched the restrained flower's spine. A dense, panting, intoxicated sigh escaped her full lips. The silver silk strained to its limit, and the febrile blush of involuntary lust spread shamelessly across her immaculate neck.
Down below, Yù Méi hurled the beast's bone onto the silver tray with a brutal clatter. The scene unfolding on the dais exuded a tension that was driving her mad, activating the memories of the massage on her back and the nights in the carriage.
"Stagnant stones, useless gold, and soft voices!" complained the Untouchable Petal, exploding with impatience, pointing furiously at the entrance to the hall. "If this sect has nothing to fill my brother‑in‑law's well and the ruins are dry, what did we come to this pillar for? I refuse to believe I put up with your botanical poetry just to find out the whole mountain is useless for his cultivation!"
Zhì Yuǎn merely drank the wine in silence. Yù Qíng, however, turned her face majestically toward her younger sister, a poisoned smile illuminating her ethereal features.
"The world may be barren, Méi," Yù Qíng murmured, her black eyes sparkling with a utilitarian and perfectly manipulative promise. "But we never leave empty‑handed. True utilities merely need to be cultivated in the right soil. The Universe is hungry, little sister. And the harvest… the harvest of flesh will always demand a formidable sacrifice."
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