The sun finally plunged behind the valley mountains, and the sky over Qīngshān Village deepened into a dark, profound blue. On the veranda of the Yù family's main house, the night wind began to blow, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke.
Yù Méi swallowed the last piece of her third pork bun, wiped her fingers on the hem of a cloth her mother handed her, and sighed, her stomach finally pacified.
"It's already dark," the youngest observed, stretching vigorously, her bones cracking audibly. She looked toward the distant bamboo grove. "I'm going back to the hut. I need to sleep."
Sū Huì, who had been gathering the ceramic bowls from the wooden table, paused. The old matriarch looked at her daughter, then glanced around to ensure Yù Chéng was far away in his office, and pulled Yù Méi by the arm to the corner of the veranda with a force only mothers possess.
"Wait a minute, young lady," Sū Huì whispered, her eyes narrowed in a mixture of genuine concern and mortal curiosity. "You're going to sleep there. With both of them."
Yù Méi blinked, confused.
"Yes, Mother. Where else would I sleep?"
Sū Huì wiped her hands on her apron, her face taking on a reddish hue. She lowered her voice further, gesticulating nervously.
"Méi… you're my youngest. You came back floating like a goddess, drop‑dead gorgeous, dressed in silk and gold, and calling Zhì Yuǎn your husband. I'm not blind. Your sister didn't try to skin your face, which is already a divine miracle. But…" Sū Huì hesitated, swallowing hard. "Have you already… consummated this? How does this relationship work? You three… in the same bed? At the same time?"
Yù Méi's face exploded in furious red. The Brutal Blade, who didn't blink when crushing beast skulls or breaking the knees of arrogant cultivators, suddenly felt the urge to dig a hole in the courtyard's dirt floor and bury herself.
"Mother! For the love of my heaven!" Yù Méi hissed, covering her face with her hands. "I'm not going to explain the details of what we do in the dark to you!"
"I am your mother, I need to know if you're being well taken care of!" Sū Huì retorted, jabbing her daughter's arm. "Zhì Yuǎn was always a quiet, gentle boy, but now he has a look that gives me chills. He's not hurting you, is he?"
Yù Méi took her hands from her face, shame giving way to an exhausted, yet incredibly sincere smile. She remembered the weight of his universe pressing her against the mattress, and how the calloused touch of those hands could be both brutal and absurdly gentle at the same time.
"He takes care of me perfectly, Mother. It's better than I ever dreamed," Yù Méi replied, her voice softening. But then she shook her head, laughing quietly at herself. "But don't worry about anything bizarre happening tonight. The day was a mess, and the last few days on the road were worse. I'm exhausted to the bone. Tonight I couldn't handle it even if he wanted to. I'm just going to lie down and sleep in his arms."
Sū Huì sighed, relieved by the naturalness and affection in her daughter's eyes, and gave her shoulder a tender pat.
"Go rest, then."
Yù Méi bid her farewell with a hug and walked quickly toward the bamboo grove. The trail was the same as from her childhood, but now her senses captured every rustle of leaves and every drop of dew.
When the clearing opened before her, the old bamboo hut emerged under the starlight. The drawn‑out, melancholic melody of the black flute, which Zhì Yuǎn was playing on the back veranda, was in its final chords. The sound dissolved into the night breeze just as Yù Méi stepped into the yard.
Yù Qíng leaned against the doorframe, watching her husband with adoration. The white‑haired diplomat, Mò Yán, waited outside, standing like a silver statue, awaiting orders.
Yù Méi climbed the veranda steps and stopped beside her sister.
"The bed inside is the same one he built years ago," Yù Méi commented, her tone direct and blunt, crossing her arms. She looked at Yù Qíng. "It's big enough. I want to sleep there tonight. With you."
Yù Qíng turned her face. The smile that bloomed on the priestess's lips carried no utilitarianism; it was a smile of genuine complicity, of one who finally shared the altar with her only equal.
"Our heaven has room for both of us, little flower," Yù Qíng replied, her voice sweet. "Your husband has already washed the travel dust off in the stream. You may go prepare."
Yù Méi nodded, her chest warming with her sister's natural acceptance. But before the youngest could enter the hut, Yù Qíng turned to the silver‑gray silk statue waiting in the yard.
"Snow flower," Yù Qíng called, her tone casual and authoritative.
Mò Yán bent her torso in an instant formal bow.
"Yes, Lady. What does your servant wish to do? Should I return to the main house to await dawn?"
Yù Qíng let out a nasal, crystalline laugh. Sadism gleamed in the black eyes of Zhì Yuǎn's wife.
"Return to the main house? How absurd," the priestess sighed, shaking her head. "You are our servant now. A devoted servant does not sleep far from her masters' feet. There are many mature bamboos around this clearing. Cut some. Assemble a simple bed frame and bring it into our room. You will sleep there."
Mò Yán choked. The diplomat's scarlet irises widened, her mask of pure discipline cracking violently.
Their room. The tiny, thin‑walled hut. She would be forced to sleep in the same physical space where the Trinity would share a bed.
"M‑My Lady…" Mò Yán's voice trembled, panic and heat rising to her immaculate neck all at once. "The Lords' room is a sacred space. This servant dares not intrude on the intimacy of your rest. I could sleep on the veranda floor and…"
"I gave an order, Mò Yán," Yù Qíng's voice lost its sweetness and dropped to a cold, heavy, absolute tone. "Build the bed."
Mò Yán bit her lower lip, her face burning with febrile blush. She had no choice. Bowing in blind obedience, the young woman used the raw vigor of her Refined Body. Without tools, Mò Yán's pale hands snapped the thick bamboo stalks with precise strikes. In less than fifteen minutes, she tied the stalks with strips of fabric from her own luggage, forming a small rustic bed frame.
She carried the improvised bed into the hut, her eyes fixed on the floor, and positioned it against the opposite wall, its back to the couple's large bed.
The inside of the room was dark, lit only by the moonlight seeping through the gaps.
Zhì Yuǎn was already lying down. The god's broad chest was bare, and he rested with his back propped against the bamboo wall, one arm casually stretched over the sheets. Yù Qíng was nestled on his left side, her head resting on her husband's shoulder, her pale fingers tracing the man's chest. Yù Méi, wearing only a light cotton tunic, crawled in from the right and lay down, wrapping her strong arm around his abdomen and burying her face in her brother‑in‑law's neck with a long, exhausted sigh.
The two wives flanked him. The heat radiating from the bed was formidable.
Mò Yán lay on her narrow bed. She turned her face to the bamboo wall, squeezing her eyes shut so hard it hurt. The silver‑gray silk tunic rose and fell unevenly over her full chest.
The hut was silent, but Mò Yán's hearing was far too sharp. She heard everything.
She heard the rustle of sheets being pulled. The sound of a slow, wet, deep kiss echoed through the room.
"You're tense tonight, husband," Yù Qíng's voice murmured, drawn‑out and full of lust, breaking the silence.
"Don't provoke," Zhì Yuǎn's deep, unshakable voice answered, and the sound was so close, so intimate, that Mò Yán felt a dirty tingling in her lower belly.
A muffled giggle came from the other side of the bed.
"Sister is right, you're too hot," Yù Méi's voice sounded rough and lazy. There was the sound of fabric rustling and a small gasp. "Hmm… Let me… here…"
Mò Yán pressed her thighs together. They're not… by the heavens, they're not going to do this now, are they?! The diplomat's disciplined mind began reciting the peace sutras of Shattered Heaven in a frenetic loop. The mountain is immovable. The river is calm. Modesty is the virtue of the soul…
But the river was not calm. The sound of wet kisses filled the hut. Lips smacking, the sound of skin on skin, Yù Qíng's sigh when his large hand likely crushed some curve of her body.
"Zhì Yuǎn…" Yù Qíng purred.
"Shh. Sleep," he ordered, but the order did not come laden with the Dao. It came with the indulgence of one clearly enjoying the caresses the two were giving him. There was a distinct sound of a wet kiss planted on Yù Méi's neck, who let out a low moan of satisfaction.
On the improvised bamboo bed, Mò Yán was sweating. The untouched Yin of her meridians boiled, responding to the absurd heat leaking from the main bed. The fabric of the diplomat's silk trousers became uncomfortably damp. The friction of her own trembling crossed legs was becoming a torturous punishment.
She dug her nails into her palms. The urge to turn her neck just to peek at what he was doing with his hands on the two women was so strong that the girl felt tears of frustration and shame gather in her scarlet eyes.
"Is it too noisy over in your corner, snow flower?" Yù Qíng's provocative voice sounded out of nowhere in the darkness, clearly aware of her new servant's physiological panic.
"N‑No, Lady," Mò Yán answered, her voice choked, thin, and pathetic, hugging her own body against the wall. "This servant hears nothing. This servant is already sleeping."
The double giggle from Yù Méi and Yù Qíng confirmed that her torment would be the main source of entertainment for the night. And as the trio's soft caresses and lazy kisses deepened in the dark, Mò Yán knew that that bamboo hut was not a room. It was a furnace designed specifically to melt the very last drop of her sanity.
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