Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 117- Untie me... Please?

It was not distress. It was the sound of a body that had discovered it could achieve low-grade arousal purely through the accumulated memory of what had been done to it, and was doing so passively, the way a tuning fork rings after the mallet is gone.

Xiao—the maid, not the bride, the distinction that required specifying—was the flat-on-earth contributor. She lay face-down with her considerable chest pressed to the ground and her hips slightly elevated in the way of someone who had, at some point, been positioned for a specific purpose and had simply not been repositioned after.

Her large breasts, visible from the side in their squashed, overflowing weight, had left an impression in the soft earth beneath her.

Both her holes were full in the way that was only apparent when she shifted, which she did occasionally—a small, involuntary motion of her hips—and each shift produced a wet sound and a suppressed "Ahn~" that she immediately muffled against her own arm.

Her expression, when visible, was the expression that had no word in any spoken language—eyes somewhere between up and forward, mouth forming sounds that never quite became speech, the comprehensive blankness of a nineteen-year-old who had arrived in this cave as a maid and would leave as something whose job description had permanently expanded.

PAAH PAAH PAAH PAAH.

"AAHN~—! HSSSS~—! Too—deep—Cultivator—nnh~—you’ve been—Ahn~—doing this for—"

"Two days," Cang confirmed, unhelpfully.

"I know how long—HSSSS~—it’s been—"

Her thick ass absorbed the next thrust with a clap loud enough to wake Song Mei from her ceiling-staring, and the ripple that moved through both full cheeks spread outward in a slow wave before returning to their rounded shape—the particular resilience of a body built to endure, now demonstrating that endurance at frequency.

PAAH.

"—OUNGH~—!"

Zhen Ying’s back arched so severely her spine formed a curve. Her knuckles went white on the rock. Her head dropped between her braced arms and the sound she made was not human and not serpent and was entirely her—a long, broken exhalation that moved from her chest through her throat and came out as something between a hiss and a moan and a declaration.

Her inner walls clenched with the automatic, vice-tight grip of a Nascent Soul body that had been doing this for two days and had developed opinions.

Cang’s jaw set.

He pulled out.

Zhen Ying’s hips dropped. She held her position for a moment—hands still on the rock, knees still spread, as if her body was waiting for information about whether this was over or simply a pause—and then slowly, with the measured dignity of a First Wife who maintained her sovereignty even when everything else was currently debatable, she turned to sit.

Her thick legs spread on the stone. Her hands found her knees. She looked at him with the particular expression she reserved for situations she had survived but was not going to pretend had been comfortable.

Cang was standing.

His hand wrapped his cock with the practiced economy of a man completing a task—slow strokes, unhurried, the blue of his System interface blinking at the edge of his vision where it always was.

[Evil Points: +412 (Two-Day Session)]

[Total: 1,659]

[Dual Cultivation Energy Transfer: Complete across 5 partners]

[Stage Advancement Confirmed: Song Mei → Qi Condensation Late. Xiao Hua → Qi Condensation Early. Suyin → Core Formation Early. Xiao (maid) → Core Formation Early. Meiling → Core Formation Early (accelerated: pregnancy bonus)]

He read the list with the mild satisfaction of a ledger performing satisfactorily.

Every woman in the cave had advanced a full stage. Two days. He had not intended it—had simply been doing what the body demanded and what the situation provided—and his System had quietly been running dual cultivation transfers with the efficiency of a process that did not require his conscious participation.

The System, for all its point-greed, occasionally delivered without being asked.

He stroked again.

His hips shifted once—the sharp, controlled forward motion of a man who has been exercising remarkable restraint for approximately the last forty-eight hours and is now done with restraint as a concept.

The first rope arced across Meiling’s chest.

She looked down at it with wide eyes and absolutely no surprise. Her hands went to her silk instinctively—not to cover herself. To hold the dress out of the way.

The second caught Suyin across her still-bound breasts, the thread between her nipples stretching taut as she flinched with a sound that was mostly breath.

"Ahn~—"

Xiao Hua, still folded over her rock, turned her face upward at exactly the wrong—or entirely correct—moment.

"Mmm~—!" She pressed her lips together hard. Swallowed.

Song Mei had propped herself up on her elbows by this point, watching with the resigned expression of a woman who has stopped being surprised by her own responses and has moved into pure documentation mode.

The last rope—long, warm, and landing with the impartial accuracy of something that had been building for quite a while—crossed the bare back of Zhen Ying, who was still sitting on her rock with queenly composure.

She looked down at it.

She looked up at him.

"Pervert," she said.

"Yes," he agreed, reaching for a cloth.

[Evil Points: +22]

He dressed unhurried. Dark inner robe first, the familiar weight of it settling around his shoulders. Outer robe over that, the lapels crossing, the small family crest ring catching the cave’s light as he adjusted his sleeve.

His women, in their various positions of comprehensive ruin, began the slow process of remembering that they were people who sometimes moved voluntarily.

It was Song Mei who spoke first.

"You said you were leaving," she said. Her voice was even. She was still on her back, but she had pulled her outer robe across herself with the motion of a woman restoring minimum operational dignity.

"I am."

"The Trial grounds."

"Yes."

She sat up. Behind her, Xiao Hua had also pushed herself upright on her rock, red dress falling back into some approximation of order, one hand going automatically to her hair to assess the damage.

"Then we will come," Song Mei said.

Cang paused in the act of straightening his collar.

He turned to look at her.

"No," he said.

Song Mei met his gaze with the expression she saved for negotiations that mattered. "Xiao Hua needs to begin cultivation training. The environment of the Trial grounds would accelerate her—"

"No."

"Zhen Ying has been contained in this mountain for three centuries. She requires—"

"No."

From the corner, Meiling’s voice arrived with the measured, tactical patience of a woman who had run a household for fourteen years and knew which arguments to deploy and in what order. "You’ll be unattended in there. No one to monitor your condition. If you sustain a significant injury during the Trial, you’ll have no one who knows your medical history—"

Cang turned to look at her.

"I," he said, "am a physician."

"Physicians," Meiling returned evenly, "make the worst patients."

Zhen Ying, who was wiping her back with a cave cloth with the unhurried efficiency of a woman who had been performing basic post-coital maintenance for three centuries, said nothing for a moment.

Then: "The Trial eats cultivators who enter without preparation. I have seen three generations of Foundation Establishment practitioners go in and not come out."

"I’m Core Formation," Cang said.

"Mid Stage," Zhen Ying said. "The Trial doesn’t grade on sentiment."

"I’m aware."

"Then take someone."

"No."

"Cang."

The name, in her mouth, had weight. She only used it in its unadorned form when she meant it as something more than address—when she was bringing the full three hundred years of her to bear on a single syllable. She had done this twice before. He had noticed both times.

He looked at her.

She held his gaze with the absolute, unhurried patience of a predator who understood that time was not actually a resource she was short on. "You break through the half-demon vessel in the Trial and emerge changed. You come back to five women who don’t know what you’ve become." A pause. "That’s a management problem."

"I’ll manage it," he said.

"You always say that."

"I’m usually right."

Zhen Ying tilted her head. The motion had an involuntary quality—the snake in her expressing opinion through the human body’s available vocabulary. "You’re right about outcomes. You’re catastrophic about process."

From the back of the cave, Suyin—still bound to her stalactite, which she appeared to have made her peace with—made a small sound of agreement.

Everyone looked at her.

She looked back.

"Someone could untie me...?"