Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 199- A Nightmare or Daymare... or his Wife a Breeding Mare
He heard himself say it.
He heard the specific, mortal, completely sincere quality of the question — the question he had been asking her for eleven years in the mornings when she came to bed late, the same question, the same voice, the same intent underneath it.
She looked at him.
Her jaw shifted slightly. The Chief’s jaw — the specific, micro-movement of a woman who was processing something she had not decided to discuss yet.
"Yes," she said.
She looked at the window.
"The cultivator helped me last night," she said.
The words arrived.
He received them.
The specific, flat, present, completely-honest-in-their-own-way words of his wife describing the night in the terminology she had selected, which was ’helped’, which was a word that contained a great deal more than its syllables accounted for.
"The advancement—" She gestured slightly, the gesture indicating the cultivation light. "The dual cultivation—"
"I know what dual cultivation is," he said.
Quiet.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
The specific, eleven-year, fully-present, morning-voice exchange of two people who knew each other’s faces and were looking at each other’s faces and were not saying all of what the faces were saying.
"Do you hate me," she said.
Very quiet.
Not the Chief’s voice. The other voice — the wife’s voice, the specific, private, small voice of the woman underneath the six years of compound management.
He looked at her.
He thought about the tree.
He thought about the bark giving under his hands. He thought about the copper taste. He thought about the specific, involuntary, wrong, humiliating response of his own body. He thought about every sound she had made from twelve meters and every word she had said that he had heard perfectly.
He thought about ’I will.’
"No," he said.
He heard his own voice say it.
It was true. That was the worst part — it was entirely, specifically true. He was not capable of hating her. He had been trying to locate hate for six hours and had found only the other things — the grief and the humiliation and the burning and the wrong, involuntary, nauseating response — but not hate.
He could not hate her.
He had built her a tower.
"No," he said. "Why would I."
She looked at him.
Something moved in the amber eyes — the specific, complex, layered movement of a woman who had been expecting a different answer and had received this one and was processing the revision.
She nodded.
The small, present nod of a woman who had received something and was filing it.
"By the way, did you like that man?," he said.
He did not know why he said it.
The words came out of wherever words came from when the brain had been running at maximum for too long and the filter between thought and speech had been compromised.
She looked at him.
She opened her mouth.
"Yeah... His cock was Delicioussss~~~~!!! UMHH~"
And said—
"Haaa—!?"
He was on the bed.
He was on the bed on his back, staring at the ceiling, with the specific, full-body, violent jolt of someone who had just been in a place that was not this place and had been removed from it abruptly.
He sat up.
Both hands on the mattress. Breathing. The hard, present, real breath of a body that had been somewhere else and was now here and needed confirmation of here.
The ceiling.
The window.
The morning light — the same morning light, the same angle.
He was alone.
The bed was empty beside him. The specific, cool, empty side of a bed that had not been slept in, which was not an unusual thing, which was a thing that had been true on many nights over the last six years of compound business and border negotiations and cultivation assignments.
He sat with both hands on the mattress.
He breathed.
He had dreamed the conversation.
He had dreamed waking up to find her there, dreamed the catch when he stumbled, dreamed her voice, dreamed her amber eyes, dreamed her saying ’the cultivator helped me’ and then dreamed the other thing she had started to say and had woken before she said it.
He had dreamed all of it.
He was not sure which was worse.
He stood.
Slowly. The specific, deliberate, careful stand of a man who was checking whether his legs were going to cooperate before committing. They cooperated, approximately. He put on his clothes with the flat, automatic efficiency of someone who had done this while not thinking about the act for forty-three years and could continue not thinking about it while thinking about other things.
He walked out.
The compound was in its morning rhythms — the specific, early, working rhythms of two hundred and thirty-four people in their first hour of the day. The patrol change. The cooking fires. The cultivation practice circles beginning at the eastern clearing.
He walked.
He did not know where he was walking.
He walked toward the center. He walked toward the main paths. He walked with the flat, automatic, forward-motion walk of a man who did not have a destination and was moving anyway because moving was the only available option.
He did not see her.
He looked.
He walked the main path, the secondary paths, the cultivation clearing’s edge, the path toward the pond—
He stopped.
He did not go toward the pond.
He turned.
He walked toward the compound’s edge.
Toward the village gate, where the perimeter paths opened to the territory beyond, and the guard posts stood with their two-woman rotations and their cultivation barriers and the specific, quiet, functional authority of women who had their assignments and executed them without much ceremony.
He arrived at the gate.
He was going to walk through.
He did not know why. He did not have a plan. He was a mortal man who had spent the night on cold grass and had dreamed a conversation that did not happen and was now walking toward the perimeter gate because the compound felt like a space that had been revised overnight and he was not yet sure of his position in the revision.
"Mortal."
He stopped.
Two guards. The specific, present, flat authority of two Core Formation cultivators in their compound rotation — women he recognized, women he had seen at the compound’s perimeter for three years, women who had called him by his name until just now.
"The Chief," one said, "has instructed that you vacate the compound."
He turned.
He looked at them.
"What," he said.
The word came out with the specific, flat quality of a man who had heard something and had not yet processed it into the appropriate response.
"The order came this morning," the guard said. "You are to be escorted to the territory boundary."
"That is not—" He stopped. "My wife would not—she didn"t—"
’She didn"t say that.’
He thought it with the specific, absolute, burning conviction of a man who knew his wife — who had known his wife’s voice in every register for eleven years, including the one she used for real orders and the ones she was running at 23% reduced capacity — and was certain, completely and specifically, that she had not issued this order.
’She didn"t—’
The image arrived.
The pond. The water. Her voice. The specific, broken, completely-honest, un-Chief, un-managed register of his wife saying things she was saying from somewhere below her usual operating level.
’I will.’
