Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 221- A Getting Sold Milf
Seventeen, maybe eighteen.
The Eye of Truth was running its assessment in real time — Foundation Establishment Early, yin-alignment, the Yin Devouring Body still present and intact, the physique’s potential logarithmically increasing as the cultivation restoration progressed.
She was looking at the flower.
At the light of it running through her.
Her eyes — the specific, filling, present, fully-here quality of eyes that were becoming a living person’s eyes rather than a ghost’s eyes.
Brown.
He noted: brown eyes. Warm brown.
She was becoming, in real time, quite pretty.
He noted this.
He filed it.
"Your revenge is yours," he said.
The flat, present, turning-to-leave delivery.
"Protect your mother," he said. "The energy will hold. You have what you need."
He turned.
"Stop—"
Her voice — the transitioning voice, still carrying the slight yin-resonance of the ghost register but becoming the warm, present, young-woman register of someone who was mostly alive now.
"Senior—" The flat, present, reaching-for-him quality of someone who had been given something and was not done receiving it yet. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞
He was already at the door.
"Senior please—"
He stepped through.
Into the morning air.
He flew.
The flat, present, no-looking-back, already-gone flight of a man who had decided the encounter was over and was moving to the next thing.
He heard her behind him — the specific, distance-growing, still-calling quality of a voice from someone who was sitting in a lotus position with ancient yin energy running through her and could not chase him because the physique was mid-integration and required stillness.
"Thank you—" The thin, small, distance-present sound of it.
He did not acknowledge.
The morning air received him.
He flew.
’’’
He was thinking about the mother.
The specific, flat, cultivation-genetics, physician’s assessment of a man who had been thinking about the mother since the moment the ghost said ’Yin Devouring Body’ and had arrived at the specific, interesting, practically-significant conclusion that the lineage that produced the Yin Devouring Body in the daughter had something in the mother that was arguably more valuable to a man with his cultivation path than the physique itself.
The Yin Devouring Body devoured yin energy.
The mother of a Yin Devouring Body possessed the specific, accumulated, near-manifestation, pre-full-expression lineage depth that the child had drawn on to produce the manifestation — which meant the mother’s body was a concentrated, dense, unactivated, near-final-stage yin lineage vessel.
The dual cultivation applications of that were — he noted, with the flat, clinical, professional interest of someone doing a cultivation assessment — extremely interesting.
He kept the ghost busy, he had given her enough energy to sit in cultivation for three, maybe four days. Enough time to find the mother.
He was thinking about this when he saw the crowd.
Below.
The flat, gathered, forward-facing, compressed-toward-center crowd of a town’s open space occupied by a specific, event-type gathering — the specific, forward-leaning, vocal, present crowd geometry that a cultivation world’s mortal population produced when something they found interesting was happening.
He slowed.
He looked down.
He saw the woman.
’’’
She was in the center.
Not standing — the specific, forced, both-wrists-held, not-choosing-to-be-here position of a woman who was in this position because other people had put her there and were keeping her there.
Three men.
Not cultivators — mortal, the flat, no-qi-signature, baseline-human designation of men who had the specific, muscle-and-mean build of people who did the specific type of work that required being comfortable putting women into positions they had not chosen.
Slave traders.
He recognized the type without the Eye of Truth’s input. Three thousand years of cultivation world travel had filed a comprehensive catalogue of the specific, type-identifying, behavioral and physical signatures of slave traders, and these three were the type.
The woman.
He could see her from altitude.
The specific, warm-brown-skin, full-boned, mid-to-late thirties, entirely-exposed-because-they-had-put-her-that-way reality of a woman who was not wearing anything because the three men had addressed that early in the proceedings.
Her hair was down.
Not the way hair went down by choice — the specific, grabbed-and-pulled-and-left-that-way quality of hair that had been used as a handle and had been released and was now at its gravity-determined position.
He noted: the lineage.
The Eye of Truth, even at this altitude, was running the ambient assessment — and from the flat, present, distinct, yin-density signature of the woman in the center of the crowd, combined with the yin-condensate ghost he had left three hours behind him—
He noted: mother.
He looked down at the proceedings with the flat, present, elevated-observer attention of someone who was assessing a situation before deciding what to do about it.
’’’
The fat one with the thin walking stick was talking.
The specific, loud, carrying, crowd-addressed talking of a man who had decided he was conducting business and was conducting it at the volume appropriate for a business announcement.
"Foundation quality," he was saying. "Good hips—" He demonstrated the assessment with the specific, flat, two-handed, completely un-invested grip of a man who was describing merchandise by handling it.
She made a sound.
’—’Aaahn~!!’—’
Not the cultivation sound. The flat, present, pain-and-humiliation sound of a woman receiving handling she had not asked for and whose body was filing the unwanted contact at full, honest, immediate volume.
"Stop—" Her voice. The flat, present, please-stop voice of a woman who was trying to communicate with people who had decided they were not in a communication relationship with her.
Nobody stopped.
The first man — the tall one on her left — had her wrist. The specific, white-knuckle, not-letting-go grip of someone whose job was the wrist.
The second man — shorter, heavier, to her right — had her hair.
Not the flat, clean, present grip of someone who had taken the hair. The specific, rough, gathered-fist, been-pulling-it, going-to-keep-pulling-it grip of someone who had decided this was the handle.
He pulled.
Her head went back.
’—’HAANN~!!!’—’ The involuntary, neck-forced, pain-present sound of a head that has been yanked back.
"Good throat," the fat one announced.
Crowd sounds. The specific, mortal-crowd, varied, some-approving-some-observing ambient of a crowd watching something they had different responses to.
The third man.
He was in front of her.
He had his hand at her chest — the flat, rough, un-careful, completely un-invested-in-her-response grip of someone who was handling a product and had no architecture for what the product was actually experiencing.
He gripped.
She made a sound.
’—’AHN~!!!’—’
