Dual Cultivation: Gathering SSS-Rank Wives in the Cultivation World Chapter 504- Sabrina is About to Die

The pleasure palace slled like won and cultivation and the particular incense that Tianlong’s palace had been built around — sothing from a cultivation resource four realms above this continent’s ceiling, burning slow in jade holders along the garden walls.

It slled like occupation.

Like a space that had been claid and used and was still in the process of both.

PAH! PAH! PAAH!

The sound ca from the far end of the garden, near the stone fountain, where Tianlong had migrated at so point in the last hour with no particular announcent and several won in his imdiate vicinity.

The MILF from the festival — she had learned, in the ti since her arrival, that lying still on the silk was not a sustainable position, that the palace had opinions about stillness, and that her body had apparently finished its period of shock and moved into sothing more cooperative.

She was currently on her back with her legs in the air and her face doing things her husband had never once inspired.

His cock — twelve inches, wide as a man’s wrist, the kind of thing that required negotiation and then demolished the negotiation entirely — was buried in her pussy at a depth that made her see the garden’s paper lanterns in triplicate.

"’AAANGHH~!! Too — too big — still too big — why is it still—HNGHH~!!’"

"You’ve said that six tis," Tianlong said, without stopping.

"’It keeps being TRUE—’"

PAH PAH PAH!

Her body answered for her.

Her thick thighs, spread wide by his hands, jiggled with every impact. Her belly rippled. Her breasts — full, milk-heavy, the nipples stiff and wet — bounced upward on every thrust and ca back down and he had stopped wearing shirts approximately three positions ago so when they swung they hit his chest directly, leaving small white sars.

She felt him in her stomach.

She kept saying that and it kept being accurate.

Around them: the aftermath of a thorough evening.

Catkin won in various states of recovery, their tails low and satisfied, curled in pairs on the outer silk cushions. Kaia the tribal warrior was asleep sitting upright against a garden stone, her head tipped back, her expression peaceful, her thighs still slick. Two of the garden-edge won had fallen asleep against each other with their faces pressed together and their hands still loosely intertwined.

The garden looked like a war had been won.

A new catkin had erged.

Young. Ears white-tipped. The kind of body that had been built quickly and hadn’t entirely settled into itself yet — lean where the others were lush, her spotted fur pattern darker, her tail flicking with anxiety she was trying to conceal.

She had been waiting at the garden’s periphery for so ti, watching, working up to sothing.

PAH! PAAH!!

"’HIEKK~!! Oungh~!! M-master — I’m — again — I’m going to—’"

The festival woman’s hands scrabbled at his forearms.

He drove in deeper.

She went rigid.

Her pussy clamped down around him in waves — visible waves, her lower belly contracting rhythmically — and she made a sound that started as a scream and resolved into a long, raw, completely unself-conscious moan as her release hit and kept hitting.

He pulled out.

Stroked once.

Threw a rope of seed across her belly — thick, substantial, landing in a line from her navel to the underside of her left breast — and she was still shaking when it hit her skin.

The white-tipped catkin moved.

Fast.

Before the festival woman had stopped trembling, before the two garden-edge won in seed-wiping duty had crossed the garden — the young catkin dropped to her knees in front of Tianlong and took his cock into her mouth.

All of it.

In one motion.

Her neck bulged.

Her eyes went wide — ’very’ wide — the way eyes go when sothing has exceeded the planning phase — and she made a sound around him that was muffled and desperate and sohow determined.

Tianlong looked down at her.

His hand found her ears.

Not rough. Just — found them, the way you find a familiar grip.

She looked up.

Eyes watering. Neck still visibly distorted by the shape of him inside it. But she didn’t retreat.

She swallowed.

’Around him.’

He ca.

Inside her mouth.

The first pulse made her eyes go wide again — wider, physically impossible — and her throat worked, and worked, and worked, the silk of her neck moving visibly as she drank what he gave her with the concentration of soone whose pride was absolutely on the line.

Her cheeks puffed.

She swallowed again.

Her belly, visible below her short wrap, rounded — just barely, just enough to see — as the volu of him settled sowhere internal with no remaining room to go.

He released her ears.

She pulled back.

Sat back on her heels.

Drew one breath.

Pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.

Tianlong looked up from her.

At the garden. At the ceiling of lanterns and real stars beyond the garden walls. At the dozen won in various states of rest and recovery.

He breathed.

"Too easy," he said.

To himself. To no one. To the cultivation path that had been, for the last several hours, finding no resistance anywhere.

"It’s too easy."

The system window opened.

He registered it peripherally — the familiar gold-on-dark texture of the interface, another dual cultivation update, another pathway enhancent, another—

’[ ALERT!! ]’

He stopped.

That was not the texture of an update.

’[ TARGET: SABRINA ]’

’[ LIFE FORCE: 10% REMAINING ]’

He stared at it.

’[ TARGET: SABRINA — LIFE FORCE: 8% ]’

’[ TARGET: SABRINA — LIFE FORCE: 7% ]’

The numbers were moving.

Dropping in real ti, in front of him, each new window opening before the last had faded.

’[ LIFE FORCE: 6% ]’

"What."

The word ca out flat. Not a question. Not alarm.

Just — a man who has not been surprised in a significant amount of ti encountering surprise and not yet having an appropriate register for it.

The white-tipped catkin looked up from the floor.

The festival woman, still catching her breath on the silk, turned her head toward his voice.

Even Kaia, asleep against the garden stone, seed to sense the change in frequency — her head ca forward off the stone, eyes still unfocused, sothing in her body responding to the shift in his cultivation pressure that always preceded sothing significant.

’[ TARGET: SABRINA — LIFE FORCE: 5% ]’

’[ WARNING: SOUL EXTRACTION DETECTED ]’

’[ SOURCE: EXTERNAL DEMONIC CULTIVATOR ]’

’[ ESTIMATED TI TO TERMINATION: — ]’

The tir field was blank.

Because it was already happening.

Tianlong stood.

The catkin at his feet moved back automatically.

The festival woman sat up.

Every woman in the garden felt it — the air pressure change, the way his cultivation qi, which had been ambient and easy all evening, suddenly ’compressed’, the way a hand compresses before it becos a fist.

"Master—?" Yuna, from the far end of the garden where she had been half-asleep against a cushion, was on her feet without deciding to stand.

He wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at sothing none of them could see — the system window, the dropping numbers, the blank tir field.

’[ LIFE FORCE: 4% ]’

His jaw set.

’Sabrina.’

He knew that na.

Not from this continent. From before. From a path he’d walked and a debt he’d accrued and a woman who had crossed three cultivation realms to deliver sothing he’d needed and asked for nothing in return and had never once, in all the ti he’d known her, needed him to co for ’her.’

’[ 3% ]’

The garden was very quiet.

The won watched him.

The festival woman — sitting up on the silk, sheet clutched to her chest, milk still drying on her collarbone — watched him the way she had watched him against the tree: cataloguing sothing she didn’t have words for yet.

He was standing perfectly still.

But the air around him was moving.

Not wind. ’Pressure.’ The kind that preceded things breaking.

’[ 2% ]’

"Master." Yuna’s voice was careful. "What is—"

’!!?!’