He noted: MILFs. The Eye of Truth’s flat, clinical, entirely-neutral assessnt of two won whose bodies expressed their cultivation history with the full, warm, comprehensive honesty of structures that had been assembled over ti and were at their complete, natural expression.
One went to his left side.
One went to his right.
Both of them finding available surfaces and addressing the available surfaces with the specific, cultivator-frank, completely unembarrassed efficiency of won who had assessed what was available and had made their professional determination.
The left one: her mouth at his jaw, his neck, moving down with the flat, patient thoroughness of soone doing a complete survey.
The right one: both hands at his chest, her face pressed to the side of his ribs, breathing in the Herb Integration passive at point-blank range and making the specific, involuntary, full-body sound of a woman who had done this and was filing a comprehensive report on what she had found.
"—Aahh~...—"
The blue-eyed one was still on her knees.
Her mouth was doing the specific, warm, thorough, front-to-back survey of soone who had located a primary subject and was conducting the examination with the full, present, unhurried attention of soone who had decided this was excellent material.
"—Mmnh~... mmngh~...—"
The remaining compound won were watching.
The specific, two-hundred-and-sothing-person, comprehensive, forward-leaning watch of a tribe of cultivators seeing sothing that was directly relevant to their cultivation developnt and their personal ambitions and their very human, very honest, very biological responses to the situation in front of them.
He looked at them over the heads of the four won.
So of the remaining won were — he noted — pressing their thighs together. The specific, involuntary, diagnostic tell of a body receiving ambient qi at full broadcast range and having a physiological response to it that the body was trying to manage through available ans.
They were failing to manage it.
The Herb Integration passive was running.
He did not increase it. He did not need to.
"This is a contract," he said.
His voice, still flat, still the sa register, still carrying to every woman in the compound with the specific, effortless, present clarity of soone whose voice did not need effort.
The four won continued what they were doing.
He let them.
"If you co to ," he said, "you are mine for the duration of what follows. Not forever. Not permanently. For the work. And in that work, you will advance. How much — depends on what you have and what you give."
He looked at the remaining won.
"You have seen the Chief," he said.
He let that sit for two seconds.
"You have seen her disciples," he said. "The ones who trained with yesterday."
He let that sit for two more seconds.
He did not need to say the rest. The compound had eyes. The compound had seen Sora co back from the cedar room with a cultivation light that had not been there before. The compound had seen the Chief co down from the tower this morning being supported by two guards and glowing with the flat, warm, permanent amber of Core Formation Peak.
The compound had done the math.
The math was not complicated.
Another woman walked.
Then two more.
Then four at once.
Their robes coming off as they crossed the ground — the specific, varied, individual, honest disrobing of won of different ages and sizes and cultivation levels and body types, all of them walking with the specific, present, decided walk of won who had done their calculation and were executing the result.
He counted.
Twelve.
Twelve won, in various states of approach and disrobent and proximity, the compound’s morning having been entirely revised by the specific, accumulated, non-theatrical weight of twelve individual decisions.
He looked at the remaining won.
The ones who were still watching.
So of them would co later. He noted this. So of them were at the specific, threshold-adjacent position where watching the first twelve for a day or two would provide the remaining activation energy.
He looked at the twelve.
He looked at the compound.
"Close the gates," he said.
His voice, still flat.
"Five days," he said. "Nobody enters. Nobody leaves."
The guard won — the two who had been at the tower base, who were currently in their patrol positions with the specific, professionally-assembled neutrality of won who had resud their assignnts and had no professional issues with the interval — looked at him.
They looked at the Chief.
The Chief, from her position at the tower’s base, looked at them.
She nodded. One nod. The Chief’s nod — the flat, present, single-motion authorization of a decision that had been made.
The gates closed.
He sat down.
The specific, flat, direct, completely un-theatrical sit of a man choosing a position — the compound’s central clearing, the broad, flat ground where the cultivation circles ran their morning forms, now empty of everything except morning light and twelve won and the specific, warm, accumulated, Herb Integration ambient field of a man who had been broadcasting it at full passive range for thirty-six hours.
He looked at his system.
[Herb Storage: 847 units. Compressed spiritual energy variants: 14. Atmospheric broadcast capacity: unlimited.]
He reached into it.
The flat, present, internal hand of soone selecting from a cabinet. The specific compound he wanted was the one he had been building since the cave — the atmospheric broadcast that amplified not desire specifically but receptivity. The specific, biological, cellular-level openness to spiritual energy input that made cultivation transfer run faster and cleaner and deeper.
He released it.
Not gradual. The full, imdiate, complete broadcast — fourteen compressed spiritual energy variants releasing simultaneously into the compound’s enclosed air, the sealed gates holding the atmospheric event inside the periter, the specific, comprehensive, irreversible saturation of the enclosed space with a cultivator’s full, unrestrained, point-blank ambient field.
The twelve won felt it simultaneously.
Not subtly.
The specific, full-body, imdiate, comprehensive physiological response of twelve different nervous systems receiving the sa sudden, overwhelming input at the sa mont — twelve different sounds, twelve different postures changing, twelve different pairs of eyes going to varying degrees of wide and glassy and present.
"—Aahh~...—"
"—Nnh~...—"
"—Aaahn~...—"
He looked at them.
Twelve won.
The blue-eyed one, still on her knees, had pressed both hands flat to the ground to keep herself upright.
The two MILFs had pressed their backs together, both of them, the specific, instinctive support-seeking contact of two bodies that had just received significant input and had located the nearest stable surface.
The remaining nine were in various states of the specific, individual, honest physiological response of won receiving full spiritual broadcast at enclosed range.
He looked at the group.
He looked at each face.
Then: "Line up," he said.
The youngest was at the front.
She had positioned herself there. He had not assigned positions — the line had assembled itself with the specific, organic, mostly-unconscious logic of a group of won sorting themselves, and the youngest had found the front with the flat, forward, eager certainty of soone who had made a decision and was first in the execution.
Nineteen.
He could see it. The Eye of Truth filed its assessnt automatically — nineteen, Foundation Establishnt Early, the specific, early, honest cultivation light of soone who had been building for a few years and had the foundation but not yet the altitude.
Brown hair. The Void Return territory’s warm, dark, natural brown. Both of her hands were at her sides, pressed flat against her outer thighs, the specific, present, controlled posture of soone who was managing the body’s current state with the available architecture.
She was managing it at moderate success.
He looked at her.
"How old are you," he said.
User Comments
0 comments from readers