Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 225- Claiming the Tainted one

She was watching the fat man.

The fat man’s hands were on his own belt. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

She was watching with the flat, present, amber-eyed, not-looking-away quality of a woman who had found something she wanted to watch and was watching it.

Her face was still wet.

But the crying had stopped.

He noted: the crying had stopped.

He looked at her.

He made his decision.

The specific, flat, clinical, cultivation-logistics, Eye-of-Truth-and-three-thousand-years decision of a man who had been thinking ’lineage’ and ’yin-depth’ and ’near-manifestation’ and had now arrived at the specific, practical conclusion that the lineage transfer would run significantly more efficiently if initiated here, now, at full ambient broadcast range, rather than in a controlled private session later.

He noted: the public element was incidental.

He noted: he was not going to pretend it was not interesting.

He walked to her.

She looked up at him.

He looked down at her.

He reached.

His hand went to her wrist — the flat, warm, present grip of someone establishing a direction — and he pulled.

Up.

The flat, gentle, present, lifting pull of someone bringing a woman to her feet, and she came with it, the specific, first-standing-in-how-long unsteady of someone getting vertical after being on knees for a long time.

She found her feet.

She was upright.

She was looking at him from the new height with the specific, here-and-looking-at-you quality of someone who had been pulled up by someone and was calibrating the new distance.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

"What are you—" she started.

He turned her.

The flat, present, two-hand, non-negotiable turn — both hands at her shoulders, the specific, precise, geometry-establishing turn of someone who had decided the position and was installing the position.

She was facing the crowd.

Her back was to him.

She was looking at the two hundred kneeling people, the slave traders, the fat man, the specific, full-spread, everyone-is-here reality of the entire square in front of her.

His hands moved.

From her shoulders.

Down.

The flat, warm, full-palm, present passage of hands moving from shoulders to the specific, warm, natural, full-bone reality of her hips — the Herb Integration passive running at point-blank range, the specific, first-contact yin-resonance of his cultivation field meeting the near-manifestation yin lineage depth of her body.

She made a sound.

"—’Aaahn~...’—" The involuntary, unexpected, first-time-this-has-happened sound of a body receiving point-blank Nascent Soul Mid Stage ambient at full, unmanaged range.

Not the pain sound.

Not the please-stop sound.

The specific, different, entirely-different sound of a body that had been receiving nothing but wrong things for a long time and had just received something that was not wrong.

Her hands came up.

She gripped his forearms.

The flat, present, reflexive, what-is-happening grip of someone whose hands had found the nearest surface and were holding it while the system ran its assessment.

He looked at the crowd.

At the two hundred kneeling faces.

At the slave traders.

At the fat man.

"Watch," he said.

The flat, present, single-word, God-complex delivery.

He pulled her hips.

The flat, present, full-contact, back-into-him pull — her hips finding the alignment, his hands at the specific, wide, warm, full-bone geometry of hips he had just assessed and was now holding with both palms in the grip that had specific, practical, pace-management implications.

She was facing them.

All of them.

The crowd on its knees, the slave traders, the fat man — all of them at the front of the square, all of them at the specific, forced-front-row position of people who had been kneeling directly in front of the proceedings since the cultivation pressure had installed them.

He found the position.

She made the sound.

"—’AAAHNN~!!!’—"

Not the pain sound. Not the please-stop sound. The specific, full, high, first-time, everything-at-once sound of a woman whose body had just received the specific, comprehensive, point-blank, full-Nascent-Soul-Mid-Stage entry of something that was operating at seventeen cultivation stages above a mortal woman’s baseline capacity and had arrived without gradual.

Her hands went from his forearms to the air.

The specific, reaching, where-is-the-surface, I-need-to-hold-something quality of hands that had lost their grip when the sound arrived.

He gripped her hips tighter.

The flat, full-palm, deep-finger, locking grip of someone who had established the position and was not losing the position.

She grabbed his hands.

Both of hers over both of his, the specific, white-knuckle, everything-you-have grip of a woman who had found surfaces and was not releasing them.

He drove.

PAAH.

"—’HAANN~!!!’—"

She lurched.

The specific, full-body, forward-lean, everything-committed lurch of a woman receiving full, unmanaged output at mortal-baseline depth and whose body was reporting the depth at full, honest, immediate volume.

Her chest.

The specific, warm, full, heavy, mother’s-body-built mass of her chest — both of them — caught the momentum of the lurch and moved with the specific, pendular, full-mass, high-amplitude swing of something that had density and had been set in motion.

The milk.

The flat, warm, involuntary, pressure-released, impact-caused milk of a body that had been producing since the birth and had just received the specific, full-impact, driving-force event that produced the pressure-release at full, immediate volume.

It came in arcs.

The flat, warm, present, specific, two-direction arcs of a woman whose body was reporting every impact in the specific, wet, warm, immediate way available to it.

She made a sound.

"—’AHN~!!! MY LORD—HAANN~!!!—TOO—’—"

The sentence did not complete.

PAAH PAAH PAAH.

"—’AAAHN~!!! HAANN~!!! AHN~!!!’—"

She was trying to say something.

The specific, between-impacts, what-breath-she-had quality of a woman who had a sentence and was attempting to produce it in the available intervals.

"—’My lord’—’AHN~!!!’—’it’s—’—’HAANN~!!!’—’I can"t—’—’AAAHN~!!!’—’your cock is—’—’AHN~!!!’—’it’s reaching—’—’HAANN~!!!’—’everything—’—’AAAHN~!!!’—’every—’—’AHN~!!!’—"

PAAH PAAH PAAAH!

"—’AAAHNN~!!! HAANN~!!! AHN~!!!’—"

The crowd.

He looked at the crowd.

Two hundred faces.

The specific, two-hundred-person, every-face-different, simultaneously-present collection of mortal faces receiving a situation they had never been in before and had no architecture for.

The women: the specific, wide-eyed, hand-over-mouth, not-moving quality of women who were watching something they had never seen and whose bodies were receiving the ambient broadcast at close range and were filing a report that the brain was processing with the specific, surprised, not-what-I-expected quality of surprise.

The men.

He noted the men.

The Herb Integration passive had been running at full, unmanaged, point-blank mortal range for nine minutes.

The men were — the specific, involuntary, against-their-will, entirely-body-decided, not-a-choice quality of mortals receiving full cultivator ambient at close range with the visual information layered on top of the ambient field — doing the thing mortal men did in those conditions.

Their robes were tenting.

The flat, present, multiple-direction, every-man-in-the-crowd, involuntary-and-not-managed tenting of mortal fabric over mortal bodies that had received a cultivator’s ambient and had produced the standard, honest, mortal-male physiological response.

They were not looking at him.

They were looking at her.

At the specific, warm-brown-skin, full-bone, mother’s-body, amber-eyed, loud reality of a woman whose body was reporting every impact at full, honest, present volume in front of two hundred people.

At the arcs.

Some of the men were — he noted — attempting to look away.

Their heads were turning.

Their eyes were going sideways.

Their bodies were not cooperating.

The ambient field was not permitting the sideways look to hold — the specific, qi-presence, proximity-to-full-broadcast reality of mortals in the blast range of an unmanaged Nascent Soul ambient was that the system took over the navigation and the navigation said: ’this direction.’

Their eyes came back.

Every time.

He drove.

PAAH PAAH PAAH PAAH!

"—’AAAHN~!!! HAANN~!!! AHN~!!! AAAHNN~!!!’—"