Two weeks had passed since the silver rift had spat the colossal carriage back onto the soil of Qīngshān Village.
For the valley's inhabitants and the peasants harvesting rice under the autumn sun, time continued to crawl with the same peaceful monotony as always. Yet in the depths of the eastern bamboo grove, the concept of normality had been brutally rewritten.
The old bamboo hut was no longer a mere shack. It was the epicenter of a furnace that burned every night. For fourteen consecutive nights, the forest's silence had been torn by the loud, wet sound of three bodies colliding, by Zhì Yuǎn's husky whispers of possession, and by the panting, exhausted moans that Yù Qíng and Yù Méi let escape as the forging of Primordial Qi continued to work its miracle on their flesh.
For Yù Méi, these two weeks had been an absolute rite of passage. With her dantian forged and filled to the limit of the 8th Stage, the excess Primordial Qi generated during the nights of intimacy overflowed relentlessly. The surplus of golden energy began the continuous cycle of the Second Body Tempering. Every fiber, every bone, every drop of blood in the youngest was washed, condensed, and reconstructed repeatedly, shaping the blade into its perfect form.
The process occurred at night, drowned in pleasure, and consolidated by day. And while the Brutal Blade slept or hunted in the mountains to test her new structure, the courtyard of the Yù family's main house became the stage for a dark, domestic comedy.
The midday sun bathed the packed‑earth floor.
Mò Yán, the brilliant diplomat of the Central Pillar, heiress of the most arrogant sect in the South, was sweeping the yard.
The white‑haired young woman held a rustic broom of dry straw. She still wore her silver‑gray silk tunic with gold embroidery, but the sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Sweat gleamed on her pale forehead as she gathered the dry leaves into small, organized piles with unnecessary martial precision. For the past two weeks, the woman trained to govern entire provinces had been tasked with sweeping floors, peeling potatoes, and washing clothes on the stream's washing stone.
And the one directing her psychological torture floated just above her.
Yù Qíng had evolved her use of the Lotus of the Void. The priestess no longer merely hovered millimeters above the ground in an erect posture. Anchoring her weight in the invisible folds of the Law of Space, the blue‑goddess in her short navy‑blue dress, suspended a meter above the ground, accompanied the servant's manual labor with a smile of poisonous sweetness.
"The movement of your arms is too stiff, little snow flower," Yù Qíng remarked, her melodious voice floating on the breeze. "Soil that resists the hoe will never be fertile for the seed. If you cannot sweep the courtyard's dry leaves with a surrendered heart, how do you expect to cleanse your own mind to be worthy of wiping the sweat from my husband?"
Mò Yán stopped sweeping. The girl's breath faltered. The silver tunic strained violently against the fullness of her heavy breasts, and the young woman's aristocratic face gained a febrile pink hue.
Yù Qíng's domestication process was relentless. By subjecting the proud Mò Yán to strictly menial, physical tasks, the priestess was breaking the girl's cultivator ego brick by brick. And the constant carnal analogies planted desire directly into the void left by her pride.
"This servant… will try to soften her movements, Lady," Mò Yán murmured, her polished voice catching as she lowered her scarlet eyes and resumed sweeping, the pure Yin in her meridians pulsing dangerously at the mere mention of that man.
The door of the main house's office slid open. Zhì Yuǎn stepped out onto the veranda.
His charcoal‑gray tunic was slightly open at the neck, and his black, unfathomable, serene eyes watched the courtyard. Domestic life had softened the Dao's apathy, bringing out the warm, silent humanity of the man who had grown up there. He sat on one of the rustic wooden benches on the veranda and poured himself a cup of tea.
The instant he settled, Yù Qíng's observing‑goddess posture changed.
Gliding across the courtyard with the grace of a feather, she floated to the veranda and hovered directly behind Zhì Yuǎn. Instead of sitting beside him, the blue goddess used the Lotus of the Void to settle herself comfortably on her husband's broad shoulders.
She sat in a perfect seiza in the air—legs folded beneath her—exactly two millimeters above Zhì Yuǎn's shoulders. Leaning her torso gently forward, the priestess's soft, heavy breasts rested directly on the top of the god's head. To support her own face, Yù Qíng rested both elbows on her own thighs and cushioned her cheeks in her spread palms. It was the aura of a truly lazy, spoiled, possessive cat.
"Comfortable, my heaven?" she purred, her eyes closed in adoration, settling onto him as if he were the most luxurious, warmest piece of furniture in the world.
Zhì Yuǎn did not even blink or show discomfort at his wife using his head as a pillow for her bust. He merely took a sip of tea, his large, calloused hand rising casually to caress her pale calf hanging near his arm.
"The tea is just right," he answered, his voice deep and unshakable.
Mò Yán, who had stopped sweeping to watch the scene, felt her brain short‑circuit. The calamity that obliterated space and crushed the world was nothing more than a resting pillar for his absurdly sadistic wife.
Before the restrained flower could process the sight, a dull thud made the courtyard floor tremble slightly.
Mò Yán turned toward the property's entrance. The broom slipped from her fingers, falling into the dust. Old Sū Huì, emerging from the kitchen with a basket of firewood, froze, letting the wood tumble to the dirt floor.
Yù Méi had just crossed the property's gate.
The two weeks of continuous Second Tempering had come to an end. The complete transformation of her body had stabilized, and what emerged from that biological furnace defied the very definition of mortal reality.
The Brutal Blade no longer possessed any trace of a martial warrior or visual brutality. Her delicate body had condensed again, striking a graceful 1.65 meters in height. The heavy, forged muscular structure had been entirely replaced by absolute delicacy and sensuality. Her skin glowed like pure white jade, radiant and immaculate as a sacred pearl.
Her golden hair had become threads of living gold, incredibly silky and bright, falling in loose cascades that passed the perfectly curved, soft swell of her buttocks. Her face, which had once seemed sculpted and noble, had now been refined to that of a divinity that did not belong to this world—unreal, symmetrical proportions. Her large, sensual almond eyes had grown even brighter, transforming the very aura she emanated.
And Yù Méi's bodily contrast was simply scandalous. The stunning delicacy of her shoulders and waist only highlighted the monumental voluptuousness of her breasts, which had now swelled so absurdly they rivaled Mò Yán's directly. They were barely contained by the stunning golden silk dress she wore, the deep slits revealing the gleaming skin of her legs and feet with each soft step she took.
She was, in full, a golden, voluptuous goddess who exuded sensuality incarnate without even trying. Even when furious, her almond eyes were incapable of conveying a single hint of the coldness or hardness of her former brutality.
And, utterly shattering that aura of ethereal fragility and overwhelming erotic beauty, the golden goddess carried the carcass of a three‑hundred‑kilogram brown bear casually slung over her right shoulder, holding the massive beast's paw with only two delicate fingers, without showing the slightest drop of effort.
Yù Méi walked to the center of the courtyard and hurled the colossal bear to the ground. The impact opened a crater in the packed earth and sent dust flying across the entire yard.
"Mother! I found the meat for lunch!" Yù Méi announced, her voice vibrant, impatient, and utterly rustic, shattering the celestial illusion. She planted her hands on her slender waist, her almond brows furrowed in annoyance, her full breasts swaying heavily. "I was going to bring two, but these cowards have been running from me before I even get close. They're ruining my morning fun."
Sū Huì blinked, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to reconcile the image of a fertility goddess with the rustic, impatient youngest who had just thrown a dead monster into the yard. Mò Yán clutched her own tunic, utterly stunned by the physical presence and absurdity of the scene.
Perched atop Zhì Yuǎn's head, Yù Qíng blinked slowly. The priestess assessed the living gold, the white jade, the slits of the dress, and her sister's voluminous breasts, feeling the possessive heat of seeing her own cultivation furnace perfectly shaped.
"The clay has finally found its definitive form, husband," Yù Qíng murmured, her lips brushing his black hair with a smile heavy with pride—the lazy cat delighting in the sight. "Your seed has bloomed our garden most beautifully."
Zhì Yuǎn lowered his teacup. The warm, silent heat in his eyes swept over Yù Méi's scandalously sensual figure from head to toe, admiring the deceptive delicacy, the golden glow, and the untouched ferocity of his second wife.
"Roasted is best," Zhì Yuǎn commented, his deep, affectionate voice echoing in the courtyard, agreeing with the menu and ignoring the existential crisis of his mother‑in‑law and the white‑haired servant.
Yù Méi broke into a wide, radiant smile at the sound of his voice, running toward the veranda, leaving the dust and the giant bear behind. The golden blade forged in Qīngshān was ready to seduce and tear the world at the same time.
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