The sewing and storage pavilion of Shattered Heaven was a vast gallery, lined with chests of hardwood that exuded the scent of cedar and camphor. There, the finest silks and the hides of rare southern beasts accumulated in perfectly organized piles. In less than an hour, the Trinity transformed the millennial order into a chaos of unrolled fabrics.
Yù Qíng stood before a large mirror of polished bronze, her black eyes narrowed in deep displeasure.
The High Priestess had exchanged her inseparable short dress for a loose navy‑blue tunic that fell majestically to the floor. To hide the porcelain skin that had once attracted the hungry gazes of the world, she had put on multiple layers of white cotton beneath the dark silk, covering the full valley between her breasts up to the base of her neck, and completely concealing her arms under elongated sleeves.
But what truly irritated her was at the base of her body.
"A true prison," Yù Qíng murmured, lifting the hem of the long dress slightly to glare at her own feet. She had been forced to wear black silk slippers, so thin and tight they seemed like soft socks, but which isolated her immaculate feet from direct contact with the air.
Worse than the footwear was her posture. To avoid blatantly using the Laws of Space in public, Yù Qíng had reduced the distance of her Floating Lotus Step. She no longer floated a handspan above the ground with the lethal laziness of a goddess; now she hovered only two millimeters above the planks, moving her knees beneath the tunic in a measured rhythm to perfectly imitate the act of walking.
In the mirror's reflection, she adjusted the final piece: a navy‑blue face veil, semi‑transparent fabric sprinkled with tiny silver threads that mimicked stars. The cloth covered her nose and lips, but the subtle transparency and gleam only accentuated the dangerous beauty of her dark eyes, conferring an aura of unattainable mystery.
"You're complaining about soft shoes, sister?" Yù Méi's rustic voice echoed from the other side of the room. The youngest stomped her heels on the wooden floor with a dull thud, testing the weight of a pair of dark beast‑leather boots. "I think they're excellent. At least I won't have to worry about ripping my toenails when I kick someone's jaw."
The Brutal Blade was also unrecognizable. She wore a dark‑gold tunic, of the same long style as her sister's, but the cut was visibly more martial and robust to accommodate the width of her hips and the scandalous volume of her breasts. The dark gold tone contrasted perfectly with the warrior's gleaming blonde hair. On her face, Yù Méi tied an opaque black veil, thick and utilitarian, ruthlessly hiding any trace of her features up to her nose.
"And you, snow flower? Did you manage to find something that doesn't threaten to burst its buttons with every breath?" Yù Méi teased, crossing her arms and leaning against one of the chests.
Mò Yán emerged from behind a silk screen. The diplomat had abandoned the old tunic that violently marked her curves. Now she wore a gray ensemble with thick dark‑gold borders. The cut was deliberately looser and more modest, creating a martial air that diluted her voluptuous silhouette and made her visually more contained. Her feet were firmly strapped into dark martial shoes and thick socks. No sliver of her Refined Body's skin was visible.
Yet the restrained flower's tempting charm was a punishment of nature itself. To cover her aristocratic face, Mò Yán had chosen an incredibly exotic gold veil, woven with interlocked gold threads and small shimmering stones. The fabric was voluminous, perfectly hiding her features and full lips, but the richness of the material gleamed hypnotically under the lamplight.
"I prioritized modesty and martial utility, Sister Qíng," Mò Yán murmured, her voice muffled by the luxurious veil, her rigorous discipline forcing her tongue to respect the new, intimate family hierarchy without a single stumble.
Yù Qíng observed the two and nodded, satisfied with the logistics. They were merely three well‑dressed shadows. No exposed legs, cleavage, or displays of skin.
It was then that the gravity of the pavilion suddenly sank.
The double doors of the hall did not even need to be opened by hand. The pressure of space receded, and Zhì Yuǎn crossed the threshold. The god in the charcoal‑gray tunic and black silk cloak carried in his gaze the same cold lethargy of the abyss, the Wisdom of his mind still processing the massive calculations of the subterranean matrices he had just devoured.
"The core of this pillar is stabilized," Zhì Yuǎn announced, his unshakable voice echoing among the silks. "I deposited a fraction of my Primordial Qi into the Principal Matrix of the Ruin of the Throne. The gear has awakened, but it is not enough. For the portal to safely tear the roof of the world, I need to align the other three pillars of the region."
He stopped in the center of the hall, his black eyes finally focusing on the trio of women.
Zhì Yuǎn blinked slightly, apathy receding before the aesthetic spectacle. Three figures covered from neck to foot in layers of heavy fabric, their faces hidden by veils. The tactical strategy was obvious to him: hide the light so as not to attract flies in the higher realm.
But Yù Qíng's instincts knew no word for "modesty" when it came to him.
The blue goddess, even wearing a tunic that looked like a rigid cocoon, leaned her shoulders against the cedar wall, bent one knee slightly, and tilted her head to the side. She fixed her black eyes on her husband, malice overflowing above the edge of the semi‑transparent veil. The posture, which would be modest in any other woman, exuded a sick, sly sensuality—the lazy cat offering herself irresistibly beneath the dark silk.
"What do you think of the new packaging for your offering, my heaven?" Yù Qíng purred, her voice muffled by the veil gaining an even rougher, more inviting timbre. "The ribbon is tied very tight. It'll take much more work for you to tear it all off with your teeth at night."
Zhì Yuǎn let out a low sigh, warm, dense heat immediately igniting in his irises.
He crossed the distance of the pavilion in three absolute steps, ignoring Yù Méi and Mò Yán. With his left hand, Zhì Yuǎn grabbed Yù Qíng's waist hidden beneath the multiple layers of fabric, pressing his wife's back hard against the wooden wall. His right hand rose with the lethal precision of a predator, seizing the edge of the navy‑blue veil.
With a dry movement, he pulled the veil down, exposing the priestess's pale face and her perfectly red, smiling lips.
The kiss collided with voracity. It was not a farewell peck. Zhì Yuǎn crushed his wife's mouth, his fervent tongue invading her, savoring the lethal sweetness she always offered him. Yù Qíng moaned softly, her fingers digging into her husband's shoulders, instantly melting against the wood under the crushing pressure of that Yang. The kiss dragged on for endless, hot minutes, the wet sound echoing through the hall and making Mò Yán lower her scarlet eyes, her chest rising and falling frantically beneath the modest tunic.
When Zhì Yuǎn finally pulled back, Yù Qíng's pale face was flushed with lust, her lips gleaming with saliva.
"The packaging doesn't change the flavor of the filling," the god whispered against her lips, his deep voice making Yù Qíng's body tremble with pure delight. He adjusted the veil back over her nose with a protective touch and stepped back. "Stay here and organize the rest. I will go to the other three sects to reactivate the dormant matrices. I'll be back in a few hours."
Without waiting for verbal farewells, Zhì Yuǎn raised two fingers and tore space in the middle of the sewing room. The silver rift opened with a crack and swallowed him, closing the next second without leaving a trace.
Yù Qíng leaned her nape against the cedar wall, letting out a long, passionate sigh, her eyes closed as she savored the phantom warmth of his touch.
Yù Méi, adjusting her own opaque veil over her nose, crossed her arms and broke the tension with her usual literalism.
"If he takes more than three hours, I swear I'll hunt something on the mountain to chew. I'm hungry again," the Brutal Blade grumbled, testing the flexibility of the golden tunic.
Yù Qíng opened her eyes, sweet sadism returning to gleam in her dark irises. She glided away from the wall, perfectly mimicking the sound of steps on the wooden floor with her silk slippers, approaching Mò Yán.
"The rules of our survival in the higher realm go far beyond clothes, little snow flower," Yù Qíng declared, her voice taking on the tone of absolute indoctrination. "Pay close attention. In the realm to which we will ascend, our foundation will be small next to the old monsters. What my husband carries within him is something that would drive ancient gods mad with greed."
Mò Yán joined her hands, paying attention with devotion, her red irises fixed on the woman in blue.
Yù Qíng's Qi oscillated imperceptibly in the room. The Law of Devotion, deeply rooted in the center of her Sea of Qi, resonated along with her vocal cords. It was an invisible, intoxicating echo that penetrated directly into the diplomat's flesh and soul—a soft, irresistible brainwashing.
"In public, the words 'Universe', 'Lord', or 'God' must not leave your lips under any circumstances," the priestess ordered, her voice dropping to a whisper that sounded like the only truth in existence, tapping her pale finger against Mò Yán's heart. "From now on, we are the devoted wives of a talented cultivator. You will refer to him only as 'husband', 'darling', 'Yuǎn', or 'Zhì Yuǎn'. If you need to exclaim surprise, never use the names of false gods or sect ancestors. The only god we recognize is the one who sleeps in our bed. Say 'for the love of my heaven', or 'for our heaven'. Understood?"
The Law of Devotion pulled at the restrained flower's heartstrings. The dogma rooted instantly, erasing once and for all the political embarrassment of sharing that man.
"My vocabulary will be perfectly devoted and polished to protect our… husband. To protect our heaven, Sister Qíng," Mò Yán nodded, feeling an intoxicating, welcoming warmth as she used the affectionate, possessive terms she now shared with them.
Yù Méi gave a low laugh behind her black veil, approaching the two.
"And before you think our strength came from meditation and magic dust like your father's fables," Yù Méi leaned her forged‑in‑brute‑strength body toward Mò Yán, staring at her. "Do you know why I break the bones of this land's geniuses so easily, Yan? Do you know why my sister can knock fifty men out of the sky with just a sigh?"
Mò Yán slowly shook her head, her analytical mind burning with curiosity.
"Our Furnace of the Flesh is not a poetic metaphor, Mò Yán," Yù Qíng explained, her tone dropping to a terrifying, revealing whisper. "Our husband's dantian is not a sphere of Qi. It is a Singularity. An infinite, insatiable Universe that needs fuel. To feed it, we use Dual Cultivation. His crushing Yang and our pure Yin meet within us. Under the raw friction in bed, we invert the polarity of the energies."
Mò Yán's breath failed beneath the luxurious veil.
"Invert?" the restrained flower stammered.
"Nine consecutive times," Yù Méi detailed the physical torture with carnivorous pride. "We grind his energy with our own flesh, inverting everything until the density sacrifices itself and reaches absolute purity. That's how we forge Primordial Qi, the only thing in the world capable of sating his hunger. My entire dantian and my Refined Body were opened and shaped by the force of his hands and his fire in a single night."
Mò Yán's legs lost their strength, forcing the girl to lean against one of the heavy cedar chests. The diplomat of Shattered Heaven had spent her entire life believing that sublimation and purity of instinct were the path to ascension. Now, she discovered that the two greatest calamities she had ever seen had forged their divine powers on beds bathed in sweat, pain, violent friction, and infinite lust. The cosmic scale of pleasure and duty crushed her old moral foundations.
"In the center of our bodies," Yù Qíng completed, pressing her hand to her own belly over the multiple layers of cotton and silk, "there are no ordinary dantians. Contact with his universe condensed our own essences into a Sea of Law. I am governed by the Law of Devotion. And the little blonde flower governs the Law of Rupture."
Mò Yán's eyes were moist, her brilliant mind intoxicated by the promise of power so intimate and devastating.
Yù Qíng slid her cold hand to Mò Yán's nape, caressing the diplomat's white hair with the promise of a cult leader embracing her newest, most valuable offering.
"When we are safe beyond this stagnant sky," the devoted wife whispered, smiling behind her veil, "you too will have your own Sea of Law, Yan. You will melt under him, forge the energy in the mill of your purity, and bow before his Hunger just as we do. Welcome to our family."
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