Two weeks passed inside the runic silk pavilion, sealed off from the crushing density of the Silver Steel Forest.
Time in that camp was measured by the nocturnal fire and the daytime silence. For Mò Yán, the agony of the first night and the invasion of her void had quickly become the addictive epicenter of her new existence. With the golden Dantian firmly established in her lower abdomen, the diplomat was no longer a fragile anchor on the verge of being ground to dust by the pressure of the new world.
The Primordial Qi that Zhì Yuǎn deposited within her overflowed through the newly created foundations, initiating the undeniable process of the Second Bodily Tempering. With each night sharing sheets with the sisters, the restrained flower absorbed the pleasurable punishment of the husband's hyper-dense Yang.
Mò Yán's physical evolution was monumental. She solidified as the tallest of the wives, standing at 1.70 meters. Her thick, full thighs tapered into incredibly delicate ankles and feet, whose porcelain skin took on tones of a feverish, warm pink at the exact pressure points where soft flesh yielded. Her colossal bust of 110 centimeters now visually surpassed Yù Méi's 102 and Yù Qíng's 94, stretching the rigid silver-gray silk to its absolute limit with every breath.
Her beauty had transcended mortality. The once aristocratic face now radiated the cold, sensual pull of a rigid goddess, the divinely sculpted nose crowning the perfection of her features. And her scarlet irises had changed: they vibrated in a vivid, radiant red, emanating a predatory and hypnotic force — as if the sheer intensity of her gaze held the power to tear the soul from anyone who faced her directly.
But if the nights belonged to the forging, the days were dominated by the comprehension of the Dao and by blood.
During those two weeks, Zhì Yuǎn immersed his Wisdom in the heavy air of the forest, discerning the intricate Laws of heaven and earth of that new empire. While the husband decoded the world, Yù Méi plunged into the depths of the metal ecosystem, hungry to test her own fists.
The sound of a guttural roar tore through the steel trees on the morning of the last day of camp.
Yù Méi slid between the metallic gray trunks. Ten meters away, the beast turned. It was a Silver-Plated Beemoth — a brutal Magical Beast at the absolute apex of the Transcendental Realm, whose bone plates had fused with the forest's ore. The massive monster exhaled a repulsive Qi that warped gravity around it, lowering the atmospheric weight to crush its enemies.
The Beemoth slammed its front legs down, cracking the black earth, and charged like an unrestrained block of lead.
Yù Méi broke into an insane grin. The golden goddess bent her knees and launched forward. The ground gave way beneath the impulse of her legs. When the beast tried to impale her with its armored horns, Yù Méi did not dodge. She leapt straight at it, her right fist seething with pure gold. Her Sea of Gold roared, and the Law of Rupture enveloped her knuckles.
The collision was deafening. Her fist sank into the creature's silver skull. The plating — capable of withstanding immortal blades — cracked into a spiderweb of splinters. But the beast was colossal. Ignoring the pain, the Beemoth rotated its massive body and struck with a lateral paw.
The silver claw hit Yù Méi square in the chest. The force of the impact launched her dozens of meters backward, tearing through the air and slamming her violently against the trunk of a metallic tree.
The tree dented. Yù Méi landed on her feet. The golden tunic was torn, but the girl's indestructible bones had not yielded a single millimeter. A dull pain radiated through her torso, and the warrior released a hoarse, euphoric laugh. The carnage finally had some grace to it.
"Is that all that size knows how to do?!" taunted the Brutal Blade, launching forward again.
The Beemoth attempted to spit a burst of hypercompressed air, but Yù Méi dove beneath the attack. She seized the beast's front leg and, rotating her own hips, used the leverage to destabilize the monster's tons of muscle. With the creature toppling, Yù Méi delivered a sequence of three direct punches to its armored chest.
Rupture. Rupture. Rupture.
The intention traveled from the physical impact into the beast's interior. The Beemoth's vital organs collapsed, turning to jelly before the outer shell had even finished caving beneath the girl's knuckles. The monster vomited a torrent of dark blood and crashed dead with an absolute thunderclap.
Breathless, strands of vivid gold plastered to her face with sweat, Yù Méi landed heavily beside the carcass. An indescribable euphoria surged through her veins.
A soft breeze touched the bloodied clearing. Folding the very fabric of space, Yù Qíng floated down from above using the Void Lotus. The navy-blue dress swayed perfectly as the priestess halted millimeters from the red mud.
"Fresh blood has lit up your cheeks, little flower," murmured Yù Qíng, her black eyes assessing the mountain of slaughtered flesh with a purely pragmatic coldness. "A formidable kill. The core and plates will fetch a high sum in civilization."
With a graceful motion of her hand, Yù Qíng compressed the space, dissecting the carcass and drawing the spiritual core and resources into her Storage Ring.
"Wash those filthy hands, Méi," Yù Qíng instructed, turning toward the camp. "The husband has finished reading the celestial maps. We are departing."
---
An hour later, the old Mò Zhōng waited on the driver's bench of the colossal carriage, rejuvenated in his 1st Transcendental Stage. The four black horses beat their hooves, ready for the road.
Beside the carriage, the "Rule of Shadows" was in full effect.
Yù Méi wore a thick utilitarian tunic in a dark-gold shade, the black opaque veil hiding her predatory smile. Yù Qíng was wrapped in long, multiple layers of near-black blue silk, sealed beneath a star-threaded veil. And Mò Yán wore her straight-cut silver-gray fabric that flattened, as much as possible, her exaggerated proportions, her face veiled in matte golden threads.
Zhì Yuǎn stepped onto the carriage's running board, his black cloak falling heavily. The god's dark and fathomless eyes fixed on the destination.
"To the city of the Celestial Lance, Mò Zhōng," the husband commanded.
The carriage began to roll, leaving the steel forest behind. The journey would take two days across the vastness of the plains, and the armored cabin sealed itself hermetically, isolated from the outside world by runes of sound and blocking.
The interior of the cabin was bathed in a cozy dimness, the vehicle's constant sway rocking the atmosphere.
Zhì Yuǎn leaned back against the plush velvet of the rear bench, relaxing his broad shoulders. But the rest lasted only a fraction of a second.
Yù Qíng, incapable of enduring the quiet, slipped from the opposite seat and knelt on the thick carpet, directly between her husband's open legs. The blue-robed priestess raised her veiled face. Her dark, feverish eyes sparked with a somber and devout lust.
"Two weeks of forging have not calmed the hum of your universe, my heaven," Yù Qíng whispered, her voice husky and muffled by the star-threaded veil. "We can't waste time undoing all these layers of silk during the journey... but your altar requires maintenance."
Zhì Yuǎn did not stop her. A dense warmth kindled in his irises as he watched his wife push aside her own heavy garments. Yù Qíng brought her pale hands to his waist, undoing the belt of the charcoal-gray trousers. With a swift tug, she freed the colossal, incandescent shaft, which struck against her face upon release. The warm weight and absurd density of the black star throbbed in the cold air of the cabin, exhaling an intoxicating scent of ozone and raw power.
Yù Qíng removed her own star-threaded veil, freeing her crimson lips. She did not hesitate. She leaned forward and took the thick head in her mouth, her skilled tongue circling the sensitive slit, swallowing him deep in a wet, loud, desperate suction.
The sound of her sucking echoed in the confined cabin, layering over the creak of the carriage wheels. Yù Méi and Mò Yán, seated on the side benches, held their breath.
Yù Qíng worked diligently for several minutes, her cheeks hollowing, worshiping his flesh as though it were water in a desert. Then the priestess withdrew slowly with a wet pop of saliva. Her lips were gleaming. She glanced sideways at the golden warrior.
"The taste of our husband's Yang is not made of mud and water like that of mortals, little sister," Yù Qíng purred, her black gaze overflowing with provocation. "Come and taste. It is the essence of creation. And it is more addictive than the blood of your hunt."
Yù Méi's Yin was already throbbing painfully from the scene. The youngest did not hesitate. She slipped from the bench and knelt on the carpet beside her sister, removing her own veil.
Yù Méi looked at the enormous, saliva-gleaming member of her husband. The Brutal Blade's heart beat fast. She had never done this before, but the carnivorous hunger devoured any shyness. She lowered her face and timidly grazed the warm length with her tongue.
The taste hit her like lightning. There was no bitter saltiness; Zhì Yuǎn's essence carried an intoxicating, dense flavor — like distilled nectar seasoned with the magnetic roughness of ozone and the sweetness of sandalwood. It was divine. Her tongue tingled, and an instant addiction hijacked her brain.
Yù Méi choked on an eager moan and took him into her mouth. Unlike Yù Qíng's fluid elegance, Yù Méi's was hungry, impatient, and instinctive. She sucked hard, her hands crushing Zhì Yuǎn's thighs, drooling and choking clumsily as she struggled to accommodate his absurd volume in her throat.
Zhì Yuǎn released a low growl, his large hands burying into Yù Méi's golden hair, guiding the warrior's rhythm, pushing his hips upward and fucking the young woman's mouth with dense, short thrusts that made her gasp and whimper in pure pleasure.
After several minutes of that crushing rhythm, the Brutal Blade's jaw began to lock. The youngest's mouth was exhausted from the colossal girth that stretched it to its constant limit, and her breathing became a starved wheeze. But Zhì Yuǎn's Singularity was only just awakening.
Sensing the warrior's fatigue, Zhì Yuǎn's dark gaze shed any trace of lethargy, consumed by a lethal and dominating lust. Both his large, calloused hands locked firmly on either side of Yù Méi's head, gripping the young woman's skull with unshakeable force and stopping her from retreating a single millimeter. He accelerated the rhythm brutally, his hips driving against her face in violent, deep thrusts that relentlessly struck the back of her throat.
"Swallow all of it, Méi," his rough, filthy voice vibrated above her, an absolute command of possession. "Don't waste a single drop."
He drove the shaft in to the hilt down the girl's throat and reached his own limit.
The first torrent of thick, scalding seed, laden with the purest Yang, poured directly into the back of Yù Méi's throat. The girl choked, her almond-shaped eyes flying wide as the thermal and brutal load flooded her, but his hands kept her caged in the thrust.
The release was not a swift relief. For two long, endless minutes, Zhì Yuǎn unloaded the weight of the first wave of his universe into the young woman's mouth. Yù Méi whimpered with a full mouth, forced to swallow torrent after torrent of the heavy, intoxicating nectar. Her throat worked frantically, contracting without pause to avoid suffocating on the absurd volume of the load, while thick tears of pure submission, biological shock, and pleasure streamed down her cheeks.
When he finally loosened his grip and released her head, Yù Méi collapsed backward, falling seated on the carriage's plush carpet. She panted loudly, her full chest rising and falling in chaos beneath the golden tunic. Her lips were swollen and reddened, and a gleaming, thick strand of his essence trailed from the corner of her mouth, painting her pale chin and sweaty neck with the undeniable mark of his possession. The youngest's irises were glazed in a blind stupor, addicted to the warmth now burning deliciously in her stomach.
But Zhì Yuǎn's Universe knew no satiation from a single round.
Despite the colossal, prolonged release, the god's majestic shaft had not lost a single fraction of its rigidity. It remained thick, throbbing, and incandescent, gleaming with saliva and seed, pulsing with the force of a star that demanded to continue the forging.
Yù Qíng wasted no time. Watching her husband's heavy breathing and the lethal hunger still darkening his irises, the priestess slipped quickly across the bench. Her abyssal eyes burned with pure devotion at the sight of the man's length demanding friction.
Without hesitation, Yù Qíng raised the multiple, heavy layers of her navy-blue tunic, revealing only her pale thighs, and mounted directly onto her husband's lap. She settled on the velvet bench with her legs open over him, aligning her own dripping fissure against his hot, throbbing head.
"The little flower couldn't bear the beginning of your weight, husband..." Yù Qíng purred, her voice dropping to a filthy, venerating octave. "Let me swallow the rest for you."
With a firm pull of her own hips, she sank down.
"Ahhh!" Yù Qíng threw her head back, neck exposed, as his incandescent shaft penetrated her to the base in a single movement, breaking her open with a perfect brutality. Her wet fissure swallowed the length avidly, and the priestess began to ride. The friction was confined by the bundled garments, but the sound of flesh colliding rang loud, dense, and obscene in the confined cabin.
As Yù Qíng rode — breathless, whimpering devout words of submission — Yù Méi and Mò Yán were completely intoxicated by the scene and the scent of ozone and nectar.
Zhì Yuǎn extended his right arm, and Yù Méi, still on the carpet with his taste in her mouth, did not hesitate. The Brutal Blade rose trembling and laid her voluptuous torso over her husband's firm forearm. The god's large, calloused hand plunged mercilessly beneath the youngest's thick dark-gold tunic, climbing her thighs until his warm fingers invaded her bare, soaked intimacy.
The shock of the direct touch against her swollen nerve made Yù Méi arch her back. Overtaken by carnivorous lust and propelled by the energy she had swallowed, she dug her hands into the collar of Zhì Yuǎn's charcoal-gray tunic, pulling his face down, and crushed her lips against his in a possessive kiss. The warrior's tongue invaded his mouth, famished, tasting his saliva and his own essence in a deep, wet, and desperate kiss. They remained locked together, exchanging muffled gasps throughout the long, noisy ride of the priestess, until Yù Qíng finally cried out and collapsed against her husband's shoulder in a strangled orgasm.
Simultaneously, Zhì Yuǎn's left arm anchored Mò Yán.
The diplomat was reclined against his chest, her body trembling. The god's agile fingers had loosened the rigid collar of her heavy gray tunic with dark-gold trim, breaching the fabric's modesty to knead and stimulate the bare flesh of the girl's full, painfully sensitive breasts. He pinched Mò Yán's swollen nipples with a delicious pressure that fried the nerves of her Refined Body.
Completely anesthetized by the friction against her breasts and by the thick lust that poisoned the sealed air of the cabin, the restrained flower lost every last shred of dogmatic sanity. Mò Yán nestled sideways against Zhì Yuǎn, breathless, and began to kiss his sweaty neck. The diplomat's warm, soft tongue licked the sweat from the man's skin, sucking the curve of his neck and the line of his jaw in a trance of pure submissive hunger, her full lips speaking his name like a mantra with every squeeze of his hand on her breast.
"Mnn... husband... Zhì Yuǎn..." Mò Yán whimpered softly against his neck, her legs crossed and trembling beneath the gray skirt, silently begging to be the next to mount.
The positions shifted every hour. The air inside became a greenhouse reeking of thick fluids, sweat, and primordial pheromones. They did not want to waste time untying and retying leather belts or unbuttoning martial tunics in case an unforeseen event on the road forced them outside. It was far dirtier and more addictive this way: the thick silk hiding the chaos, and the touch of his hands exploring the gaps left open.
Outside, the poor and loyal coachman, Mò Zhōng, kept his eyes fixed on the dirt road of the plains. The armored carriage emitted muffled jolts and rhythmic thuds that made the wood groan, but the old warrior feigned absolute ignorance, whipping the horses and silently blessing the formidable constitution of his Lord.
Two days dissolved in that endless cycle of clandestine forging and numbing exhaustion beneath the garments.