The iridescent vapor coiled around his boots, shifting in an instant to a thick, suffocating haze of lurid pink.
First came the mist of Lust.
Shimmering phantoms of jade-skinned fairy maidens and celestial consorts drifted from the fog.
Silk robes slipped like water from porcelain shoulders; cold, fragrant fingers reached out to stroke his lacerated chest and trail along his bloodied collarbones, whispering intoxicating promises straight into his ears.
"Trash," Shen Yu snarled, not breaking his stride for a fraction of a breath.
To an ordinary ascetic, desire was a hidden demon waiting to derail centuries of meditation.
But Shen Yu was a dual cultivator down to his very marrow.
He did not suppress carnal desire, nor did he fear it, he commanded it as a tool of cultivation.
A mind that had long mastered the ebb and flow of raw Yin and Yang could never be snared by mere phantom flesh.
He didn't waste time trying to see through the illusion.
