[NOTE: I just released the Chapter 0, it's for the newbies, but, it can be consider an extra between chapters 117 and 118. So go check ir out!]
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The night pressed heavily over the Pale Gold Capital, but the interior of the Firmament Auction House blazed with the stagnant greed of thousands of cultivators. Hours had already dissolved beneath the vast ceiling of crystals and silver, and the queen of the stage, Mèng Lián, continued to orchestrate the emptying of the empire's coffers with a cold, untouchable, and majestic smile.
In the Supreme Box, plunged in dim light and protected by the illusion glass of absolute matrices, the goddesses' boredom had transformed into a cruel game with the treasure of those lineages.
Far from the crowd's eyes, the luxurious cabin reeked densely of ozone, sandalwood, and the sweet, intoxicating musk of Yin boiling without restraint.
Near the one-way window, Yù Méi chewed distractedly on a cluster of crystallized grapes. The Brutal Blade sprawled loosely in the air, sustained by the Lotus of the Void. The dark-gold silk dress pulled against the colossal fullness of her breasts, and she observed an ancestral spear on the stage. When the price reached eighty thousand stones, the warrior released a drawn-out sigh and tapped her finger against the bid crystal encrusted in the cabin wall.
"Five hundred thousand," Yù Méi muttered, licking the sweet juice from her fingers.
Below, the magical numbers levitated. The entire hall choked, and the merchant leading the dispute dropped into his seat, defeated by the absurdity. Satisfied at silencing the noise from those bleachers, the youngest did not even glance at the weapon she had just acquired.
Half an hour later, an entirely different lot — a rare alchemy cauldron forged in lunar bronze — was about to be sold for three hundred thousand stones to an arrogant Wind Clan Patriarch. Mò Yán, maintaining her straight and impeccable posture, approached the glass. The diplomat's scarlet irises calculated the old man's political desperation. The feverish flush stained the immaculate skin of her neck, descending down the exposed valley of her purest white Hanfu, fed by the suffocating temperature emanating from the center of the room. She touched the crystal with a pale, trembling finger.
"Three hundred thousand and one stone," Mò Yán whispered, her legs wavering beneath the heavy black skirt. The bid was not to acquire the relic; it was the lethal precision of spitting in the face of an entire lineage merely to break the tension climbing up her spine, using the market as a release valve.
Patriarchs cursed the obsidian walls of the Supreme Box, demanding to know which lunatics were inflating the capital. They were unaware that the goddesses ruining their treasuries were barely paying attention to the numbers outside.
The altar's true focus was at the center of the velvet rug.
Zhì Yuǎn reclined in the immense imperial armchair. The charcoal-gray robe was pulled open, revealing his broad chest covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The god's dark, unfathomable gaze was fixed on the cabin ceiling, a cosmic lethargy dominating his features as the loud, profane friction happened below his waist.
The dark silk trousers had been pushed down to his knees. Bái Wǎn was seated on her own heels on the thick rug, nestled between the husband's open legs.
The Goddess of Serenity had not removed the sky-blue pearlescent dress. The silk flowed around her small body, but modesty had been incinerated. Bái Wǎn held Zhì Yuǎn's rigid thighs with both small pale hands. The young woman's divinely soft face plunged and retreated in a desperate rhythm, her mouth filled by the man's incandescent length.
However, the absolute thickness and length of the god's shaft demanded that the former scholar swallow only halfway. The limit of her throat was already being mercilessly punished by the partial volume, forcing her to bob her head in a hungry cadence to absorb the essence without suffocating.
Slurp.
The wet, obscene sound of saliva and suction echoed in the luxurious cabin. Bái Wǎn stretched her full lips to their limit, her tongue whipping the scalding skin, savoring the creator's concentrated essence as though her life depended on it.
"Ghk... mnnn..." Bái Wǎn choked softly. The volume struck without mercy against the back of her mouth with each descent. Thick tears of pure delight streamed down her rosy cheeks.
The Hunger in Zhì Yuǎn's Dantian pulsed, the infinite Yang radiating a volcanic heat. The girl's small pale hand had slipped beneath her own celestial skirt. Her wet folds were so soaked that her slender thighs gleamed in the dim light, her fingers massaging her own center in a frantic, needy rhythm, the spasms of an overwhelming orgasm hitting her silently as she worshipped her god.
Crowning the altar, Yù Qíng was physically fused to her husband.
The priestess was anchored in the folds of space through the Lotus of the Void, seated on the god's shoulders, her pale, bare legs draping down over Zhì Yuǎn's broad shoulders. She leaned her torso back, resting the full, soft weight of her breasts directly on top of the god's head. The primogenita's cold hands massaged his scalp and dark hair with a possessive slowness. From time to time, she tilted her neck and pulled her husband's chin, stealing deep kisses from him, sighing languidly against his warm skin.
The priestess's abyssal eyes left Zhì Yuǎn's face and dissected the lower box on the other side of the hall.
There, illuminated by a peaceful light, the Two Pearls of Utopia followed the auction. Huáng Bìyù, the Dragon warrior, radiated a terrifying protective force. Beside her, Qīng Yǔ, the Celestial Plume, smiled compassionately, the aura of peaceful healing calming the space around her. Both were the pinnacle of mortal virtue, anchored at the 2nd Transcendent Stage.
"The world down below is so dry, my heaven," Yù Qíng murmured, her voice hoarse and venomous, vibrating against his forehead. Her cold fingers slid to her husband's neck. "The dust worships cold coins and pale magic. Forge a drop of the true spring for me. I want to see what the untouched lotus blossoms of this empire will do when the rain falls."
His Inner Universe throbbed in response, hungry.
Without interrupting the devotion Bái Wǎn was offering him, the god raised his right hand in the dim light. Drawing the pure intent of the Law of Life and blending it with a fragment of his own Primordial energy, the air around his calloused fingers contorted.
Yù Qíng smiled against his skin but did not move from her altar.
Yù Méi, sensing the intent, descended from the recliner. The Brutal Blade collected the pulsing crystal from her brother-in-law's hand. The girl in gold walked to the ebony door and slid the wood open just a minimal crack — enough to prevent any dog outside from looking in at her husband's altar.
Lóu Jiàn emerged from the corridor's shadows at that same instant, kneeling on the cold stone.
"Deliver it to Lián," Yù Méi ordered, her guttural voice echoing through the crack as she tossed the small velvet box into the assassin's hands. "Tell her this is the last lot of the night. The Master permits her to auction the stone, but the miracle's delivery will not happen on the stage. Whoever wins the bidding will need to come up here so our heaven can assess whether they are worthy of the purchase."
The shadow vanished without a sound. Yù Méi closed the door, locking the bolt with a dry click, and threw herself back onto the rug to admire the muffled, soaked rhythm of Bái Wǎn.
Below, Mèng Lián struck the jade gavel. The thunderous sound silenced the petty disputes.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the Mistress of Shadows' voice trembled. A genuine reverence broke through her lethal facade as the servant opened the velvet box beside her. "Our auction presents an anonymous and unprecedented lot. A miracle condensed from the Laws themselves. I present to you... the Tear of Creation."
Vital energy swept through the hall. Elders on the threshold of death felt their blood boil with health. Chronically ill cultivators breathed without pain. Religious dread swallowed the Two-Faced Empire's greed.
But in the imperial box, Huáng Bìyù rose to her feet, the ochre aura of the Earth Dragon anchoring the floor. She looked at the tears of compassion streaming down Qīng Yǔ's face. Yǔ could purify the diseased lands at the empire's borders with that. The Jasper Pearl did not waver.
"Fifty million High-Grade Spirit Stones!" Bìyù's velvety, firm voice thundered, crushing the old monsters' hopes in a single blow.
The auction plunged into a grave silence. The weight of the Imperial Treasury was an irrefutable hammer.
Qīng Yǔ pressed her pale hands against her chest, her empathy overflowing. The healer leaned over the parapet of the lower box.
"Madame Feng..." Yǔ's melodious voice trembled with pure heroic adoration. "A miracle like this for our people... Who is the Senior who forged it? We would like to pay our respects and invite him to the Imperial Palace to express our gratitude for the salvation he will bring."
Mèng Lián smiled, the unctuous and impeccable courtesy perfectly masking the abyss that was about to open for those two.
"The Senior is extremely discreet, celestial fairies," Madame Feng replied, tilting her head on the stage, closing the velvet box with a click that echoed through the hall. "The Tear of Creation is reserved for the heiresses. But the Master requires a private audience before finalizing the sale. He wishes to assess the character of those who will wield his work. Please come up to the Supreme Box alone."
The crowd whispered in admiration and respect for the anonymous seller's "wisdom."
Accompanied by the applause of the utopia that venerated them, Bìyù and Yǔ left the lower box, walking toward the silent depths of the building to meet the compassionate hermit.
In the Supreme Box, the thermal bubble was entering its final eruption.
The god's large, calloused hand, resting lazily on the upholstery, shot forward like lightning in the dim light. Zhì Yuǎn seized the back of Bái Wǎn's neck and her long blue hair with a rough grip.
The girl had no time to widen her eyes. With a possessive and relentless movement, he pushed the young woman's divinely soft head forward and down in a single motion, forcing her small body against him. The colossal shaft, which until then had only punished her halfway, sank lethally, tearing through the Goddess of Serenity's throat down to the absolute base.
GHLK!
Bái Wǎn's airway was completely obliterated by the scalding intrusion of flesh. The instantaneous absence of oxygen collided with the absurd shock of the volcanic Yang striking her esophageal canal. The young woman's blue eyes went wide in panic and blind euphoria. Her small pale hands seized the man's rigid thighs in desperation, trying to find anchor in the darkness as asphyxiation overtook her.
The lack of air induced an uncontrollable spasmodic reflex throughout her entire Perfect Sea's nervous system.
Bái Wǎn's slender, wet thighs, spread open on the fur rug, suffered violent tremors. The orgasm struck her like a comet shattering a planet. Her soaked folds contracted loudly, gushing a heavy torrent of thick nectar that soaked the black velvet, while the girl's small body arched in uncontrollable convulsions, thick tears streaming down her flushed face.
Simultaneously, the pressure of her strangled throat and the mute moans vibrating against his skin triggered the god's discharge.
Zhì Yuǎn's deep growl echoed dense and dark in the dim light. He released.
Colossal, scalding torrents of hyper-dense seed and Primordial Qi poured deeply into the back of Bái Wǎn's throat. The volcanic energy descended like magma through the girl's insides. Amid the spasms of her own climax and the absolute absence of oxygen, the former scholar's throat muscles frenetically milked the incandescent shaft, swallowing every drop of that divine essence for long and excruciating minutes, without wasting a single millimeter. The carnal submission and the asphyxiation trapped her in a magnificent torture.
When he finally loosened the brutal grip on her hair, Bái Wǎn pulled her face back with a long, wet sound of pure suction.
The young woman drew air in a desperate gasp, her chest heaving frantically beneath the blue silk. Her full lips were red and dangerously swollen. She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her sweaty hand, swallowing the last of his fire, and raised her face. Her oceanic eyes burned in a profane abyss of flames and filthy lust, contrasting obscenely with the divine innocence the mortal world venerated.
At that exact second, the sound of soft boots echoed in the obsidian corridor, stopping before the door.
The Furnace's trance receded. With a lethargic and unquestionable fluidity, Zhì Yuǎn rose slightly, readjusting the dark silk trousers and pulling the heavy lapels of the charcoal-gray robe over his broad chest, concealing the heat still throbbing in the dark.
Bái Wǎn quickly smoothed the pearlescent silk of her dress, hiding her damp thighs as she sat gracefully on her heels at the foot of the armchair. Yù Qíng, who had been resting atop her husband's shoulders, glided through the air with the Lotus of the Void, her bare feet touching the plush rug as she adjusted the folds of her navy blue dress. Yù Méi and Mò Yán straightened their postures near the illusion glass. All their fabrics were slightly crumpled, their divine faces still bearing a feverish flush and their hair falling loosely, but the aura the group radiated was simply monumental.
The ebony handle turned. The door slid open with a soft creak.
The moment the outsiders crossed the threshold, the Karmic Illusion veiling the altar dissipated exclusively for them. The heavy door struck the heiresses' backs with a merciless click.
Huáng Bìyù and Qīng Yǔ, armed with their noble virtues and the altruism of an empire, entered the Supreme Box. Their world crumbled in a single heartbeat.
There was no compassionate hermit. The vision paralyzed them. A man of unfathomable, cosmic beauty reclined in the black velvet armchair, his dark eyes exhaling an apathy that swallowed the room's light. Around him, four goddesses of a profane perfection observed them in silence. Slightly disheveled silk garments, swollen lips, and skins gleaming with sweat composed a tableau of dense intimacy — but Bìyù and Yǔ's minds could not even process those details, for the unattainable vision of that divinity blinded them completely.
And then the invisible blow struck them.
The cabin reeked densely. The hot air was thick with a heavy, musky, and sweetish aroma of boiling Yin, blended with the ozone and sandalwood freshness emanating from the man. It was the pure, intoxicating smell of sin and creation.
The fluid foundation of both heiresses, stabilized at the Weaving of the Tides, short-circuited immediately. The hyper-dense, predatory Yang still saturating the environment collided with their flesh. The presence of that man was not a hostile threat; it was the gravity of a sun pulling small comets.
The body's reaction was scandalous and involuntary. The purest, most heroic Yin of both warriors boiled instantaneously, seeking thermal equilibrium upon inhaling that dirty, unforgettable perfume. Bìyù's tall, athletic legs wavered, the golden fortress surrendered a step, a thick and shameful heat flooding her lower abdomen. Beside her, Qīng Yǔ's docile purity melted; the Celestial Plume gasped, her flawless face burning in a feverish flush, her trembling hands gripping the fabric of her own dress as an instinctive and profane desire clouded her compassion.
At the center of the dim light, Yù Qíng smiled.
It was a contained, sweet, perfectly polished curl of lips — but one that concealed the depths of a lethal abyss. The goddess in blue extended her pale hand in a gentle gesture of invitation, her black gaze glinting in the half-light, while the sepulchral, intoxicating silence of the cabin devoured the two guests' sanity.
The altar's doors were open.