Chapter 556 - The One Who Wants to Be Deflowered
One by one, with the same quiet, domestic sound — the sound a person makes when indicating a realization, when punctuating a thought — the male elders of the Plum Blossom sect ceased to exist from the neck up. Each pop was its own small, total event. Each one left a brief, hot spray and then nothing, the bodies dropping with the loose, sudden collapse of structures that have lost their organizing principle.
The female elders screamed.
Not the cultivator screams of women fighting or defending — the raw, involuntary screams of bodies that had just watched something that bypassed all cultivation processing and went directly to the oldest, most fundamental fear architecture in the nervous system. They threw themselves sideways, backward, forward, their robes drenched in the spray of their colleagues, their Nascent Soul cultivation bases blazing with a defensive urgency that was responding to a threat it had absolutely no capacity to actually engage.
"PLEASE — ANCESTOR — PLEASE STOP —"
"WHAT IS — WHY — WHAT DID WE —"
"ANCESTOR! MERCY! THIS HUMBLE ONE HAS DONE NOTHING — PLEASE —"
"STOP THIS CRUELTY!"
The sect master’s voice.
It cut through the screaming with the sharp, clean authority of a woman who had not lost her composure when she told an Immortal Emperor her sect did not need his help, and was not losing it now. She had moved forward. She was on her knees.
Her forehead touched the black stone floor.
Her silver hair spread around her in a curtain, the silver strands catching the hall’s light, the sect master of the Mount Hua Plum Blossom sect pressing her face against the floor of her own audience hall while her remaining elders sobbed and shook around her.
"Ancestor," she said. "This one begs you. Stop."
Her voice was not begging. Her body was begging. Her voice was asking.
"This sect has committed enough of its own crimes. We do not need more blood on our stone."
The hall had gone quiet again.
The bodies of the male elders lay in their positions. The remaining female elders — four of them, including Elder Mengsha — had pressed themselves against the walls, their robes soaked, their faces expressing the specific quality of shock that comes from watching something that cannot be undone.
Tianlong stood.
The movement was unhurried. He unfolded from the seat with the languid ease of a man who had decided to stand and was not inconvenienced by the state of the floor. His bare feet stepped around the nearest pool of dark blood without looking down. His cock hung between his thighs with its consistent, undeterred presence.
He walked to the sect master.
He crouched in front of her bowed form, settling into a wide, easy position, his elbows resting on his knees, his cock hanging in the space between. He looked at the crown of her silver head from a distance of approximately one foot.
"Yes," he said.
The sect master’s breath caught.
"You are correct," he said. "It is your sect’s fault. You allowed it. You could have prevented it and you did not." He tilted his head. "That is the only honest answer in this room."
A pause.
"You gave it."
His hand moved.
Large fingers settled on the crown of her silver head, pressing with a weight that was not violent but was not gentle — the weight of something acknowledging what was beneath it. He held her there for a moment.
Then his fingers moved to her hair.
He gathered a fistful of silver, at the base of her skull, and he pulled — not harshly, but with the definitive upward direction of a hand that had decided where this head was going. Her neck arched. Her face lifted from the stone.
Her eyes traveled upward.
They traveled from the black stone floor, to his feet, to the carved landscape of his lower legs, to his thighs, to the heavy, limp weight of his cock hanging directly in front of her face at exactly the height that his crouch produced, its thick girth at rest an inch from her chin, the broad crimson head carrying its morning scent.
Yaolan, sect master of the Mount Hua Plum Blossom sect, cultivator of four hundred years, Peak Nascent Soul, looked at the ancestor’s cock from a distance of one inch with the wide-open eyes of a woman whose face had run out of blankness.
His hand brought her cheek to rest against the shaft.
The warmth of it pressed against her face, the dense weight of it resting along her cheekbone, the pheromone-thick scent of it entering her nose from zero distance.
Her Nascan Soul pulsed once. Involuntarily. The Plum Blossom technique’s foundational frequency activated without her permission, warm energy rushing to her lower core with the helpless biological loyalty of a technique built around exactly this kind of proximity.
"This sect," he said, his voice arriving from above her, calm and declarative, "now operates under new management."
He let the phrase sit.
"What do you say?"
The silence in the hall had a different quality now. The female elders at the walls had stopped making sounds. They were watching with the stillness of women who were performing an emergency recalibration of every expectation they had carried into this room.
Yaolan’s cheek was against the ancestor’s cock.
His hand was in her hair.
Her face, which had kept its authority through everything — through the border territory, through the flight home, through the exploding heads of six elders — was flushed a deep, rising rose that had nothing to do with cold air or effort.
"Yes," she said.
The word came out of her with the quality of something that had been held under pressure for a very long time and had found its door.
"Yes," she said again. "You are right."
He chuckled.
The sound moved through his chest and traveled down his cock where it rested against her face, a low vibration she felt against her cheekbone.
His hand tightened in her silver hair.
"Lock this hall," he said. His gold-crimson eyes moved across the remaining four female elders at the walls — across the Nascent Soul cultivators with their soaked robes and their wide eyes and their flushed cultivation bases — with the unhurried inventory of a man who had already decided what came next and was giving the room a moment to arrive at the same conclusion.
"I am going to correct this sect from the foundation up."
His other hand moved to the sect master’s chin.
"Starting with its leader."
The four female elders looked at each other.
Elder Mengsha, who had survived four hundred years of cultivation politics by making correct calculations at critical moments, looked at the ancestor, looked at the sect master’s flushed face pressed against his cock, looked at the golden-pulse glow of Jingwei’s Peak Core Formation still faintly visible through the walls from where she lay resting in the preparation chamber.
She reached out.
She touched the hall’s formation lock with her Nascent Soul cultivation, engaging it with a soft, resonant click that sealed the jade doors from floor to ceiling.
The other three female elders, after a fractional pause, made the same calculation she had made.
One by one, three more formation pulses engaged.
Tianlong smiled.
It was the smile of a man who had played this game across enough worlds to recognize the moment when the room understood the rules.
"Good and now... bring the one among you who have yet to get deflowered."