Chapter 557- Undressing Elders for their Ancestor
The four female elders looked at each other.
The expression that moved between them was not simple. It was the layered, compressed expression of women who had cultivated for centuries, who had political instincts sharpened to fine edges by decades of sect hierarchy navigation, and who were now standing in a hall that smelled of blood and pheromones with a naked Immortal Emperor’s cock-print still fresh on their sect master’s cheek.
The youngest among them — Elder Fanxue, barely two hundred years in cultivation, her face carrying the preserved appearance of a woman in her mid-thirties despite the cultivation years behind it — went rigid.
Her robes were soaked dark at the shoulders.
Her eyes moved to Tianlong with the wide, involuntary attention of someone who had just registered that a sentence containing the phrase ’yet to be deflowered’ had been directed in her general direction.
Her mouth opened.
"I —" she started.
"This is not a discussion," said Elder Mengsha, from beside her, in the flat tone of a woman who had made her calculation and was watching others arrive at theirs.
"But I have preserved —"
"You have preserved it," said Elder Mengsha, "until now. Congratulations. The timing is excellent."
Fanxue’s face cycled through several expressions in rapid succession. Shock, outrage, the particular cultivator dignity of a woman who had maintained a cultivation practice for two hundred years on the basis of certain foundational principles —
And then the pheromones hit her properly.
She had been managing them at arm’s length since the border territory clearing, running a continuous spiritual suppression of the involuntary responses her cultivation base kept generating. She had been good at it. She was a disciplined cultivator.
But the sealed hall had been accumulating Tianlong’s passive emission for the last half-hour, and there was only so long a closed room could hold that quantity of Horny God Physique output before the concentration exceeded what any Nascent Soul suppression technique could reasonably address.
Her knees pressed together.
Her face went a color that had nothing to do with anger.
Tianlong looked at her with the patient, gold-crimson calm of a man who had watched this precise sequence play out in enough women to find it neither surprising nor requiring comment.
"Well," he said. He looked around the hall — at the blood on the floor, at the soaked robes, at the general atmosphere of a room that had recently been through something significant. He sighed, a long, measured exhale of a man who has decided the current setting is inconvenient.
"Have I made all of you fear me so much that you have forgotten how to think?"
Nobody answered.
"You are cultivators," he said. "You have walked the path of spiritual refinement for centuries between you." His eyes moved across the four women with the mild disapproval of someone noting a standard that has slipped. "And you are standing here covered in the blood of idiots, shaking."
He looked at the sect master.
Yaolan had risen from the floor. She was standing with her hands at her sides, her silver hair disordered where his fist had been, her robe stained at the shoulder with a spray that had not come from her. Her face had its authority back — a thinner version of it, rebuilt quickly from available materials, but present.
"Sect master," he said. "This is your hall. Act like it."
A pause.
"Change the setting."
Yaolan’s eyes moved to the blood on the floor. To the bodies. To her four remaining elders standing in their soaked robes like survivors of something they had not finished processing.
She drew one breath.
"Arrange the east bath hall," she said. Her voice came out controlled. "The private one. Seal it from the disciple compound. Full formation privacy."
Elder Mengsha moved immediately.
The east bath hall was the oldest structure in the inner pavilion.
It had been built in the sect’s third generation, when the founding patriarch’s successor had decided that the cultivation practice of the Plum Blossom technique required regular water immersion for meridian maintenance, and had constructed accordingly. The pool was deep, fed by a mountain spring that had been formation-treated centuries ago to carry a faint spiritual charge, its water the pale blue-green of glacial melt filtered through centuries of jade-infused rock.
The hall itself was stone and carved timber, its walls hung with the cultivated moss that grew only at high altitude and smelled faintly of pine and mineral water. Steam rose from the pool’s surface in slow, twisting columns. The formation privacy seals — heavy, double-layered constructions that had been renewed last month as part of routine maintenance — engaged with a resonant hum as Elder Mengsha activated the outermost ring.
From outside, the east bath hall became invisible to cultivation perception.
From inside, the world outside ceased to exist.
Tianlong walked in last.
He moved across the tiled floor to the pool’s edge, stepping over the lip, and descended the carved stone steps into the water without pausing. The pool came to his lower abdomen at its deepest point. The spiritual charge in the water registered against his skin as a mild warmth, pleasant, negligible against the scale of his own cultivation output. His cock rested against the water’s surface, the broad head half-submerged, the weight of it unchanged.
He turned.
The four elders and the sect master stood at the pool’s edge.
Their robes were still on.
Yaolan’s hands were at the collar of her outer robe. She had gotten that far and stopped, her fingers resting on the fabric with the arrested motion of a woman who had given herself an instruction that her body was having a conversation about.
"Strip," Tianlong said.
The word landed in the steaming air and sat there.
"Remove your clothes."
The silence stretched for three full seconds. Then Elder Mengsha, who had apparently decided that her two-hundred-year-old cultivation dignity was a resource she could choose to deploy elsewhere, reached up and undid her outer robe with the brisk efficiency of someone completing a task.
It fell.
She was broad-shouldered beneath it, her body the result of a cultivation path that built density as much as refinement. Her tits were heavy — genuinely, gravitationally heavy, the kind that had developed over centuries of Plum Blossom technique cultivation until the technique’s lower-core emphasis had translated into a chest that required a significant structural commitment from whatever she was wearing. They hung against her chest with a soft, full weight, her nipples a dark rose, wide and flat, already stiffening in the steam-warm air.
Her pussy showed a dark, neat triangle of hair between full thighs. Her waist was thick, her hips broad, the body of a cultivator who had never prioritized appearance and had ended up with exactly the kind of raw, generous female architecture that four hundred years of Plum Blossom technique produced when nobody was being precious about it.
She looked at Tianlong with the expression of a woman who has made a decision and is standing in it.
He chuckled.
One after another, the remaining elders undressed.
Each body was its own variation on the theme — the Plum Blossom technique’s fingerprints visible in every one of them. Generous chests, wide hips, the soft lower-belly curves of cultivation paths that emphasized dantian warmth over aesthetic refinement. One elder had tits that hung in long, pendulous arcs, her dark nipples pointing downward, the sheer mass of them pulling against the skin of her chest. Another was slimmer, her smaller tits perky and high with pale pink tips, her pussy shaved bare, lips slightly puffy and pink. A third had a body that leaned thick in every direction — her ass was enormous, her thighs pressing together, her belly soft and round, her large brown nipples already hard in the cool air above the pool’s steam.
Cultivation technique. Body tempering. Centuries of lower-core spiritual energy circulation.
The result was a lineup of raw, unapologetic female bodies that smelled, faintly, of spiritual energy and blood and the warm, involuntary arousal that the enclosed room’s pheromone concentration was producing whether anyone had consented to it or not.
"Plump," Tianlong said.
He looked across the assembled elders with the frank, inventory gaze of a man appreciating a collection.
"Every single one of you." His eyes moved from chest to chest, from the tits of one cultivator to the broad hips of another, taking his time. "Is this the Plum Blossom sect or the Plump Bosom sect?"
He said it without particular cruelty. The way a man states an observation.
Elder Fanxue, the youngest, who had been the last to undress and who was currently standing with her arms wrapped around her own tits with the self-protective instinct of someone who had never been looked at this way by anyone, made a small, strangled sound that might have been a response and might have been the involuntary noise of a body processing the proximity of divinity and pheromones simultaneously.
She was the youngest. She was also, by the raw, unfiltered read of Tianlong’s Horny God Physique — which registered intact hymens the way some cultivators registered spirit veins — the only virgin in the room.
Her body had the look of it. Tighter. Slightly less assured in the way it occupied space. Her tits were medium, round, with small, pale pink nipples that had stiffened into stiff points in the steam, her areolae puffy and raised. Her pussy had a soft down of dark hair above tight, close-pressed lips that had never been parted by anything except her own cultivation practice.
She was trying very hard not to look at his cock.
She was failing.
Tianlong’s eyes settled on her.