Chapter 623- Arrival of Well Stuffed Women Warriors
Su Ling fought like a woman possessed.
Her sword — Moonpetal — moved in arcs of golden light, each swing carrying the weight of her entire cultivation base. She was fast. Faster than any of them expected. The ancestor’s qi had done more than break her bottleneck — it had refined her meridians, compressed her spiritual sea, sharpened her spiritual perception to a razor’s edge.
But four against one was four against one.
Zhao Kuang’s broadsword came from the left — a massive, overhead swing that carried the force of a falling mountain. Su Ling raised Moonpetal and blocked. The impact drove her into the ground, her feet cracking the stone, her arms shaking.
CLANG!
"You’re strong!" Zhao Kuang shouted, his yellow grin splitting his scarred face. "But I can kill you before you kill me!"
"Try!" Su Ling spat, and kicked him in the chest, sending him staggering backward.
Han Tianlei’s spear thrust came from behind. She twisted — too slow. The spear tip caught her shoulder, punching through the violet robe and into the flesh beneath. She screamed.
"HAAH~!"
Blood sprayed. Her left arm went numb. The spear withdrew and thrust again. She parried — barely — the spear tip sparking off Moonpetal’s edge.
Wei Donghai’s twin swords came from the right. She ducked. The blades scissored through the space where her neck had been. She rolled, came up swinging, and her sword caught Wei Donghai’s outer thigh.
"ARGH!" He staggered, blood streaming down his leg. "You cunt —"
Mo Lun’s black qi struck from behind. She felt it hit her back — a cold, corrosive force that ate through her robes and into her skin. She gasped, her cultivation base stuttering, the golden light flickering.
She turned and swung. Moonpetal caught Mo Lun’s guard — his crossed arms blocking the blade — and she pushed, driving him back, her golden qi burning against his black.
"GRAAAAH!" Mo Lun’s eyes widened. His sleeves caught fire — golden flames eating the black qi. He stumbled backward, slapping at his arms.
"FOUR ON ONE AND YOU STILL CAN’T DROP HER?" Zhao Kuang roared. He charged, his broadsword raised. "DIE!"
The fight raged. Across the camp, soldiers watched in horror as four Golden Core sect leaders — the pride of the orthodox coalition — failed to put down a single woman.
Hours became a day. A day became two. Two became three.
Su Ling fought. She bled. She was wounded — dozens of cuts, burns, punctures. Her violet robe was shredded, barely clinging to her body, her skin visible beneath — scarred, bloody, her tits partially exposed through the torn fabric, the rounds of her heavy breasts visible through the gaps. Her braid had come undone, her dark hair flying loose and wild around her face.
She fought. She killed. Every soldier who came near her died — cut down by Moonpetal’s golden edge, their bodies splitting like firewood. She couldn’t kill the four sect leaders — they were too strong, too well-matched — but she could hold them. She could deny them passage up the mountain.
And so she held.
Day four. Day five. Her wounds accumulated. Her qi reserves drained. She fought with less speed, less power. The four leaders pressed harder, sensing her weakening.
"LOOK AT HER!" Han Tianlei shouted, his spear dripping with her blood. "She’s slowing down! One more day and she drops!"
"SHE KILLED SIXTY OF MY DISCIPLES!" Zhao Kuang screamed, his broadsword carving a bloody arc. "SIXTY! I’LL CUT HER TITS OFF AND FEED THEM TO MY DOGS!"
Day six. Day seven.
Su Ling was dying. She knew it. Her golden core was cracked — hairline fractures spreading through the condensed spiritual energy in her dantian. Her meridians were burning. Her body was broken — wounds covering every inch of her skin, her robe nothing but bloody rags, her tits fully exposed now, the heavy mounds marked with cuts and bruises, her nipples raw from the torn fabric rubbing against them.
She fought on.
The morning of the eighth day, Su Ling fell.
Her knees hit the ground. Moonpetal slipped from her fingers. The sword clattered on the stone, its golden light flickering, dimming. Her body — broken, bleeding, held together by will alone — gave out. She collapsed face-first into the crater her final clash had created.
The four sect leaders stood around her. Panting. Wounded. Furious.
Zhao Kuang’s face was a mask of blood — his own, hers, his men’s. His crimson robes were shredded. His broadsword was chipped. He breathed like a bellows.
Han Tianlei leaned on his spear, the iron shaft cracked. His beard was singed. His left eye was swollen shut from a punch Su Ling had landed with her free hand when her sword broke.
Wei Donghai’s twin swords were gone — shattered by Moonpetal’s final swing. His jade robes were black with blood. His handsome face was a ruin of cuts and bruises.
Mo Lun was the least injured — his black qi had shielded him — but even he was pale, his spiritual reserves drained, his dark eyes hollow.
"Eight days," Han Tianlei said, his voice raw. "One woman. Eight days. The bitch held four Golden Core sect leaders for eight days."
"This cunt has stopped us for so long," Zhao Kuang growled. He spat blood. "Now she’s dead."
"Cut her head off," Wei Donghai said, his cold smile finally returning. "Mount it on a pole. Let her sect see it before we burn them all."
Mo Lun said nothing. He simply drew a black dagger from his sleeve.
Su Ling lay in the crater. Her face was pressed against the stone. Her body was still. Her violet robe was gone — torn away completely, leaving her naked, her back a canvas of wounds. Her heavy tits were pressed against the stone, her bare ass raised slightly. Her hair — matted with blood — covered her face.
Her lips moved.
"Ancestor," she whispered. "Forgive me."
Zhao Kuang paused. His broadsword was raised. "What did she say?"
And then they looked up.
The sky opened.
Not with clouds. Not with thunder. With stars.
Shooting stars — dozens of them — blazing golden trails across the morning sky. They streaked from the peak of Mount Hua, descending toward the valley with the speed and force of falling meteors.
"What — what is that?" Han Tianlei’s one good eye went wide.
The first star hit the ground between Su Ling and the four leaders. The impact detonated — golden qi erupting in a dome that flattened everything within a hundred meters. Tents flew. Soldiers were hurled through the air. Bonfires scattered.
When the dust cleared, a figure stood in the crater.
Elder Fanxue. Naked from the waist up, her heavy tits bare and heaving, her silver-trimmed robes tied at the waist. Her dark hair flew wild around her face. Her cultivation aura — golden, dense, blazing — radiated from her body like sunlight.
She was not alone.
More impacts. More stars. Elder Qingshu — lean, muscular, her small firm tits bare, her long legs planted wide. Elder Mingyu — thick, motherly, her enormous tits swinging heavy as she landed, her wide hips set in a fighting stance. Elder Yaochi — young, lush, her enormous breasts barely contained by her torn robe, her pink nipples visible through the ripped fabric.
They landed one after another. Disciples. Twenty. Thirty. Fifty. Young women in pink robes, their cultivation bases blazing, their swords drawn. The blind disciple Yue landed beside Fanxue, her white eyes tracking qi, her lean body coiled like a spring. The Cai mother and the Liu mother landed together, their thick, mature bodies radiating Core Formation qi, their enormous tits straining against their fighting robes.
"WHAT IS THIS?" Zhao Kuang roared. "THEY’RE ATTACKING?"
"THE ELDERS! THE DISCIPLES! THEY WERE HIDING!" Han Tianlei shouted. "ALL OF THEM — GOLDEN CORE? IMPOSSIBLE!"
"DEFEND! DEFEND!" Wei Donghai screamed. "ALL FORCES —"
But the Plum Blossom Sect was already among them.