Chapter 640- Helping a Village MILF
She was carrying a wooden bucket — water, sloshing over the edges as she ran. Her body was thick. Not the cultivated thickness of the Plum Blossom Sect women — not the martial-artist muscle and heavy-titted softness of warriors and cultivators.
This was the thickness of a mortal woman who had borne children, worked fields, carried water, and endured years of hard labor.
Her hips were wide — very wide — the bones broad, the flesh thick, the kind of hips that swung heavily with each stride.
Her ass was thick and round, the heavy cheeks shifting beneath her rough cotton skirt with every step.
Her thighs were thick, the inner surfaces rubbing together, the flesh soft and deep. Her waist was wide, her belly soft, the shape of a woman who had given birth and never fully recovered.
Her tits were enormous. Even through the rough, homespun cotton blouse — stained with sweat and dust and water — the mounds were visible. Heavy. Wide. The fabric strained across them, the nipples visible as dark points against the thin cloth. They swung with each running step, the heavy flesh shifting, the mounds bouncing against her chest and then outward, the movement visible even through the thick fabric.
Her arms were bare — the sleeves of her blouse rolled up — and her skin was dark. Not tanned. Dark. The deep, rich brown of a woman who had spent her entire life under the sun, working, laboring, enduring. Her arms were thick, the muscles visible beneath the soft layer of fat. Her shoulders were broad, her neck thick. Her face was round, full-cheeked, dark-skinned, with large brown eyes that were wide with fear and exhaustion. Her hair was black, coarse, tied in a rough knot at the back of her head.
She was running toward a small mud hut at the village’s edge. The hut was dilapidated — the thatch roof half-collapsed, the mud walls cracked, the wooden door hanging from one hinge. A child’s cry came from inside — thin, reedy, the sound of a sick child.
"Shh, shh, Mama is here," the woman gasped, pushing through the door. She set the bucket down. Water sloshed. She fell to her knees beside a straw mat, where a small boy — five, maybe six years old — lay shivering. His face was flushed. His breathing was labored. His small body was hot to the touch.
Tianlong stood outside the hut. He watched through the collapsed wall.
The woman — Chen Wei’s mother, her name was Chen Suyin — pressed a wet cloth to the boy’s forehead. Her enormous tits hung beneath her as she knelt, the heavy mounds swinging, the nipples visible through the wet fabric. Her thick ass was raised, the cotton skirt pulling tight across the heavy cheeks. Her dark skin was covered in dust — she had fallen, he had seen it, the bucket tumbling, the water spilling, her body hitting the dirt. Dust coated her arms, her face, her neck. Her rough blouse was torn at the shoulder, exposing the dark, smooth skin beneath.
"Suyin! Suyin!"
A voice. An older woman — the aunt, Tianlong assumed — appeared at the edge of the property. She was thin, sharp-faced, her expression carrying the mean satisfaction of a person who held power over someone weaker.
"Suyin, the water bucket is cracked again. You’ll need to buy a new one. The village fund won’t cover it — you’re already behind on your contributions. And the property dispute — my husband says you need to sign the papers by tomorrow, or —"
"Please," Suyin whispered, her large brown eyes wet. "My son is sick. He has been feverish for three days. I need medicine. I need — I need help. Please."
The aunt’s sharp face hardened. "Not my problem. Your husband is dead. His debts are yours. Sign the papers, give up the property, and move out. There are other families who need the land."
"Please — my son —"
"Deal with it yourself."
The aunt turned and walked away. She didn’t look back.
Suyin’s head dropped. Her large brown eyes overflowed. Tears ran down her dusty, dark cheeks, leaving pale tracks. Her enormous tits heaved with each sob, the heavy mounds rising and falling, the nipples visible through the wet fabric. Her thick body trembled.
She stood. She picked up the boy — small, light, feverish — and carried him out of the hut. She walked toward the village center, her thick ass swaying beneath the cotton skirt, her bare feet slapping the dirt.
She knocked on doors. One after another.
"Please — my son is sick — he needs medicine — please, someone —"
Doors closed. Faces disappeared behind shutters. The village — the entire village — turned its back on her.
"She’s untouchable," a voice whispered from behind a window. "Don’t help her. The aunt’s family has marked her. Anyone who helps her becomes their enemy."
"She carries a curse," another voice said. "Her husband died of qi deviation. Bad luck. She brings bad luck."
"Untouchable. Don’t touch her. Don’t speak to her. Don’t help her."
Suyin heard it all. Her dark face crumbled. Her tears fell. Her thick body shook. She clutched her sick son to her chest — the boy’s head resting against her enormous tits, the fever-heat radiating from his small body — and walked back to her hut.
She was black. Marked. Untouchable. A widow whose husband had died, whose property was being stolen, whose son was sick, whose village had abandoned her.
Tianlong watched her walk. His gold-crimson eyes tracked her body — the wide hips swaying, the thick ass shifting, the enormous tits bouncing with each step. Even through the dust and the tears and the homespun cotton, her body was remarkable. Thick. Soft. Fertile. The kind of body that a god could appreciate.
He stepped into her path.
Suyin stopped. She looked up — way up — at the towering figure in the dark silk robe. Her large brown eyes went wide. Her mouth opened. Her arms tightened around her son.
"Lord —" she whispered. "Immortal —"
She fell to her knees. The boy in her arms whimpered.
"Lord, please help," she said. Her voice was small. Broken. Desperate. "My son — he is sick — three days — no one will help — please, I beg you — I have nothing to offer, but please —"
Tianlong looked at the boy. His divine qi extended — touching the child’s body, reading his meridians, his organs, his qi flow. The diagnosis was simple. A spiritual fever — common in children with latent cultivation talent. The boy’s meridians were opening prematurely, and his undeveloped dantian couldn’t handle the qi influx. Left untreated, the fever would cook his organs within a week.
Tianlong placed his hand on the boy’s forehead. Divine qi flowed — golden, warm, precise. The fever broke. The boy’s breathing steadied. His temperature dropped. His meridians stabilized, the premature opening sealed, the qi flow redirected to safe pathways. The child’s eyes fluttered open — clear, bright, no longer fevered.
Suyin stared. Her large brown eyes went wider than Tianlong had thought possible. Her mouth opened. No sound came out.
Then — "God —" she breathed. She lowered her head until her forehead touched the dirt. "You are a god. A true immortal. Thank you — thank you — I have nothing — I am nothing — but thank you —"
The boy looked up at Tianlong with bright, curious eyes. "Mama, the immortal fixed me."
"He did, baby," Suyin whispered, her voice shaking. "He fixed you."