Chapter 641- Serve me Tonight
Villagers had gathered. Drawn by the golden qi, by the sight of the immortal in their village, by the miracle. They approached — cautious, deferential, their faces carrying the mixture of fear and greed that characterized mortals in the presence of power.
"Immortal, please honor our village —"
"Lord, we have prepared offerings —"
"Fruits, immortal — the best fruits —"
They pushed forward, crowding around Tianlong, their hands bearing offerings of dates and dried fruit and rice wine. And in their pushing, they pushed Suyin backward. The untouchable. The cursed woman. She was shoved aside, her thick body stumbling, her enormous tits swaying, her bare feet sliding in the dirt. The villagers positioned themselves between her and the immortal, blocking her access, presenting their offerings.
Tianlong looked at the villagers. Then at Suyin — standing at the back of the crowd, her son in her arms, her dusty face confused and resigned and hopeful all at once.
"I will stay with her," he said.
The villagers froze. Their offerings hung in the air.
"With — with her, Lord?" the aunt’s sharp voice came from the crowd. "But she is — she is untouchable. She is cursed. Her husband died of —"
"I will stay with her," Tianlong repeated. His voice carried the weight of divine authority. There was no third repetition.
The villagers parted. They set down their offerings. They bowed — deep, fearful — and retreated. The aunt’s sharp face was white. She said nothing. She disappeared into the crowd.
Suyin stood alone. Her large brown eyes were enormous. Her dusty, dark face was flushed. Her enormous tits heaved beneath the torn cotton blouse. Her thick body trembled.
"L-Lord —" she stammered. "I — I have nothing — no food worthy of — my hut is — it is broken — I cannot —"
Tianlong walked toward her. The crowd scattered from his path. He stopped before her, his massive frame towering over her thick, dark body. His gold-crimson eyes looked down at her — at her round, dusty face, at her enormous tits straining the cotton, at her wide hips and thick thighs.
"Show me your home," he said.
The hut was worse than he had expected.
The thatch roof had a hole large enough to see the sky through. The mud walls were cracked, some of the gaps wide enough to let wind through. The floor was packed dirt. The only furniture was a straw mat, a low wooden table, and a wooden bed frame — the kind found in poor villages, a simple platform of rough planks with a thin cotton pad for a mattress.
Suyin fluttered around the hut, her thick body moving with nervous energy. She tried to clean — sweeping the dirt floor with a broom of tied straw, pushing the cracked table into the corner, arranging the straw mat. Her enormous tits swung with each movement, the heavy mounds visible through the torn cotton. Her wide ass shifted beneath the skirt, the thick cheeks moving.
"Forgive the mess, Lord — I did not expect — I will prepare —"
Tianlong sat on the wooden bed. The frame creaked under his weight. He looked at the hut — at the poverty, the squalor, the desperation. He had seen worse. In the lower realms, in the mortal world, in the cultivation world’s forgotten corners. But this was the home of his disciple’s mother. And that made it his concern.
The boy — Chen Wei’s younger brother, Tianlong assumed — fell asleep on the straw mat almost immediately. The fever had taken everything from him, and the healing had left him exhausted. His small body curled into a ball, his breathing deep and even.
Hours passed. The sun moved across the sky, its light shifting through the holes in the roof. Tianlong sat on the bed, his back against the wall, his eyes closed, his divine qi circulating through the hut’s structure — reinforcing the walls, sealing the cracks, stabilizing the roof. Small repairs. The kind of thing a god did without thinking.
Night fell.
The village outside went dark. Cooking fires flickered in the distance. The sound of crickets filled the air. The hut was lit by a single oil lamp — a clay dish with a wick, the flame small and wavering.
Suyin entered the hut. She carried a small clay pot — earthenware, chipped, blackened from many cookings. Steam rose from it. The smell of rice — plain, white rice, the cheapest food available — filled the small space.
She knelt before Tianlong. Her thick body folded, her enormous tits resting on her thick thighs, the heavy mounds spreading. Her dark hands trembled as she held up the pot.
"Forgive me, Immortal," she whispered. Her large brown eyes were wet. Her dusty face was flushed with shame. "I was not able to bring anything — anything better. This is all I have. Rice. Plain rice. I have no meat, no vegetables, no wine. I am — I am a poor woman. An untouchable. This is all I can offer."
Tianlong looked at her. At her trembling hands. At her enormous tits, the nipples visible through the worn cotton. At her wide, dark face — beautiful in its own way, the full lips and large brown eyes and high cheekbones of a woman who had once been lovely before poverty and grief had carved their marks.
"It’s fine," he said. "Feed me."
She trembled. She served the rice — scooping it with a wooden spoon, placing it in a chipped bowl she had found somewhere. She held the bowl up to him, her hands shaking so badly that the grains rattled.
He didn’t take the bowl.
"Feed me," he said again. "With your hands."
Her large brown eyes went wide. Her full lips parted. "With my — Lord, I am — I am dirty. I am untouchable. If you touch me — if you eat from my hands —"
"Feed me."
She trembled. Her dark fingers scooped the rice. She lifted her hand to his mouth — her fingers trembling, the grains falling, her thick body shaking. He opened his mouth. She placed the rice on his tongue.
He ate. He closed his lips around her fingers. His tongue swept across her dark skin — tasting salt, rice, and the faint, electric tingle of a woman whose body carried latent qi talent. He sucked her fingers. She gasped.
"Lord —"
He released her fingers. He swallowed. He looked at her face — flushed, dark, beautiful in its mortification.
"Again," he said.
She fed him. Grain by grain. Finger by finger. Each time, his lips closed around her fingers. Each time, his tongue tasted her skin. Each time, she gasped, her enormous tits heaving, her thick thighs pressing together, her dark face burning.
When the rice was gone, he licked her palm. Her fingers. Her wrist. The inside of her forearm — dark, smooth, the skin warm and soft despite the calluses from labor.
"How is your son?" he asked, his lips still against her wrist.
She trembled. "Sleeping, Lord. The fever is gone. You healed him. He is — he is sleeping peacefully for the first time in three days."
"Good."
He sat on the wooden bed. He spread his legs. His dark silk robe fell open at the waist. Beneath it — his body, his muscles, his cock. Still flaccid. Resting against his thigh, the thick shaft visible, the crimson head partially exposed.
He looked at her.
"Come here," he said. "Serve me tonight."