Chapter 656- Women at Well wants Tianlong to Drink from Them
The valley stretched beneath him like a wound in the earth.
Tianlong flew low — below the cloud line, below the bird paths, below the altitude where cultivators might sense his passage. His dark silk robe whipped in the spiritual wind, the fabric snapping against his body, his golden qi suppressed to a sliver of its true radiance. He didn’t want to announce himself. Not yet. Not to this place.
The valley was unnamed. It existed in the gap between two mountain ranges — a narrow corridor of forest and stream and wild grass that connected the eastern lowlands to the central provinces. No sects claimed it. No cities occupied it. The villages that dotted its floor were small, poor, forgotten — the kind of places where mortals lived and died without ever knowing that cultivators existed, that gods walked the earth, that power beyond imagination was separated from them by nothing more than a mountain crossing.
The forest below was dense. Ancient trees — pine and oak and spirit-wood variants that had grown wild for centuries — formed a canopy so thick that the ground was perpetually shadowed. Streams cut through the undergrowth, their waters clean and cold, fed by mountain springs that carried trace amounts of spiritual energy. The energy was thin — too thin for orthodox cultivation, too scattered for formation work. But it was there. In the water. In the soil. In the trees. Waiting.
Tianlong’s gold-crimson eyes scanned the forest floor. His divine qi extended in invisible tendrils, probing the terrain, searching for the landmarks that Wei Jun — the round-faced disciple — had described. His grandmother’s village was on the far side of the valley, past the river crossing, near the old shrine.
He hadn’t reached the river yet.
What he found first was the well.
It sat in a clearing — a rough circle of trampled grass and bare earth, carved from the forest by decades of use. The well itself was old. Stone-built, the mortar crumbling, the wooden frame weathered to grey. A rope hung from the crossbeam, frayed and thin, a wooden bucket dangling at its end. The water below was clean — Tianlong could taste it in the qi — drawn from a deep aquifer that carried mountain spring water through layers of mineral-rich stone.
Four women worked the well.
They were villagers. Commoners. Mortal women who had never cultivated, never practiced qi circulation, never known anything beyond the narrow circumference of their lives — the well, the fields, the hearth, the bed. Their clothes were torn, patched, stained with dirt and sweat. Their bodies were rough — hardened by labor, softened by childbearing, marked by sun and wind and years.
The first woman — the tallest — was drawing water. She leaned over the well’s edge, her hands gripping the rope, her body bent at the waist, her feet braced against the stone base. She was lean, her body wiry from years of field work, her arms showing muscle beneath the brown skin. Her tits were medium — round, heavy enough to sway beneath her torn blouse, the nipples visible through the thin fabric. Her hips were narrow, her ass small and tight. Her hair was black, coarse, tied in a rough braid that hung over one shoulder. Her face was long, angular, weathered, her skin dark brown from the sun. Her name — Tianlong would learn later — was Meifeng.
The second woman held the bucket as the first pulled. She was short, thick, her body compact and round. Her tits were large — heavy, wide, the mounds straining her torn blouse, the dark nipples visible through holes in the fabric. Her belly was soft, rounded, the skin marked with stretch marks from multiple pregnancies. Her hips were wide, her ass thick and round, the cheeks heavy beneath her cotton skirt. Her thighs were thick, rubbing together as she walked. Her hair was black, thick, loose around her round face. Her skin was lighter than the first woman’s — a medium brown, the color of turned earth. Her name was Aihua.
The third woman waited behind them, holding two empty clay jars.
She was the youngest — early twenties, her body still firm, still carrying the softness of youth. Her tits were small, round, perky, the nipples pink and stiff through her torn blouse. Her waist was narrow, her hips curved, her ass round and full.
Her hair was long, black, hanging loose down her back. Her skin was medium brown, smooth, unmarked by the deeper lines that age would bring. Her face was oval, pretty in the plain way of village women, with full lips and dark eyes. Her name was Liling.
The fourth woman was the oldest — mid-thirties, her body mature, thick, carrying the weight of a woman who had borne children and labored for years.
Her tits were enormous — the largest of the four, heavy, wide, the mounds hanging low beneath her torn blouse, the dark nipples wide and visible through the fabric. Her belly was soft, rounded, marked with old stretch marks.
Her hips were very wide, her ass thick and deep, the cheeks heavy and round. Her thighs were thick, the inner surfaces touching. Her hair was black, coarse, tied in a messy knot. Her skin was dark brown, weathered, her face round, full-cheeked, her eyes tired but warm. Her name was Cuifen.
Four women. Four mortal bodies. Four lives of labor and poverty and anonymity.
Tianlong descended.
He dropped through the trees like a stone, his dark silk robe whipping, his golden qi flaring for a single heartbeat — enough to announce his presence, enough to freeze every woman in the clearing. He landed on the trampled grass, his feet touching the earth without sound. His massive frame stood at the edge of the clearing, his gold-crimson eyes scanning the four women.
Meifeng — the tall, lean one — saw him first. Her hands released the rope. The bucket dropped. The splash echoed from the well. Her angular face went white. Her dark eyes went wide. Her mouth opened.
"Immortal —" The word escaped her as a breath. Her body folded — her knees hitting the dirt, her forehead touching the ground, her thin frame prostrate before the golden-eyed man.
The others followed. Aihua — the short, thick one — dropped, her large tits swinging as she fell, her round face pressed to the earth. Liling — the young one — fell beside her, her small round tits heaving, her long black hair spilling across the grass. Cuifen — the oldest, the thickest — lowered herself slowly, her enormous tits pressing against her thighs, her round face trembling.
"Lord Immortal," Meifeng whispered, her voice muffled by the dirt. "Forgive us — we did not know — we are humble women — please —"
Tianlong looked at them. Four women, prostrate, their bodies barefoot and rough and torn. Their hairy armpits visible as they raised their hands in supplication. Their torn clothes barely covering their bodies. The dark skin, the calloused hands, the weathered faces.
"Water," he said.
Meifeng scrambled up. Her lean body moved with desperate efficiency — her hands gripping the rope, her body bending over the well, her feet bracing. She hauled the bucket up. Water sloshed. Her medium-sized tits swung beneath her torn blouse, the nipples visible through the wet fabric.
She knelt before him, holding the bucket. Her angular face was flushed, her dark eyes lowered. "Lord — the water is clean — from the mountain spring — please —"