Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 264 - Taking Virginity of Lin Yuxi

Not a cultivator sound.

, full, helpless, genuine sound of a woman whose body had just made a comprehensive decision without consulting anyone — and the Conception Vessel's full qi flush and the physical completion arrived as a single event, the two things indistinguishable from each other at the point of arrival, and her hips pressed back against him with , involuntary quality of a body that had no remaining interest in being controlled.

The warmth ran down through her robe.

She felt it — , warm, wet quality of completion soaking through the silk at the location his palm was pressing, spreading outward, and the sound she made at that moment was not cultivator breathing and was not a word and was very much itself, full and real and honest.

Her hands on his forearm went white-knuckled.

Her spine pressed back against his chest.

Her thighs — both of them, the giantess-tribe density of them — pressed together against his hand with , involuntary quality of a body locking around the location that had just delivered the entire accumulated three months of everything.

"'—Aaahn~...—'"

She closed her eyes.

The qi settled.

, clean, post-flush quality of meridians that had run at full capacity for the first time in months cycling quietly now, the fracture points not fully repaired — he had said repair later, he had said this was stabilization — but 'open,' running, the channels doing what they were built to do.

She sat on his lap and breathed.

The garden was quiet.

The stone-tree's canopy moved in the plateau wind.

Somewhere behind the eastern mountains the sky had made its decision about the morning and was executing it, , grey-warm quality of pre-dawn light starting at the horizon, touching the stone-path edges and the flowering herbs and , disheveled, thoroughly-flushed face of Lin Yuxi sitting in a Nascent Soul cultivator's lap in a wet silk robe in the garden.

She opened her eyes.

She looked at him.

He was looking at the horizon.

The same expression. The same unhurried, nothing-in-particular quality of a man who had been helping someone with their cultivation technique and was now observing the weather.

His hand had moved.

It was at her waist again.

, neutral, no-longer-doing-anything quality of a hand that had concluded its activity and was simply present.

"'—Thank you,'" she said.

Her voice had come back approximately sixty percent of the way.

The remaining forty percent was somewhere in the vicinity of the qi flush and the wet silk and the very long moment she was going to be examining later in extreme private detail.

He looked at her.

At , flushed, disheveled, slightly-undone quality of her face.

"'—You have very low stamina,'" he said.

She blinked.

"'—A single meridian stabilization session and you can barely speak,'" he said. "'—The fracture has compromised more than your circulation. Your qi reserve is at roughly thirty percent of what your base should support.'"

She processed this.

'Single meridian stabilization session.'

, clinical, entirely-correct-while-being-entirely-something-else quality of the phrase.

"'—Yes,'" she said. "'—I'm aware.'"

He looked at the horizon.

She looked at the horizon.

The pre-dawn grey was becoming pre-dawn gold at the mountain's edge, , high-altitude quality of a sunrise that happened quickly because there was nothing between the plateau and the sky to slow it down.

His cock was still pressed against her.

Still present.

Still warm.

She was aware of this.

She was not going to address it.

She closed her eyes.

"'—The repair,'" she said. "'—The full repair. Of the foundation.'"

"'—When I am pleased,'" he said.

The gold at the mountain's edge bled slow into the sky.

She sat on his lap and did not move.

The wet silk clung. The qi had settled. Everything that had just happened had a name she was not going to say out loud.

His cock was still pressed against her from below.

Still there.

She was very aware of this.

"'—When you are pleased,'" she repeated.

Her voice came out flat. Clinical. The voice of a woman putting a wall up one brick at a time.

"'—And what,'" she said, "'—constitutes being pleased.'"

He looked at the horizon.

"'—Progress,'" he said. "'—The Foundation repair requires a sustained energy transfer. One session is not enough. The root vessel needs to be opened completely — not merely stabilized.'"

She processed the word 'opened.'

She did not like the word 'opened' very much right now.

"'—Define sustained,'" she said.

He turned his head.

He looked at her the way a man looks at something he has already decided about.

"'—Tonight,'" he said.

The [System] logged it quietly in the back of his mind. A single notification, no sound.

$$Host has initiated Foundation Repair Protocol — Stage Two. Emotional resistance modifier: active. Duration: until Host terminates session.$$

He dismissed it.

The girl on his lap was still holding his forearm with both hands without realizing she was still holding it. Her knuckles had relaxed from white to merely tense. Her hair was loose on one side from the qi surge — a dark strand across her jaw, across the flush that had not fully faded from her neck and cheek.

He reached up.

Tucked it back.

She went very still at the touch.

"'—The transfer requires skin contact,'" he said. "'—The silk diffuses the conductivity by forty percent. The root vessel stabilization I just performed — that was rough work. The full repair needs precision.'"

She turned her head slowly to look at him.

"'—Skin contact,'" she said.

"'—Yes.'"

"'—You want me to—'"

"'—I want the Foundation repaired,'" he said. "'—What I want personally is irrelevant to the process.'"

He said it with the same quality as everything else he said. Unhurried. A man correcting an irrelevant assumption.

The [System] modifier hummed at the base of her mind like a second heartbeat she couldn't locate. Not fog — not blankness — just a very gentle loosening of the thread between what she was thinking and what she was alarmed about. The alarm was still there. It was just slightly behind glass.

She exhaled.

"'—Fine,'" she said.

His hands moved to the tie of her outer robe.

She watched them.

She didn't stop them.

The outer robe fell open. The inner layer beneath — white, thinner — was damp at the hem from the qi flush. He pushed the outer layer off her shoulders. She felt the plateau wind on her arms, the cool-air quality of it against skin that had been warm for the last twenty minutes.

His hands found the ties of the inner layer.

"'—This is—'" she started.

"'—The root vessel sits at the base of the pelvis,'" he said. "'—The primary conductivity points are at the chest junction and the lower seal. Both require direct contact for the qi to thread correctly. This is standard dual cultivation theory. You've read the manuals.'"

She had, in fact, read the manuals.

She hated the manuals right now.

The inner robe opened.

She sat on his lap in the pre-dawn garden in nothing but her underthings — thin, white — and her cultivation base was running clean for the first time in three months and his hands were at her waist and she was not stopping this.

The [System] purred.

He untied the last layer.

It fell.

She folded her arms across her chest. Instinct. The instinct of a woman who had never been looked at before.

He moved her arms down.

Not forceful — a patient, matter-of-fact quality of a hand that relocates an obstacle without asking permission.

"'—Don't block the channels,'" he said.

Her arms went to her sides.

She was bare from the waist up. The cool air hit both her breasts and they — responded to it, the involuntary stiffening quality of skin meeting cold, her nipples pulling tight against the chill and the exposure, and she felt the flush climb back up her neck and she stared at the horizon and breathed.

He looked at her.

Not the way she expected.

No hunger in it. No appetite. The same unhurried, diagnostic quality of a man taking inventory.

"'—Your qi reserves have already rebuilt to forty-three percent,'" he said. "'—The stabilization held.'"

His palm pressed flat against the center of her sternum.

The warmth came through immediately — that dense, Nascent Soul qi warmth — threading down into the Heart Sutra junction, running the clean-channel verification of a cultivator checking his previous work.

She exhaled.

"'—Yes,'" she said, despite herself. "'—It held.'"

His hand moved lower.

She tracked it. She watched it travel down the centerline of her abdomen, over the middle cinnabar field, to rest against her lower belly with the full, warm, completely-present quality of a palm that knew exactly what it was sitting over.

Below her.

She felt him shift.

She felt — through the thin remaining fabric of her underthings — the pressure of him, already there, already against her, adjusting position with a patient, deliberate quality that had nothing clinical about it.

"'—The final transfer requires the root junction to receive from the primary source directly,'" he said. "'—Sit up.'"

"'—What does—'"

"'—Rise onto your knees and position,'" he said.

She processed that.

She processed what 'position' meant given where she was sitting and what she was sitting against.

"'—I—'" She stopped.

Her mind reached for the alarm. Found it. Found it at a slight remove — behind glass, behind the [System]'s gentle hum — and couldn't quite close her hand around it.

"'—Trust the process,'" he said. "'—Your Foundation will not repair itself.'"

Her hands pressed against his thighs.

She rose onto her knees.

His hand reached between them. He moved the fabric aside. The motion was not gentle and not rough — the same unhurried, functional quality of a man completing a preparatory step.

She felt the air.

Then she felt him.

The heat of him against the location — the root junction, she thought with the part of her mind still managing clinical framing — and she was wet there still from the qi flush and from everything the qi flush had been, and he pressed up and she pressed down and—

"'—Wait—'"

"'—Breathe,'" he said.