Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 134 - Very Wise Princess

"Prepare her," he said. "Yes."

"That looks less like preparation and more like—"

"It’s the same thing," he said.

He brought his other hand up.

Both thumbs now—finding the peaks of her with the slow, deliberate certainty of someone who knew exactly where they were going and had decided the transit was as important as the destination—and pressed inward in a slow, rolling motion that drew her nipples between his fingers with a precision that made Wei Lingyue’s back arch fractionally, the motion of her spine revealing more than anything she had said in the previous two hours.

"’Hn—’" The sound broke off halfway through. Then: "’Ah—’"

She is a virgin, Chen Yun had not been told—but the sounds were telling the story clearly enough. The sounds of someone whose body was encountering sensation it had heard described and theorized and been made aware of as a category and was now discovering was an entirely different thing as an actual experience.

"Is she—" Chen Yun started.

"Yes," Cang said.

"How do you know," Chen Yun said.

"I’m a dual cultivator," he said. "I’ve been with more women than you’ve killed opponents."

Chen Yun stared at him.

Wei Lingyue, whose attention was divided across multiple coordinates, made a small sound that was not quite a response to the comment and not quite not.

Chen Yun’s jaw worked. She pressed her lips together and said nothing. She rested the demon sword across her knees and watched.

He leaned forward.

His mouth found the junction of Wei Lingyue’s neck and shoulder with the unhurried certainty of someone who had identified a specific point and was applying intention to it—lips first, then the slight warmth of his breath, then a pressure that was soft enough to be exactly where the peripheral nerve concentration was highest. She made a sound against his shoulder—not loud, the restrained sound of a woman who is actively editing her responses and is operating at the limit of that editorial capacity.

His hands were moving.

The lower ties of her remaining inner garment—the final layer—he found with both hands and drew the closures apart in sequence, the silk panels falling away until what remained was the princess of the Jade Meridian sect seated on a dais in a cave with nothing to hide anything she was, all of her in the amber formation light, the full pale curve of her chest rising and falling at an accelerating frequency, the clean lines of her waist, the soft width of her hips below.

He knelt.

His hand moved to the inner robe’s skirt section—the last piece of fabric between her and nothing—and drew it down and aside.

Wei Lingyue’s hand pressed against the dais stone on either side of her. Her knuckles were white. Her face was not composure anymore. It was the face underneath composure—open, flushed, the grey eyes not calculating anything but present in a way they usually weren’t.

He looked.

Not hurrying. Taking the full, honest measure of her—the soft shadow at the apex of her thighs, the faint dark hair that the formation light touched with the same candor it touched everything else, the evidence, visible to anyone paying the right kind of attention, that the two hours of herb concentration in the cave had been doing things to her body that her controlled exterior had been successfully managing to conceal until this moment.

"’Mm,’" he said.

She looked at him.

"You’ve been uncomfortable," he said.

"I have been—perfectly—" She stopped. The sentence had been constructed to be ’perfectly fine’ and her own body had declined to support the conclusion. "I’ve been managing it."

"You’ve been managing it," he said.

"Yes."

"Since the outer cave."

"Since approximately the outer cave," she said, with a precision that was the last small flag she was going to plant on the territory of dignity.

He leaned in.

His mouth found the inner curve of her knee and she made an extremely undignified sound.

"’Anh—’"

"Princess," Chen Yun said, from across the room.

"I’m fine," Wei Lingyue said, in the voice of someone who is very much not using the word fine correctly.

Chen Yun’s jaw worked. She looked at the shadow sword. Looked at the ceiling. Looked at her own hands where they were wrapped around the scabbard of the demon sword and noticed—registered, catalogued, declined to address—that the ambient herb concentration in the cave had been accumulating for considerably longer than two hours and her own cultivation filtration had been working against it with the dedicated persistence of a practitioner who had eleven months of solo discipline and was watching that discipline encounter something that had been designed by two thousand years of formation engineering specifically to erode it.

Her thighs were pressed together.

She recrossed her legs.

She did not look at what was happening at the dais.

She looked at it anyway.

’’’

His fingers moved.

He worked slowly—unhurried, deliberate, the specific unhurry of someone who understood that speed was the enemy of the outcome they were building toward and had infinite patience for the alternative. Two fingers at first—finding the slick heat of her with the clinical precision that was also absolutely not clinical, the warmth of her on his hand, the way she contracted reflexively around the initial contact as if every nerve ending had been waiting and had opinions about the arrival.

Wei Lingyue’s head dropped back.

"’Aahn—’"

Her hand found his shoulder. The grip was harder than she likely intended.

He pressed deeper—one finger, then two, crooked in a specific way, finding the architecture he was looking for—and the sound she made this time was not the restrained ’aahn’ of a woman editing her responses but the unmediated response of a body being asked a question it had no practice refusing.

"’—Nh~—! Ah—ah—’"

"Princess," Chen Yun said.

Her voice was not steady.

Not unsteady in the way of distress—unsteady in the specific way that arrives when the body has been conducting a parallel argument with the practitioner occupying it for a sustained period and the argument is not resolving the way the practitioner intended.

Wei Lingyue turned her head. Her grey eyes found Chen Yun across the cave, and even in the current state of her—the full flush of her chest, the parted lips, the particular dishevelment of a woman whose composure had been methodically disassembled over the past twenty minutes—there was a quality of recognition in her expression. Two women who had known each other since childhood. A question that didn’t require speech.

Chen Yun looked away.

She looked at the demon sword. At the passage entrance. At the construct’s pressure against the cave wall, still growing, still patient, the kind of patient that had been building for forty minutes since the previous update and would be fully matured in approximately three hours and twenty minutes.

At her own reflection in the polished stone floor.

At the formation light.

Cang drew his hand back.

Wei Lingyue made a very small sound of protest that she did not, this time, successfully suppress.

He stood.

His outer robe came off—the dark fall of it shrugged from his shoulders and folded once before set aside, the inner robe beneath it following with the same economy.

He undid the inner fastening, the layers coming away in sequence, and what the formation light revealed was the product of three dragon scales of integrated Nascent Soul-grade essence and Core Formation Mid Stage cultivation on a twenty-four-year-old body—lean, structured, the definition of someone whose physical form had been shaped by practice rather than architecture, the faint bronze-gold of the passive scale integration visible at the skin’s surface as a barely-there sheen.

And below the final clothing.

Wei Lingyue looked.

She looked for approximately the same two seconds that he had spent looking at her, and then she said, in a very small, very precise voice: "I am going to die."

"You aren’t," he said.

"That is—that is considerably larger than—"

"You’ll adapt," he said.

"That is the least comforting—"

Chen Yun, from the far wall, had made a sound. Not speech—the sound that arrives before speech, the involuntary intake of someone who has just seen something they were not prepared to see and their body has responded to before the decision-making layer has been consulted.

Then: "That is—" She stopped. "Carry on," she said, with the flat desperation of someone who has entirely run out of appropriate responses and is defaulting to operational indifference as a coping mechanism.

He moved to Wei Lingyue.