Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 195- Standing Helpless

"Aanhh~ Hnngh~~!!!~~!!"

Cang was still—

He was still—

Stop. Look away. Walk away—

He could not walk away.

His legs were his own. His legs worked. He was not yet under the hold that would arrive later — that was later, that was when Cang"s eye found him, that was subsequent — right now his legs were his own and he was making the specific, humiliating, voluntary choice to stand at the tree and watch.

Walk away, he told himself.

He watched.

The full, wet, suspended, bouncing reality of his wife wrapped around a man in the ancient water, the koala-hold position giving her body the specific, weight-assisted, gravity-compounded depth of something that her voice was reporting at full volume—

"—AAAHN~!!!— it"s too big— it"s—HAANN~!!!—Senior I can"t—it keeps—KYAAN~!!!—"

Too big.

He heard those words.

He filed those words with the specific, involuntary, awful filing precision of a brain that had been recording everything tonight regardless of whether the owner wanted the recording.

Too big.

His wife.

The specific, breathless, fully-genuine, completely unperformed quality of his wife"s voice saying those two words while wrapped around a man in the water at three in the morning, the words not a complaint, the words the specific, honest, present output of a woman who was in the middle of a real-time comparison she had not been asked to make and whose body was making it anyway.

Something cold moved through him.

Under the humiliation.

Under the nauseating, wrong, involuntary response.

Something cold and specific and quiet.

He had always known, in the specific, quiet, background way that men who loved their wives knew things about themselves without examining them directly, that he was — not remarkable in the category she was currently assessing. He was forty-three. He was mortal. He had never had reason to think about this directly. His wife had never given him reason to think about this directly.

She was giving him reason now.

"—AAAHNN~!!!— why is it—AHN~!!!—why is it shaped like—HAANN~!!!—Senior—"

PAAH PAAH PAAH.

"—AAAHN~!!! AAAHN~!!! HAANN~!!!—"

The water was everywhere.

The splashing had expanded — the full, arc-radius of water displaced by two bodies in sustained, energetic, comprehensive motion, the pond surface broken in a growing radius from their position, the droplets catching the luminescence as they fell back.

His wife"s body.

Cang had her lifted and he was — the mortal"s brain filed it with the specific, awful, complete clarity of an observer with full visual access — he was demonstrating something. Not performing. The flat, functional, completely untheatrical demonstration of someone who had a position and was maintaining it with the patient, comprehensive authority of someone for whom the position was not a demonstration but simply a fact.

His wife"s thighs.

The full, warm, heavy, Void Return bloodline-built thighs locked around his waist — the thighs he had touched on eleven years" worth of nights — gripping with the specific, involuntary, absolute grip of something that had decided the geometry was excellent and was holding it accordingly.

Her chest.

Cang"s mouth found her armpit again — the skin there, the specific, intimate, private skin that the mortal had kissed exactly twice in eleven years, once on their wedding night and once on a morning years later when she was asleep — and the bite mark it left was visible from twelve meters.

She arched into it.

"—Ahn~!—Bite—AHN~!!!—do it—HAANN~!!!—I want—AAAHN~!!!—"

He pressed his forehead into the bark.

The bark pressed back.

Walk away, he told himself.

Walk away. She is your wife. Whatever has happened tonight, she is your wife. In the morning, this will be the worst night of your life. In the morning, you can— 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

"—Senior—AAAHNN~!!!—his is nothing like my husband—HAANN~!!!—my husband"s is so—AHN~!!!—it"s like it"s not even—KYAAANGHHH~!!!—"

The sentence hit him the way a physical thing hits a person.

Not a metaphor. The specific, literal, physical event of words arriving in the nervous system at a velocity and with a content that the nervous system registered as impact rather than information.

His is nothing like my husband"s.

It"s like it"s not even—

The sentence did not finish.

It did not need to finish.

The ellipsis was worse than any word she could have placed at the end.

He felt the involuntary response surge and then sicken simultaneously, the specific, awful, two-directional physiological experience of a man receiving humiliation at the exact moment his body was doing the wrong thing, both operating at full intensity, neither canceling the other out, both simply — present.

CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP PAAH!

"—AAAHNN~!!! AAAHN~!!! HAANN~!!! AAAHNNNN~~~~~!!!—"

The first breakthrough light.

The warm, gold-amber, sky-reaching light of Core Formation Mid — his wife"s cultivation advancing, the meridians reorganizing, the specific, comprehensive, permanent event of someone becoming more than they were — the light he had watched from a distance with pride on eleven years" worth of prior occasions.

From twelve meters.

While wrapped around a man in a pond.

[Evil Points: +47]

[Evil Points: +53]

The system was counting something. He could not see the system. But the man in the water could see it, and the man in the water noted it with the flat, professional satisfaction of someone reviewing results on schedule.

Cang looked at him.

It happened the way things happened when you were watching something you were not supposed to be watching and the person doing the thing looked up — the flat, immediate, direct eye contact of someone who had known you were there and was choosing this moment to acknowledge it.

Half a second.

Cang"s eyes: flat, measuring, completely unbothered, the specific, assessor"s look of someone filing an inventory item.

He"s known since—

Then the hold.

The specific, invisible, comprehensive, absolute lock — qi arriving at every load-bearing joint simultaneously, the telekinetic grip of Nascent Soul Mid Stage applied to a mortal man, the specific, enormous, categorical difference between cultivator and mortal made physical in a single, effortless, instantaneous demonstration.

He tried to move forward.

He could not move forward.

His hands were on the bark.

They remained on the bark.

He could feel them. He could feel all of himself. Nothing was numb. The grip was not anesthetic — it was structural, comprehensive, the specific, complete suspension of voluntary motor function while leaving everything else entirely, horrifically, continuously intact.

His sensory function was perfect.

He heard everything.

He saw everything.

He felt the wind and the bark and the copper taste that was coming and the specific, nauseating, traitorous, wrong, involuntary response of his own body that he could neither manage nor stop and could do absolutely nothing about because his hands were on the bark and he was not moving.

[Evil Points: +61]

Cang looked back at his wife.

Done. Filed. Moving on.

The specific, dismissive, complete return of attention to the relevant subject — his wife was the relevant subject — with the flat, unhurried, entirely-unaffected quality of a man who had noted a presence and had addressed the presence with what it merited, which was half a second and a telekinetic hold, and was now done with it.

The mortal man stood at the tree.

He watched.

He had no other options.