Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 217- Tribal Bitches

He looked at the sky.

One more time.

The flat, assessor’s look of a man who had been in warm water for the last hour and was now filing the inventory of what needed to happen next.

He stood.

The water ran off him in the specific, flat, present cascade of a man standing in a spring — the warm, mineral-dense, Herb Integration-seeded water running from his shoulders and his chest and down, the last of the warmth departing in the stream of it.

She felt him stand.

The specific, warm-water, full-body displacement that arrived when the person behind you removed their presence — the flat, thermal, absent warmth of water rushing in to fill where he had been.

She did not turn around.

She stayed where she was, her arms on the spring’s stone edge, her chin at her forearms, her amber eyes at the realm’s distant waterfall.

He dressed.

Robe. The flat, functional, single-motion arrangement of someone who had not stopped moving. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

He looked at the twenty-four women scattered across the realm — the distant, working, individual sounds of women who had taken an enormous world and were in the first hours of deciding what to do with it.

He looked at the tribe members who had come to support the Chief.

Two of them had been at the spring’s edge since the Chief entered it — the flat, present, professional, two-woman attendance of cultivators who had their assignment and were maintaining it. Core Formation Early, both of them, the warm, new, recent-advancement light sitting in their skin with the specific, proud, just-achieved quality of women who had crossed a threshold in the last five days and had not yet normalized the feeling.

They were looking at him.

"East wing," he said.

He pointed.

The flat, present, single-direction gesture of someone who had assessed the realm’s architecture and was making an allocation.

Both of them looked where he pointed.

The eastern castle — the smallest of the three, the one closest to the waterfall’s secondary channel, the specific, stone, warm-light, cultivator-appropriate structure of a ruin-grade realm’s eastern infrastructure.

They looked at it.

They looked at him.

"Take it," he said. "All of you. The whole eastern wing is yours."

He paused.

"I will be bringing others," he said.

The flat, matter-of-fact, completely un-performed delivery of a man stating a logistical fact.

One of the two women blinked.

Not surprise — the specific, processing-new-information blink of a cultivator receiving information and running the full-assessment before filing a response.

"Others," she said.

"Other wives," he said.

The same register. The same pace. The same flat, assessor’s delivery of someone communicating data.

Both women looked at each other.

The specific, sideways, rapid, everything-in-one-glance look of two women who had just received the same information simultaneously and were comparing their respective assessments.

He noted: they had expected this.

Not the specific number, not the specific others — but the architecture of it, the flat, Dual Cultivation Senior, Nascent Soul Mid Stage logical conclusion that a man who cultivated the way he cultivated would have more than one of anything.

They had done the math.

The math had apparently arrived at: ’of course.’

"We understand," the first one said.

He looked at the spring.

At the Chief.

She had not moved. She was still at the spring’s stone edge, her arms on the rim, her chin at her forearms. Looking at the waterfall. Her dark hair floating at the water’s surface in the flat, present, loose-spread quality of hair that was not being managed.

He looked at her for two seconds.

He looked at the sky.

"Take care of yourselves," he said.

Flat. Present. The same register.

Both women nodded.

He noted: they were flushed.

Not the breakthrough flush — the specific, present, five-day-accumulated, warm-realm-air, Herb Integration-broadcast flush of women who had been in the ambient field for days and were walking around in a realm that was saturated with it and whose skin was doing the honest, involuntary thing that skin did in those conditions.

He noted it.

He filed it.

He vanished.

The flat, present, single-step, no-ceremony disappearance of a Nascent Soul Mid Stage cultivator vacating a space — not teleportation, the specific, spatial-step qi technique of someone who had been refining movement for three thousand years and for whom disappearing from a location was the cultivator’s equivalent of walking out a door.

He was gone.

The realm was quiet for one second.

Then.

The first woman by the spring looked at the Chief.

The Chief had not moved.

Her amber eyes were still at the waterfall.

Her arms were still on the stone rim.

She breathed.

Slowly.

She breathed the specific, long, measured, present breath of a woman who had been in warm water for an hour and had heard what she had heard and was filing it with the flat, careful, deliberate filing of someone who was going to manage this correctly.

She stood.

The flat, present, deliberate, Core Formation Peak stand of a woman who had decided she was done with the water and was getting out.

She stepped out.

Both attendants were there — the specific, professional, forward-step of women who had their assignment and were doing it, holding the robe, the flat, warm, dry robe of the realm’s available fabric.

She took it.

She tied it.

She looked at the castle.

At the twenty-four women scattered across the realm.

At the waterfall.

At the sky.

She said nothing for three seconds.

Then, with the flat, present, completely-assembled Chief’s voice — the specific, six-year, full-authority, no-ambiguity register of a woman who was the Chief and was being the Chief:

"Gather everyone," she said.

’’’

They assembled in the eastern castle’s main hall.

Twenty-six of them.

The specific, assembled, post-session, variably-advanced, variably-dressed — some had found fabric, some had not yet — the warm, present, Core Formation-lit reality of twenty-six women who had five days of experience in common and were standing in a realm castle’s main hall looking at their Chief.

She looked at all of them.

The flat, present, individual-attention, Chief’s sweep of a woman who was doing the assessment before the speech.

"He is bringing others," she said.

The hall’s ambient sound — the specific, low, present, twenty-six-person breathing sound of a group of women in an enclosed space — went slightly quieter.

"Other wives," she said.

She let that sit.

She watched their faces receive it.

The faces received it the way the two attendants had received it at the spring — the specific, individual, processing-new-information variety of faces doing calculations.

"We are the first," she said. "That is our advantage. We know him. We know what he responds to. We know what the work is and we have been doing it."

She looked at them.

"We are not going to lose that," she said.

The flat, present, non-negotiable delivery of a Chief making a declaration.

One of the second twelve — the one in the front, Core Formation Late, the direct-delivery woman who had been at position eight in the original line — said:

"We won’t."

The flat, present, direct confirmation.

Another:

"We’ll be better at it."

Another:

"We’ll be ready every time."

And then Youe Bitch.

She was at the back.

She was standing with the flat, present, arms-loosely-at-sides, completely-at-ease posture of a woman who had asked for a brand and gotten one and was not processing anything she had not already processed.

She said, with the flat, direct, matter-of-fact delivery she said everything:

"He asked my name."