Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 222 - Descending as Savior

The milk.

The specific, warm, physical-pressure-forced, involuntary milk of a woman whose body had been running the production process since the last birth and had just received the specific, pressure-based, completely non-consensual request to produce.

The fat one saw it.

He pointed.

"Milk," he said, at the crowd, with the flat, present, business-announcement delivery of a man making a product feature clear.

Crowd sounds.

"She’s wasted something on a husband and a whelp," the second man said, with the flat, mean, completely-comfortable-with-this-assessment delivery of someone who said things like this regularly and had not yet encountered meaningful resistance.

"Barely used," the first man said.

"Barely," the second agreed.

She was crying.

The specific, present, not-stopping, not-being-managed, completely-honest tears of a woman who was crying because she was in the situation she was in and the crying was the only thing available to her.

"My daughter—" she said.

Nobody heard.

Or nobody answered, which was the same outcome.

"Please—" Her voice. The flat, present, depleted, everything-tried-and-none-of-it-working quality of please.

The fat one came forward.

He was building, the fat one — the specific, considerable, ill-distributed, soft-from-not-doing-the-physical-work build of a man who had money and spent it on not-exercising and food. Bald, the specific, smooth, complete, not-recently-grown bald of a man who had been bald long enough to have stopped noting it. His eyes — small, present, the specific, small-eyed, lip-licking quality of a man whose wants were currently very present on his face.

He licked his lips.

He looked at her.

"I’ll start the bid," he announced, at the fat man’s specific, this-is-a-business-transaction volume. "Half copper."

Half copper.

The specific, insulting, floor-establishing, I-am-setting-the-floor-low-because-I-want-to-be-the-one-who-ends-up-setting-the-final-price quality of a half-copper opening bid on a woman.

The crowd ran the calculation.

Several voices:

"Silver."

"One silver."

"One-and-a-half."

"Two."

It went to two silver in under thirty seconds.

She was not following the bidding.

She had her face down. The specific, chin-toward-chest, not-watching, this-is-happening-and-I-cannot-watch-it posture of a woman who was enduring.

The second man slapped her.

Not the face. The specific, flat, loud, wide-palm, rear-landing slap of a man who had decided the merchandise needed to demonstrate its responsiveness to confirm its quality.

PAAH!

’—’AAAHN~!!!’—’

She came forward.

The specific, pain-response, whole-body forward lurch of someone receiving impact from behind who has no architecture for managing it.

"There," the fat one said. "See?" He was demonstrating to the crowd with the flat, business-transaction, see-what-you’re-getting quality of a man selling something by showing it in motion.

Two-and-a-half silver.

Three.

She was crying harder.

The flat, shoulders-moving, completely-beyond-management crying of a woman who had been in this for how long — hours? Since morning? since before morning? — and whose reserves for managing anything were fully depleted.

"My daughter—" she said, again, to no one.

"Your daughter is dead," the second man said. Flat. The flat, casual, completely-invested-in-nothing delivery of a man saying a fact because he was tired of hearing the request.

She went still.

The specific, full-stop, absolute, total stillness of a woman who had just had the worst thing confirmed by someone who had no reason to lie about it.

Her daughter.

She looked at nothing.

The specific, thousand-yard, nothing-here quality of eyes that had just received the worst information and had not yet built an architecture for receiving it.

Three silver.

"Three and a half," the fat one said, at the crowd, with the flat, let’s-move-this-along quality of a man who had decided he was going to win this bid and was making progress.

"Gold coin," another voice said. The flat, present, conversation-ending quality of someone making a bid that was designed to end the conversation.

Crowd sounds.

Surprise sounds. The specific, crowd-wide, varying-volume, surprise-that-a-gold-coin-had-entered-proceedings sound of a crowd receiving unexpected information.

The fat one looked toward the gold coin voice.

Another fat man. Different fat — the fat of someone who had more money than the first fat one and was willing to spend it on demonstrating this.

The first fat one calculated.

He licked his lips.

He looked at her.

At the milk.

At the specific, comprehensive, warm, thoroughly-expressed-against-her-will reality of a woman who had been handled and assessed and slapped and bid on and was currently not looking at anything.

"I want her to suck my cock first," the first fat one announced. At the crowd. At the slave traders. At the specific, present, this-is-my-condition volume of a man who was not embarrassed by the content of his condition because he had decided embarrassment was not relevant to this particular business context.

He looked at the slave traders.

"Before I counter," he said. "Let me taste the quality."

The slave traders looked at each other.

The specific, business-calculation, three-way-between-the-two-of-them sideways look of men who were doing math on whether the demonstration cost was offset by the bid-escalation potential.

The taller one reached for the whip.

She heard the whip.

She had been in the thousand-yard-nothing position since ’your daughter is dead’ and she came back to the present at the specific, present-sound, immediate-sensory-input arrival of the whip sound.

She looked up.

The taller one brought it down.

THWACK.

’—’KYAAANGHHH~!!!’—’ The full, high, immediate, everything-at-once sound of a woman receiving a whip at the specific location it had been aimed and whose body had reported this at full, honest, present volume.

She fell forward.

The first fat one stepped forward.

He was reaching for his belt.

The belt — the flat, present, coming-undone-with-the-fumbling-fingers-of-a-man-who-was-in-a-hurry quality of a belt being undone by someone whose small eyes were at the woman on her knees in front of him.

She was not looking at him.

She was looking at the ground.

She was crying.

The flat, present, everything-depleted, nothing-left, just-the-tears crying of a woman who had been in this since whenever and whose daughter was dead and who was kneeling in front of a fat man with his belt coming undone.

She said:

"Please."

Not to him.

To no one.

To the air.

To whatever in the cultivation world was supposed to prevent this specific thing from happening when someone said ’please’ with the specific, empty, last-available-thing quality of this particular please.

Thunder.

Not the weather thunder — the flat, single, enormous, cultivator-generated thunder of a specific, present, deliberate atmospheric event produced by someone with the qi architecture to produce atmospheric events intentionally.

BOOM.