Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 224- Seeing the Mortals

He looked at her.

She was still clasped.

Both hands pressed together, the specific, prayer-geometry of a woman who had found someone to pray to and was praying to them directly.

"My lord."

The two words sat in the square’s gone-quiet air.

He looked at her.

He looked at the square.

At the crowd on its knees.

At the slave traders.

At the fat man with the undone belt still fumbling at his waist with the specific, frozen, I-cannot-move-but-my-hands-haven"t-gotten-the-message quality of a man whose voluntary motor functions had stalled at approximately the same moment the thunder had arrived.

He looked at the woman.

At the finger marks.

At the whip mark across her back — the flat, red, present, raised-line evidence of the taller slave trader’s specific, mean, product-management decision.

He noted the mark.

He filed it.

He looked at her face.

She was looking at him the way she had been looking at him since she looked up — the specific, full-present, everything-committed, amber-eyed look of a woman who had decided that the person in front of her was the only relevant information in the square and was giving them every available unit of attention.

He reached down.

His hand — the flat, warm, present hand of a man who had run three thousand years of cultivation and had the specific, full-palm, warm-qi-density grip of someone whose every physical contact was backed by the architecture — went to her jaw.

The specific, cupping hold.

She made a sound.

Not the pain sound — the specific, involuntary, first-contact sound of a woman receiving the first non-violent touch she had received in however long she had been in this square.

"—’Nngh~...’—" Low. Soft. The flat, barely-audible, involuntary sound of something a body produced when it had been in pain for a long time and had just received the opposite.

He tilted her face.

Up.

The flat, present, unhurried, non-negotiable upward tilt — her chin in his palm, her face coming up to the angle he was establishing.

He looked at her face from this distance.

The Eye of Truth was running at full, close-range, comprehensive assessment.

What it filed:

’Yin Lineage Depth: Near-manifestation. Four generations of accumulation. Single generation from full expression.’

’Body Condition: Bruised. Malnourished. Depleted. Base physique intact.’

’Cultivation: None. Mortal. No meridian development.’

’Potential: Extraordinary.’

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

Her eyes — the warm, amber, wet-from-crying, currently-wide quality of eyes that were receiving a face at close range and were entirely occupied with the reception.

He said:

"Do you want them to feel what they did to you."

Flat.

She breathed.

She looked at him.

She looked at the slave traders.

At the tall one who had the whip.

At the second one who had pulled her hair.

At the fat man with the undone belt.

She looked at them with the specific, amber-eyed, present, flat, clear quality of a woman who had an answer and was filing it.

She looked back at him.

"Yes," she said.

The flat, one-word, no-qualification, done-deciding delivery.

He chuckled.

The flat, small, internal-amusement chuckle.

He stood.

His hand left her jaw.

He looked at the slave traders.

’stand," he said.

The flat, present, single-word command.

All three of them tried.

Their legs were not cooperating — the specific, cultivation-pressure-received, cultivator-field-suppressed legs of mortals who were currently under the full, unmanaged ambient field of a Nascent Soul Mid Stage cultivator and whose bodies had received the relevant instruction and had filed a counter-instruction that was winning.

They tried anyway.

He let them try for three seconds.

Then he lifted the pressure.

The specific, selective, precise lifting of the suppression field from the three slave traders specifically — the flat, present, targeted, surgical removal of the cultivation pressure from three bodies while leaving the rest of the crowd in its kneeling state.

They stood.

Unsteady.

The specific, shaking-legs, not-sure-about-vertical, we-were-just-on-our-knees unsteady of three men who had just had full cultivation pressure removed from them and whose legs were running the specific, we-just-came-back-online diagnostic before committing to full weight support.

He looked at them.

They looked at him.

The tall one — he still had the whip, had picked it up reflexively when the pressure lifted.

He noted the whip.

He looked at the tall one.

"That," he said.

Flat.

The tall one looked at the whip.

The specific, looking-at-your-own-hand-because-someone-pointed-at-it-and-you-are-now-uncertain-about-it look of a man reconsidering a prop.

"Apologize to her with it," he said.

The tall one looked at him.

He looked at the tall one with the flat, present, entirely-serious, God-complex expression of a man who had said a thing and meant the thing.

The tall one looked at the woman.

He looked back at him.

He looked at the woman again.

He raised the whip.

Not at her.

At himself.

The specific, involuntary, cultivation-will-enforced, can"t-resist-this motion of a man whose arm had received a direction from a cultivator whose qi could enforce the direction and whose arm was executing the direction regardless of what the brain was voting.

THWACK.

His own back.

He made a sound.

The crowd on its knees made a sound.

Not the same sound — the crowd’s sound was the specific, sharp, collective, involuntary intake of breath of two hundred people who had not expected to see this and had received it without preparation.

He looked at the second man.

"Your hands," he said.

The second one looked at his own hands.

His hands — the specific, gathered-fist, hair-pulling hands of a man who had used them for that purpose this morning — received the direction.

Both of them came up.

Both of them went to his own head.

His own hair.

The specific, involuntary, cultivation-will-enforced, his-own-hands-against-his-own-head motion of a man whose hands were following a direction they had not been given voluntarily.

He pulled.

His own head went back.

He made the sound.

"—’HAANN~!!!’—" The involuntary, neck-forced, exactly-the-sound-she-had-made sound of a man whose head has been yanked back by his own hands.

He noted: exact.

He looked at the fat man.

The fat man with the undone belt.

He looked at the fat man with the flat, present, assessor’s expression.

The fat man’s belt was already undone.

He looked at the fat man.

He said nothing.

The fat man’s own hands found his own belt.

The specific, involuntary, cultivation-will-enforced, this-is-not-what-I-want motion of a man whose hands were executing an instruction his brain had not issued.

The belt went further.

The fat man produced a sound that was the specific, mortal-man, this-is-not-dignified sound of a man whose clothes were being managed by someone else’s will.

The crowd watched.

He looked at them.

At the crowd on its knees.

At the specific, two-hundred-person, full-present, forward-leaning, watching-everything attention of a crowd that had been told to kneel and had been kneeling and was now watching the proceedings with the flat, completely-occupied, nothing-else-exists focus of people who were in the most significant event of their lives.

He noted their faces.

The men.

The specific, mortal-man, Herb Integration-broadcast-receiving, close-range-ambient-field-soaked faces of men who had been in the full, unmanaged broadcast of his ambient field for several minutes.

What the Herb Integration passive did to mortal men was not the same as what it did to cultivation women.

He noted: they were running hot.

The specific, involuntary, cultivation-ambient-pressure-on-mortal-bodies physiological response of mortal men receiving full, unmanaged Nascent Soul Mid Stage ambient at close range — the specific, present, entirely-against-their-will, body-doing-its-own-thing response of two hundred mortal men who had been in this field for long enough that the field had entered the system and the system was reporting.

He noted it.

He filed it.

He looked at the woman.