Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 233 - The Helplessness of Woman

"’I love her,’" he said.

Flat. The flat, quiet, present, at-her-ear delivery of a sentence said at the specific, low, for-her-first register — and then he pinched, the flat, deliberate, full-finger, specific-location pinch of someone who had the location and was applying the specific pressure that produced the specific response.

"’—AAAHN~!!!—’" The immediate, high, not-managed, not-at-the-volume-she-intended sound of it leaving her at the full, honest, body-reporting-before-management-could-catch-it volume.

Her hands went to his forearms.

The flat, both-hands, fingers-finding-his-forearms, present grip of someone who needed something to hold.

The daughter was looking.

The flat, brown-eyed, wide, completely-occupied, everything-else-gone looking of a girl who had been watching this unfold and was watching it at the specific, present, I-am-processing-multiple-things-simultaneously quality of someone receiving several categories of new information at once.

The mother’s face.

The specific, amber-eyed, my-daughter-is-watching, something-running-in-my-body-that-my-daughter-is-watching, present quality of a face that was managing in the specific, narrow, not-much-management-available way of a woman in the grip of someone whose hands knew exactly what they were doing.

"Please," she said again. Her voice, quieter. The flat, genuine, present quality of it. "She is watching us. She is just a child. Please—"

He chuckled.

The flat, warm, short, present, not-mocking quality of a chuckle from someone who had found something and was noting it.

"It doesn’t matter," he said.

He looked at the daughter.

At the flat, present, wide-eyed, brown-eyed daughter who was standing in the courtyard of her family’s destroyed sect in the morning light watching him hold her mother.

"I have already chosen her," he said.

The flat, present, about-the-mother delivery of the pronoun.

"As my cultivation vessel," he added.

The daughter breathed.

One breath.

Two.

She stepped back.

One step. Then another. The specific, stepping-back, retreating, brain-doing-the-full-processing quality of a girl who had received several pieces of information in the last two minutes and was creating distance to accommodate the processing.

Her brown eyes were at him.

Then at her mother.

Then at him.

She bowed.

The flat, cultivator’s bow, from-the-waist, head-going-down, present quality of a young cultivator performing the formal address — and her voice, from the bow, with the flat, present, asking-a-specific-question delivery:

"What are you saying, Master."

She came up from the bow.

She looked at him.

Her eyes had something in them that had not been there before the bow — the flat, present, something-specific quality of brown eyes that had been running the calculation and had arrived at a conclusion they were not comfortable with and were asking because they needed to hear the answer.

"Aren’t I the one you chose," she said.

The flat, direct, asking-not-demanding quality of it. The specific, Foundation-Establishment, Yin-Devouring-Body, just-restored, this-morning-I-called-you-master quality of the question — a girl who had looked at a man descend from the sky above a ruined sect with her mother in his arms and had been filing the data and had been calling him master and had been, somewhere in the filing, arriving at the assumption that she was the one he had come for.

She was not wrong that she was there.

She was wrong about why.

He looked at her.

He was still holding her mother.

His hands were still at the positions they had been at when he spoke.

Her mother was — the flat, warm, present, hands-on-his-forearms, amber-eyes-at-her-daughter, ’my daughter is asking this question while I am in this position’ quality of a woman who was in a situation and was very aware she was in a situation.

He looked at the daughter.

"You are weak," he said.

The flat, present, not-cruel, not-performed, completely-factual delivery of someone stating the Eye of Truth’s read.

She breathed.

"Weaker than your mother," he said.

The flat, comparative, still-factual delivery.

Her mother’s breath changed.

The flat, small, present, receiving-the-comparison quality of a breath from a woman who had just heard herself described as the more valuable of two options in front of her daughter.

The daughter looked at her mother.

At the marks on her mother’s body. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

At the bite mark.

At the way her mother’s hands were at his forearms and the way her mother’s body was positioned in his arms and the way her mother’s voice had been doing the things it had been doing since he moved behind her.

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

He moved.

The flat, single, unhurried, upward movement of someone deciding to leave the ground — the qi technique activating, the flat, smooth, both-feet-leaving-the-stone-courtyard, rising quality of a cultivator going from ground-contact to air.

He took her mother with him.

The flat, arms-tightening, upward, present, she-is-not-on-the-ground-anymore quality of the ascent — and the mother, her feet leaving the courtyard stone, her legs going from weight-bearing to suddenly not, the flat, immediate, reflex, both-legs-going-out, gravity-registered quality of a body that had been on the ground and was no longer on the ground.

"’—AAAHN~!!!—’"

Her hands gripped his forearms.

Tighter.

The flat, full-grip, both-hands, knuckle-white grip of someone whose body had received the information that the ground was gone and was holding the nearest available architecture.

Her legs.

The flat, present, both-legs, searching-for-ground, not-finding-it, flailing quality of legs that had been load-bearing and had lost their load and were doing the flat, involuntary, where-is-the-floor motion of legs with no floor available.

She looked down.

At the courtyard stone below her.

At the specific, getting-farther, three-meters, four-meters, still-going-up quality of the stone as he rose.

"’—please—’" She breathed it. The flat, present, gravity-is-gone, holding-his-arms, looking-down quality of it. "’—I will fall—’"

"You won’t," he said.

The flat, present, matter-of-fact, you-won’t delivery.

Her body did not fully believe him.

Her hands gripped tighter.

Her legs found the architecture that was available — which was him, his lower body, the flat, both-legs-coming-forward, wrapping quality of legs that had decided if the floor was gone then the available structure was going to serve — and she held on, the specific, instinct-driven, full-leg-wrap, body-pressed-forward quality of someone who had been frightened into holding tighter than they had intended.

Her chest against his.

The flat, full, front-to-front, everything-contact quality of a body that had wrapped itself around him entirely in the specific, fear-response, this-is-what-the-body-does-when-the-ground-is-gone architecture.

He looked at her face.

She was looking at the courtyard below.

At her daughter.

He noted: she was looking at her daughter.

The daughter was on the ground.

Standing in the courtyard.

Looking up.

Her brown eyes at her mother in the air in his arms — the specific, wide, present, everything-in-the-eyes quality of a girl who was watching something that had a specific, familiar quality she was trying to locate in her memory.

She was trying to locate it.

He could see her trying to locate it.

The flat, eyes-going-slightly-to-the-side, memory-searching quality of brown eyes doing a search.

And then she found it.

The flat, present, found-it, eyes-coming-back-to-the-present-with-the-memory-attached quality of brown eyes that had located the specific, familiar, where-have-I-seen-this quality.

The day the sect’s master took her away.

He had come for her.

Her master — the old one, this sect’s master, the one whose teaching hall was now broken stone — had come to this courtyard with the same flat, I-have-decided-something quality, had spoken to her mother, had said the things he had said about the daughter’s Yin Devouring Body, and had lifted her from the ground with the specific, I-am-taking-her quality of a cultivator who had decided.

And the mother had been standing in the courtyard.

Looking up.

Her face had been — the daughter remembered the face, the specific, amber-eyed, watching-her-daughter-go quality of the face her mother had been wearing the day she left.

Now the positions were reversed.

Now the mother was the one going up.

Now the daughter was the one on the ground.

Now the daughter was the one in the courtyard with the specific, looking-up, amber-eyes-at-the-departing-face quality of the daughter-who-was-left.

The mother saw her daughter’s face.

The flat, present, amber-eyed, she-has-found-it, she-knows-what-this-looks-like quality of a woman who had been in the courtyard when this happened the first time and was in his arms when it was happening the second time and was watching her daughter’s face find the specific, familiar, where-have-I-seen-this memory.

Her eyes.

The flat, warm, wet, present, tearing quality of eyes that had been crying since the reunion and were crying differently now — the specific, this-is-the-same-courtyard, this-is-the-same-position, this-is-what-I-looked-like-that-day quality of tears from a woman who was watching history from the other side and was doing the specific, full-weight, everything-this-means processing of that.

He rose.

Still rising.

The flat, smooth, present, higher quality of cultivator ascent that did not stop at three meters or five meters — the specific, going-where-he-was-going quality of an ascent with a destination.

He looked at the daughter below.

At the brown eyes.

At the small figure in the ruined courtyard.

At the flat, present, looking-up, both-of-us-know-what-this-is quality of a girl on the ground watching the sky take her mother.

He said — the flat, present, down-to-the-courtyard, carries-exactly-as-far-as-it-needs-to-carry delivery of someone saying the last thing they are going to say:

"There is nothing you can give me."