Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 260- Broken Heroine’s Doubts

She had been heading there with a purpose.

The distinct, unyielding way Lin Yuxi moved through a space—shoulders drawn back, pulling the fabric of her silk robes taut across the subtle swell of her breasts, her chin leveled. Her injured hip voiced its sharp complaints with every step, and she firmly ignored it, driven by a singular resolve.

She wanted to see him.

Not wanted in a way that required deep, blushing examination. She needed to look upon the cultivator who had dragged her off a frozen mountain slope. It was the pragmatic need of a woman who had woken up in strange sheets, her bare skin overly sensitive against the unfamiliar linens, needing to put a face to the debt before it became a weight she carried blindly.

That was the reason.

She navigated the western wing corridor with that exact justification shielding her mind.

The first thing she noticed was the maids.

Coming from the opposite direction—two of them, followed by a third slipping from a side passage. Each carried towels and bronze basins of water, radiating the hushed, urgent energy of palace staff deeply entrenched in a task.

Warm water.

Steam curled from the closest basin, turning the air humid. The towel draped over the second maid’s arm was damp and heavily saturated—not being delivered, but returned. Their cheeks were flushed with a lingering rosy heat, but their expressions were meticulously schooled, the masks of women who had witnessed something intensely compromising and decided to be exceptionally professional about it.

Lin Yuxi slowed her pace, watching them.

They bowed as they passed. The third maid kept her gaze fixed firmly on the floorboards, a bead of sweat tracing down her neck, while the second hurried along far quicker than the empty corridor demanded.

She let them go.

Then the sound reached her.

It didn’t register right away. Her cultivation hummed in its fractured rhythm, the broken meridians offering a disjointed reading from her damaged core. The noise arrived in broken waves, a symptom of her spiritual sense misfiring.

But fragments were more than enough.

A woman’s voice.

It wasn’t a scream. It was far past screaming, possessing that raw, throaty texture of a throat that had burned through its upper registers and was now surviving purely on hoarse, breathless whimpers.

"—...can’t... I cannot... please... my body—"

Lin Yuxi halted mid-step. Her breath hitched, chest rising beneath the thin collar of her robes. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

"—...both holes... cannot feel... so swollen... too much... I will die... please let me rest... please I—"

The ragged syllables spilled down the hall. Holes landed distinctly during a brief moment her core cycled true; swollen followed on the next breath, then rest. The full sentence eluded her, yet the sordid meaning pieced itself together effortlessly from the wreckage.

She had survived enough cultivator conflicts to know the sharp difference between a woman crying out from a blade’s wound, and a woman weeping from a vastly different kind of physical overpowering.

This was undeniably the latter.

She also understood that within cultivation circles, this particular brand of desperate sobbing didn’t always welcome a rescue. She stood frozen in the shadowed corridor, balancing this crude reality against her original intent, the throb in her hip, and the ache in her core.

Then, the true cry tore through the air.

No longer a fragment. A full, visceral, shattering sound—a wall-penetrating wail from a woman whose physical limits had been utterly breached and was broadcasting her surrender to the heavens.

"—PLEASE — NO MORE — I CAN’T — MY PUSSY — IT’S STILL STRETCHED — PLEASE—"

Lin Yuxi broke into a run.

It wasn’t a conscious choice. Her body moved before logic could intervene. The injured joint sent flares of agony up her side, but she shoved the pain down, her soft leather boots slapping against the stone. The heavy mahogany door at the end of the western wing rushed up to meet her, the frantic sprint of a damaged cultivator demanding she intervene before someone was broken in half behind that wood.

She reached the threshold.

Gasping, her chest heaving so fiercely her peaked nipples brushed against the inner lining of her silk wrap. She threw her hand up to hammer on the frame, but the door swung open on its own.

She stood frozen, fist raised to strike empty air.

He was looking down at her.

A towel.

Just a stark white towel hung low on his hips. Droplets of water still clung to the broad, carved expanse of his shoulders and chest, gleaming in the lantern light. Damp, dark hair fell casually against the corded muscle of his neck. The hastily knotted fabric at his waist was all that shielded him from being bare, the dangerous V-line of his lower stomach disappearing beneath the terrycloth.

And then, his face.

She hadn’t braced herself for his face.

Not simply in the mundane way of expecting an attractive man and finding him appealing. It was an overwhelming, bewildering architecture of features that rendered the word ’handsome’ pathetic. It was the terrifying, magnetic allure of a Nascent Soul cultivator whose physical vessel had been refined over centuries until it became flawless. A primal, unapologetic masculine perfection, radiating raw heat, and right now, his heavy gaze was pinned entirely on her.

She remained rooted, fist hovering in the space between them.

Behind his towering frame laid the room. She technically saw it, even if her brain struggled to process anything past the sheer presence of the man blocking her path. A grand bed dominated the space. A female figure lay sprawled atop the ruined silk sheets, hips propped indecently high by a rolled blanket. Her bare, trembling thighs were fully visible from the doorway, slick and gleaming wetly with the thick, accumulated evidence of an aggressive, prolonged mating session. The woman’s face was mashed sideways into a pillow, eyes rolled back in the glazed, mindless stupor of someone who had been bred into blissful unconsciousness.

The door drifted slowly shut behind him.

Like a heavy velvet curtain falling on a stage.

She was still trapped in his stare.

He was examining her.

It was a piercing, deeply invasive gaze—one she would soon learn was merely his default way of observing the world. He took in her suspended fist, the rapid, ragged rise and fall of her breasts under her robes, the slight favoring of her injured hip. His dark eyes seemed to strip right through her silk layers, easily reading the turbulent, broken rhythm of her fractured cultivation base cycling beneath her skin.

He raised an arm.

Casually, he swiped a hand across the dense muscle of his chest—the idle motion of a man casually tending to his own grooming. Whatever viscous substance he smeared away with his palm was thick, warm, and decidedly neither water nor sweat.

He glanced down at the slick coating on his hand.

Then back to her flushed face.

"—I was considering a proper bath," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "—Apparently I miscounted which direction the corridor faces."

She blinked, snapping out of her daze.

Her arm dropped to her side.

"—I—" The word faltered, dying on her tongue before she forced it back. "—I apologize. I heard the screaming and I thought—"

"—You thought someone needed saving."

"—Yes."