Dual Cultivation: Gathering SSS-Rank Wives in the Cultivation World

Chapter 679: Chapter 679- The Heat of His into Her

[ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION ]

Fate Value update:

Hostile entity "Lin Feng" (Shen Wuji) — Nascent Soul breakthrough forcibly reverted. Cultivation base damaged. Entity incapacitated.

Parasitic Fate Value: 8,470,000 → 0

Entity’s Fate Value claim on heroine: NULLIFIED.

Host Fate Value: 1,047,000 → 1,047,000 (unchanged)

Heroine attachment: "Lin Feng" (external) → status: CRITICAL. Attachment destabilized by power disparity demonstration.

Note: With parasitic Fate Value nullified, heroine’s 8,470,000 Fate Value is unclaimed. If host claims heroine’s maidenhood, full Fate Value transfers to host.

Tianlong’s mouth curved. The smile was small. Cold. The smile of a being who had just watched eight million Fate Value evaporate from his opponent’s account.

’Gone. All of it. The twelve years of patience. The careful cultivation of the princess’s love. The parasitic attachment. The planned harvest. Gone. Because he was reckless. Because he challenged me. Because he let his emotions override his calculation.’

’In the other world, the son-in-law was smarter. More patient. He didn’t reveal himself until he was ready. This one — this Shen Wuji — he’s a lesser version. A copy. A shadow.’

’And now his Fate Value is mine for the taking.’

He stood. His formal immortal’s attire — dark silk, crimson rope — settled around his body. His gold-crimson eyes found Jin Yuhan — kneeling on the floor, her slender body trembling, her bare breast exposed, her tears falling.

He walked toward her. His silk slippers whispered on the jade. The hall — the elders, the disciples, the sect leader — parted before him. Every head bowed. Every body lowered.

He reached the princess. He stood above her. His shadow fell across her kneeling body.

He bent. His large hands — pale, golden-skinned — gripped her shoulders. He pulled her up. Not roughly. Not gently. The motion of a man lifting something that belonged to him.

He pulled her into a hug.

Her slender body pressed against his chest. Her bare breast — the right one, raw, the nipple bitten, the areola marked with teeth impressions — mashed against the dark silk of his robe. The stiff pink nipple compressed against the fabric. Her left breast — still covered by the remnants of her robes — pressed against his abdomen. Her face buried in his chest. Her obsidian hair fell across his arm.

She cried. The tears soaked through his robe, wetting his golden skin beneath. Her slender body shook — the sobs tearing through her, each one a physical event, her shoulders heaving, her back arching, her hands — small, pale — gripping the crimson rope at his waist.

Her father — Jin Wuchen — stood five meters away. His enormous frame was motionless. His dark eyes were on the floor. His head was bowed.

Tianlong’s hands moved. One hand rested on Jin Yuhan’s back — between her shoulder blades, the pale fingers splayed across the silk of her torn robes. The other hand moved lower. Over the curve of her waist. Over the swell of her hip. Over the round, firm shape of her ass beneath the layered silk.

He squeezed. The flesh — firm, toned by cultivation, the curves present but refined — deformed under his grip. His pale fingers sank into the silk, the fabric pulling taut across her cheeks. He pulled her closer — her pelvis pressing against his, her thighs against his, her body molded to his.

"To accept the marriage," Tianlong said. His voice was low. Quiet. Meant for her ears. The gold-crimson eyes looked down at the top of her head — at the obsidian hair, the jade pin gone, the black strands spilling across his chest. "You need to accept it."

She trembled. Her dark eyes — wet, red-rimmed — lifted. Found her father’s face. Found the bowed head. The clenched fists. The lowered eyes.

’Father. He’s — he’s letting this happen. He’s letting the ancestor — letting him touch me — letting him grope me — in front of everyone —’

"Father," she whispered. Her refined voice cracked. "Please —"

Jin Wuchen’s head lifted. His dark eyes — tortured, heavy with the weight of forty years of leadership and the knowledge that he could not protect his daughter — met hers.

"Yuhan," he said. His deep voice was raw. "Accept."

One word. Her father’s word. The word of the sect leader. The word that sealed her fate.

Her tears fell harder. Her slender body — pressed against Tianlong’s chest, her ass in his hand, her breast against his robe — convulsed with sobs.

"Why?" she whispered. Her voice was barely audible. A breath. A prayer to a heaven that wasn’t listening. "Why —"

Tianlong chuckled. The sound was low. Warm. The amusement of a being who found human suffering — not cruel, but interesting. The way one finds a play interesting.

He leaned down. His lips found her neck. The skin was pale, smooth, the scent of jasmine and spirit-plum blossoms filling his nose. He kissed. His lips pressed against the curve where her neck met her shoulder. His mouth opened. His tongue — warm, wet — touched her skin. He tasted the salt of her tears, the faint sweetness of her cultivation base, the electric tingle of the Azure Dragon Marrow spiritual constitution.

She shuddered. Her slender body — already trembling — went rigid. The sensation of his mouth on her neck — the warmth, the wetness, the divine qi in his saliva seeping through her skin — was unlike anything she had felt. Lin Feng had kissed her neck before — gently, carefully, the tentative kisses of a young man. This was different. This was the mouth of a god. And her body — traitor, responsive, the Azure Dragon Marrow reacting to the divine qi — flushed.

"Leave us," Tianlong said. His voice carried through the hall. The command was absolute. The divine qi in the words pressed against every person’s spiritual sense.

The elders rose. The disciples filed out. Jin Wuchen — the sect leader — turned. His enormous frame walked toward the exit. His dark eyes did not look back. His hands — clenched at his sides — were white.

The hall emptied.

Tianlong and Jin Yuhan were alone.

His hand — the one on her ass — squeezed. The firm flesh deformed. His fingers — pale, large — found the hem of her layered robes. He pulled the fabric up. Slowly. Deliberately. The silk slid over her thighs — pale, slender, toned. The fabric rose past her knees, past her mid-thigh, past the curve of her hips.

Her ass was revealed — round, firm, the cheeks smooth and pale. The silk undergarment — white, fine, the fabric thin — covered her. His hand — large, warm — rested on the bare skin of her cheek. He squeezed. The flesh was firm, the muscle beneath the softness toned by cultivation.

He pulled her closer. His pelvis pressed against hers. Through the dark silk of his robe — through the thin fabric — she felt it. His cock. Hard. Thick. The shaft running along his thigh, the length pressing against her lower stomach through the layers of cloth.

He rubbed. His hips moved — slowly, deliberately, his cock grinding against her pelvis. His mouth — still on her neck — kissed, licked, sucked. His divine qi — radiating from his body, the Horny God Physique’s pheromones filling the empty hall — seeped through her skin.

Her body responded. Her nipples — both of them, the bare right and the clothed left — hardened. Her pussy — virgin, untouched, the walls dry and tight — moistened. The arousal — involuntary, chemical, the pheromones overriding her mind’s resistance — seeped through her silk undergarment.

’No — my body — it’s — I don’t want this — I don’t — but the — the sensation — his mouth — his hand — the warmth — the qi — it’s making my —’