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

Chapter 687: Chapter 687- Agony of a Friend

His body trembled. Not from cultivation — the cultivation was gone. From something else. From the physical reality of a body that had been sustained by spiritual energy for twelve years, suddenly losing that sustenance. The body — Lin Feng’s body, the body he had stolen, the body he had occupied — was rejecting him. Without the Fate Value, without the spiritual energy, without the connection to the Azure Dragon Marrow that had anchored him to this vessel — the body was collapsing.

"You have forced me to use it," Shen Wuji whispered. His voice was barely audible. A rasp. A death rattle. "This whole Azure Sect — will now — crumble — down —"

His hand — the right one, bloodied, the fingers broken — moved. Slowly. Shaking. To his chest.

To the pendant.

It was small — a bronze disc, the size of a coin, hanging from a thin chain around his neck. The surface was engraved with formation diagrams — complex, dense, the lines carrying the energy signature of the upper realm. A distress signal. A final resort. A dead man’s switch.

Jin Yuhan’s dark eyes — wet, wide — found it. Found the pendant. Found the hand reaching for it.

"NO —" she screamed. Her slender body — impaled on Tianlong’s cock, her legs wrapped around his waist — convulsed. She tried to move. To reach through the bars. To stop him.

She couldn’t. Tianlong’s cock was inside her. His hands — on her hips, holding her — kept her anchored.

Shen Wuji’s bloodied fingers closed around the pendant.

He squeezed.

The bronze disc cracked. The formation diagrams — etched into the surface, charged with upper realm energy — activated. Not a pulse. Not a beam. A signal. A massive, overwhelming, omnidirectional spiritual signal that erupted from the broken pendant like a shockwave.

The dungeon shook. The walls cracked. The formation diagrams — the spiritual suppression array — overloaded, the diagrams shattering, the energy dissipating in sparks of golden light. The cell bars — already weakened by Jin Yuhan’s Nascent Soul breakthrough — bent. The stone floor split.

The signal shot upward. Through the dungeon ceiling. Through the rock. Through the mountain. Into the sky.

Above the Azure Cloud Sect, the clouds parted. A column of purple-gold light — the signal’s visible manifestation — erupted from the mountain’s peak, shooting into the stratosphere, the energy signature detectable for hundreds of li in every direction. Every cultivator in the central region — every sect, every clan, every lone practitioner — felt it. The signal of the upper realm. A distress call. A declaration of war.

In the dungeon, Jin Yuhan saw it. Through the cracked ceiling. Through the column of light. She saw the signal — the purple-gold pillar — and understood.

’He — he sent a signal — to the upper realm — the Azure Cloud Sect — everyone will — they’ll come — they’ll investigate — the sect —’

She closed her dark eyes. Her slender body — still impaled, still trembling — went limp. Not unconscious. Surrendering. The overwhelming, crushing weight of everything — Lin Feng’s death, the confession, the signal, the knowledge that her sect was now in danger because of a parasite’s final act of spite — pressing her into the floor.

She crossed her arms. Over her bare chest. Over her breasts — the pink nipples stiff, the right one still raw and bitten. She held herself. The posture of a woman mourning. The posture of a woman who had lost everything and was holding the pieces together with her bare hands.

"Lin Feng," she whispered. The name — the real name, the name of the boy she had loved, the boy who had been dead for twelve years — fell from her lips. Not a cry. Not a scream. A whisper. A prayer.

Tianlong felt the shift. The change in her body — the tension leaving, the surrender settling, the mourning beginning. His gold-crimson eyes — looking down at her face, at the closed eyes, at the crossed arms, at the tear-streaked cheeks — registered it.

He pulled out.

The withdrawal was slow. Deliberate. His cock — twelve inches, slick with her blood and arousal — emerged from her cunt. The head popped free with a wet sound. Her pussy — stretched, raw, the pink interior visible, the lips swollen — gaped. The blood — thin, red — ran from her entrance, down her inner thigh. Her arousal — clear, viscous — mixed with the blood, the fluid dripping onto the stone floor.

Her belly — freed from the distention — slowly flattened. The outline of his cock faded. But the ache — the deep, internal ache of a body that had been forced open — remained.

She stood. Her legs — trembling, the silk robes bunched at her waist — barely supported her. She leaned against the cracked cell bars. Her dark eyes — wet, empty — found the cell interior.

Shen Wuji’s body was dissolving.

The vessel — Lin Feng’s body, the body that had been stolen, the body that had been sustained by spiritual energy and parasitic Fate Value for twelve years — was collapsing. Without the anchor. Without the Fate Value. Without the spiritual energy that had kept the stolen body alive — the body was returning to its natural state.

Which was death.

The skin — previously healthy, the complexion of a young cultivator — went gray. Then white. Then translucent. The flesh — the muscles, the tissue, the cells — lost cohesion. The bonds dissolved. The body — the physical form — came apart.

Not violently. Not explosively. Slowly. Quietly. Like a sandcastle meeting the tide. The edges blurred. The fingers crumbled. The face — the handsome face, the face she had loved — softened. Dissolved.

Ashes.

Lin Feng’s body — the body that had belonged to a boy she had grown up with, a boy who had climbed trees with her, a boy who had given her flowers, a boy who had been murdered twelve years ago by a parasite — fell to ashes.

The cell broke apart. The cracked bars fell. The shattered formation diagrams crumbled. The walls — weakened by the signal, by the Nascent Soul breakthrough, by the divine qi — collapsed outward. The dungeon ceiling split. Daylight — golden, warm — poured through the cracks.

And the ashes — light, gray, carried by the draft from the collapsing walls — blew outward. Into the corridor. Into the air.

Jin Yuhan felt them. On her skin. On her face. On her bare breasts. On her stomach. On her thighs — where the blood and the arousal still glistened. The ashes — the remains of Lin Feng, the real Lin Feng — settled on her naked body like gray snow.

She fell. Her knees — already weak — gave out. She hit the stone floor. Her hands — small, pale, the jade nails chipped — pressed flat against the cold surface. The ashes — on her skin, in her hair, on her eyelashes — shifted with her movement.

"Lin Feng," she said. Her voice was gone. A breath. A whisper. The sound of a woman speaking to the dead.

She curled. Her slender body — naked, ash-covered, blood-streaked, the torn robes bunched at her waist — folded into itself. Her knees drew to her chest. Her arms wrapped around her shins. Her face — wet, ash-marked, the porcelain skin stained gray — buried in her knees.

She cried. Not the loud, dramatic sobs of before. The quiet, heaving, body-wracking sobs of a woman who had passed through grief and emerged in a place beyond it. A place where the tears came not from the eyes but from the chest. From somewhere deep inside. From the place where a childhood friend had lived.

’He’s gone. Lin Feng is gone. Not Shen Wuji — Lin Feng. The real Lin Feng. The boy who — who was already dead. Who died twelve years ago. Who I never — I never got to mourn. I never got to — because I didn’t know. I didn’t know he was dead. I was loving a ghost. A mask. A thing.’

’And now the mask is gone. And the ashes are on my skin. And I — I don’t even know which ashes are his and which are —’

’He’s gone. He’s been gone. For twelve years.’

’And I never said goodbye.’