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

Chapter 688: Chapter 688- Sucking her New Man

Tianlong stood above her. His naked body — golden, gleaming — was still. His gold-crimson eyes — looking down at the princess, at the ashes on her skin, at the blood on her thighs, at the curled, trembling body — were calm. Not amused. Not cold. Not sympathetic. Calm. The expression of a being who had seen this scene before — in other worlds, with other women, with other ashes — and had learned that the best thing to do was nothing.

He looked at his cock. The shaft — twelve inches, softening — was slick. The blood — Jin Yuhan’s virgin blood, thin and red — coated the surface. Her arousal — clear, viscous — mixed with it. The combination — blood and arousal and the residual divine qi — glistened on his pale skin.

He sighed. The sound was genuine. Not theatrical. The sigh of a man who had just completed a task and was assessing the aftermath.

"So," he said. His voice was low. Conversational. Addressing no one in particular. "He was a good friend."

The words — spoken in the same tone one might use to comment on the weather — fell into the dungeon’s silence.

Jin Yuhan heard them. Through the sobs. Through the grief. Through the ashes on her skin.

She uncurled. Slowly. Her dark eyes — wet, red, the lashes matted — lifted. Found his face. Found the gold-crimson eyes. Found the calm.

She reached for him. Her small, pale hand — ash-covered, blood-smeared — extended. Her fingers touched his thigh. The golden skin was warm. Alive. The contrast — his living warmth against the cold ashes on her hand — was jarring.

She pulled herself toward him. Her face — wet, ash-marked, the porcelain skin stained — moved closer to his body. Her arms — thin, trembling — wrapped around his waist. Her face pressed against his lower abdomen.

Her cheek hit his cock. The softening shaft — slick with her blood, warm against her skin — pressed against her face. Her lips touched his balls. The sac — heavy, warm, the skin soft — rested against her chin.

She didn’t care. She didn’t notice. Her arms tightened around his waist. Her face pressed harder against his pelvis. The sobs — muffled against his skin — continued.

Tianlong’s hand — large, pale — rested on her head. His fingers threaded through her obsidian hair — the silken strands tangled, ash-covered, the jade pin long gone. He held her. Not tightly. Not possessively. The way one holds a child who has fallen and is crying.

"Breathe," he said. His voice was low. Quiet. The single word carried a thread of divine qi — not oppressive, not commanding, but soothing. The qi seeped through her scalp, through her skin, into her meridians. Her trembling eased. Her breathing steadied.

She looked up. Her dark eyes — wet, red, the tears still falling — met his gold-crimson ones. The ashes on her face — gray against the porcelain — made her look like a ghost. A beautiful, broken ghost.

"Indeed," she whispered. Her refined voice was raw. Scratched. The voice of a woman who had screamed and sobbed until her throat was sore. "He was my best friend. I — I cared for him. Since we were children. He — he was always —"

Her voice broke. The tears came harder.

"Ancestor," she said. Her dark eyes — wet, desperate — searched his face. "Please — take revenge on the one who killed him. The one who — who took his body. The one who — Shen Wuji — please —"

The name — the true name, the name of the parasite — fell from her lips. A request. A prayer. The first thing she had asked of him that was not a plea for mercy or a cry for help.

A request for justice.

Tianlong’s gold-crimson eyes — looking down at her face, at the tears, at the ashes, at the blood on her thighs — softened. Not with sympathy. With something else. Satisfaction.

’She’s asking me. Not begging. Not pleading. Asking. She wants me to avenge her dead friend. She’s already shifting her attachment — from the parasite to me. The Fate Value transfer is working. The system confirmed it. Her primary attachment is now — me.’

’Good.’

He looked down at his cock. The shaft — softening, still slick with her blood and arousal — hung before her face. Her lips — coral pink, swollen from crying — were inches from the head.

"Clean it," he said.

His voice was calm. Not commanding. Not harsh. The tone of a man stating a preference. His hand — still on her head, the fingers in her hair — didn’t push. Didn’t pull. Rested.

Jin Yuhan’s dark eyes — wet, wide — found his cock. The shaft — pale, thick, the surface coated with her blood — was before her face. The head — crimson, the broad surface glistening — was at her eye level.

She understood. The word — "clean it" — was clear. The implication — clear.

Her small hand — trembling, ash-covered — reached up. Her pale fingers wrapped around the shaft. The cock — warm, thick, the divine qi tingling against her palm — throbbed at her touch. The blood — her blood, the virgin blood — was sticky on her fingers.

She leaned forward. Her coral lips parted. Her small, pink tongue — wet, trembling — extended. The tip touched the shaft. The blood — metallic, warm, the taste of her own virginity — hit her tongue.

She licked. The motion was slow. Hesitant. The tongue of a woman who had never done this. The blood — thin, red — came away from his skin, leaving a clean trail of golden flesh beneath. She licked again. The shaft — inch by inch, the pale skin emerging from beneath the blood — was cleaned.

She opened her lips. Wider. Her jaw dropped. The head of his cock — crimson, broad, the surface slick — pressed against her mouth. She took it in. The head filled her oral cavity — the broad surface pressing against her tongue, the underside resting on her lower lip.

Tianlong’s hand — on her head — pressed. Not hard. Not violently. A steady, insistent pressure. His fingers — threaded through her obsidian hair — pushed her head forward.

His cock entered her mouth. Three inches. Four. The shaft — pale, thick — slid between her lips. Her jaw stretched. Her cheeks bulged. Her dark eyes — wide, wet — looked up at him.

Five inches. The head pressed against the back of her mouth. Her throat — tight, virgin, the muscles untrained — resisted.

"Relax," Tianlong said. His voice was low. His gold-crimson eyes — looking down at her face, at her stretched lips, at her bulging cheeks, at her wide, wet eyes — held warmth. "Breathe through your nose."

She tried. Her nose — small, delicate — inhaled. The air — scented with his divine qi, with his arousal, with the musk of his body — filled her lungs. Her throat relaxed. A fraction.

He pushed. Six inches. The head entered her throat. Her neck — slender, pale, the muscles visible beneath the skin — bulged. The outline of his cock was visible from the outside — the shaft creating a ridge in her throat, the head a bump at the base of her neck.

Her dark eyes rolled. The sensation — the fullness, the pressure, the divine qi in his cock seeping through her throat tissue into her meridians — was overwhelming. Her Core Formation — no, her Nascent Soul cultivation base — responded. The Azure Dragon Marrow resonated.

She sucked. Not because she wanted to. Because her body — the Azure Dragon Marrow, the spiritual constitution that was now bonded to Tianlong’s divine qi — demanded it. Her cheeks hollowed.

Her tongue — pressed against the underside of his shaft — worked. Her lips — stretched around his girth — tightened.