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

Chapter 722: Chapter 722- Sect Leaders waiting for Immortal

Her dark eyes, rolling, looked up at him. The pupils, dilated, the whites showing, were the eyes of a woman whose mind was drowning. Drowning in the divine qi. In the pleasure. In the pain. In the overwhelming, all-consuming need to please him.

"Please..." she whispered. Her mouth, against his cock, the words vibrating through the shaft. "My son..."

He stuffed her mouth. His cock, the head, the shaft, pushed past her lips. Her jaw, sore, opened. Her throat, raw, received him. The shaft, twelve inches, slid in. Her neck bulged. The outline, visible from the outside, marked the depth.

He held her there. His cock, buried, her nose against his pelvis. Her throat, working, the muscles milking. Her dark eyes, wet, looking up at him.

He looked at the door.

The door opened. Jin Wuchen entered. The Azure Cloud Sect leader’s enormous frame, his formal jade-green and white robes, his dark eyes, filled the doorway. He bowed. Deep. Formal.

"Lord Immortal," he said. His deep voice was controlled. Steady. The voice of a man who had learned to accept his position.

Behind him, the cabin was visible. The table. The silk ropes. The collar. The leash. The three Soul Formation women. And on the floor, the headmistress.

Jin Wuchen’s dark eyes swept the scene. The table, the ropes, the collar. The three women, their bodies, their cultivation bases. And on the floor, a thick woman, completely naked, her enormous tits hanging, her body marked with teeth marks and handprints, her mouth wrapped around Tianlong’s cock. Her throat bulging. Her dark eyes, wet, looking at nothing. Her lips, stretched, working. The sounds, the wet, guttural sounds of a throat being fucked, filled the cabin.

"Glurk... glurk... slurp..."

She sucked his balls. Her mouth, moving from his cock to his sac, took the heavy orbs. She sucked. Her cheeks hollowed. Her tongue, pink, worked the surface. The motion, the action, the complete submission of a woman who had been broken and remade, was the action of a pet.

His heavy cock lay over her head. The shaft, twelve inches, rested on her dark hair. The weight, the warmth, the divine qi, pressed against her scalp. The positioning, the cock over her head, the balls in her mouth, was the posture of a man claiming ownership. Marking her. Staking territory.

Jin Wuchen’s heart trembled. His peak Golden Core qi, cycling, stuttered. His body flinched. The sight, the headmistress, the woman he had known as a composed authority figure, on her knees, naked, her mouth full of balls, her body covered in marks, her eyes vacant with devotion, was a sight that violated every notion of dignity he held.

’She looks like... she looks like a complete... a bitch. That’s not the headmistress. That’s not Madam Yueying. That’s... that’s a woman who has been...’

His dark eyes, unable to look away, took in the scene. The headmistress, sucking. The three Soul Formation women, standing. The table, the ropes, the collar. The divine qi, radiating from the cabin, pressing against his spiritual sense.

He forced his eyes to the floor. He bowed again.

"Lord Immortal," he said. His deep voice was strained. "The teleporter informed how the connections within the spiritual pendants are breaking for the disciples. It’s as if they are dying within it."

The words, the report, the formal military communication, was delivered to a man whose cock was being serviced by a woman on her knees.

Tianlong’s gold-crimson eyes, looking at Jin Wuchen, held no reaction. No concern. No alarm. The neutral assessment of a being receiving information.

"Let those who are dying be dead," he said.

The words, the casual dismissal, the administrative tone of a man ordering the disposal of waste, fell into the cabin.

Jin Wuchen’s body trembled. His peak Golden Core qi, his cultivation base, his decades of discipline, could not suppress the shudder. The words, the order, the casual condemnation of hundreds of disciples to death, hit him.

’This is the answer from an immortal. Hundreds of disciples. Dead. And he says let them die. As if they are nothing. As if their lives, their years of training, their families, their dreams, are nothing.’

He swallowed. His throat, tight, the muscles working, was audible in the silence.

"However," he continued. His deep voice was careful. Measured. The voice of a man delivering news that might change the verdict. "There is a strange kind of thing happening with the deaths of the disciples. A strange kind of energy seems to be increasing within the premises. As if something is devouring the spiritual energy of them."

Tianlong’s gold-crimson eyes, still on Jin Wuchen, sharpened. The first sign of interest. The first reaction beyond neutral assessment.

"Now that," he said. His voice carried a note. Not surprise. Not concern. Recognition. "Is something I already know."

He looked down. At the headmistress. At her mouth, on his balls, her dark eyes looking up. At her thick body, marked and used, on the floor.

His hand stretched. One of the Soul Formation women, Liu Mei, moved. She produced items. A furry butt plug, the surface soft, the base a puff of dark fur. A furry bra, the cups lined with the same fur. A mouth plug, a bit, leather and metal. Ropes, silk, coiled.

He looked down at the headmistress. At the items. At the woman who had been broken and remade.

"So," he said. His voice was warm. The tone of a man introducing a new phase. "Do we make our pet."

The inheritance citadel was screaming.

Not the walls. Not the stone. The people inside. The cultivators, the hundreds who had surged through the jade doors with their swords raised and their sect names on their lips, were dying.

A warrior was thrown from the entrance. His body, Core Formation cultivation, was broken. His robes, the Jade River Sect blue, were torn. His face, young, was white. His eyes, wide, streamed with tears. His chest, the dantian, the golden core, was dark. The spiritual energy, the cultivation base, the years of training, was gone. Not shattered. Not sealed. Devoured.

He hit the ground. The stone, the mountain plateau, was cold against his back. He gasped. His lungs, working, pulled air. His mouth, open, the tongue extended, gasped.

"There are monsters in there," he choked. His voice, thin, the voice of a man whose spiritual foundation had been ripped away, was barely audible. "They are sucking away the life force of the people. Spiritual energy getting devoured by them while they are throwing it into something. I don’t... I don’t know... a pool... a massive... a pool..."

His body convulsed. The last of his spiritual energy, the dregs, the residual qi in his meridians, was pulled. Not by an external force. By the emptiness. The void, the absence where his golden core had been, was collapsing. His meridians, the spiritual channels, were folding inward.

He fell. His body, limp, hit the stone. His eyes, wide, vacant, stared at the sky. His mouth, open, was still. The breathing had stopped.

A disciple. A Core Formation cultivator. Dead in seconds.

The sect leaders, standing at the edge of the plateau, stared. Jin Wuchen’s dark eyes, wide, were fixed on the body. Wang Deyu’s portly frame was rigid. Han Tianxiao’s scarred face was white.

"What do we do?" Wang Deyu whispered. His small eyes, wet, were on the citadel. On the jade doors, still open, still inviting. "We have to... we have to wait for the Immortal’s decisions."

"The Immortal," Han Tianxiao said. His rough voice was hollow. "He said let them die. He said..."