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

Chapter 757: Chapter 757- Greed to Meet Immortal Emperor

He nodded. His sharp eyes, the assessment, were grave.

"He is supreme," he said. His voice was quiet. The admission, the acknowledgment of a power that exceeded everything he knew, was delivered. "The strongest you can find."

He paused. His scholarly face, the caveat, the qualification, was added.

"But it does not matter," he said. "There were ancestors who were hidden and stronger than him."

The words, the reassurance, the attempt to diminish the Emperor’s power, to make him seem less absolute, were the words of a man trying to comfort himself. To convince himself that there were beings above Tianlong. That the Emperor was not invincible.

She blinked. Her warm eyes, the thought, the processing, was there.

’Her internal thoughts: My father. Father fell to a demonic cultivator. On the merchant route. He went to handle it. The demonic cultivator’s poison, the dark qi, the corruption, has plagued his body. He is paralyzed. He is dying. No medicine can cure him. No doctor can heal him. Even with cultivation, even with the long lives of cultivators, I cannot help him. I cannot find the herbs. I cannot afford the pills. I cannot even find where to purchase them.’

’I came here. To my childhood friend. The one who went to the upper realm. The one who became strong. The one who might be able to help. Even though I was angry at him for never contacting me. For never coming back. For forgetting about me. I knew how cruel people become when they get opportunities. Power changes people. The upper realm, the sect, the cultivation, the ambition. All of it changes people. But I had no one else. No one else to turn to.’

’So I came. I stood. I tried to ask.’

She stood. Her body, the full, curvy frame, rose from the stone bench. Her warm eyes, the tears forming, the pain, were there. She tried to turn. To leave. To walk away before the tears fell.

"What am I even thinking?" she whispered. Her voice was broken. The self-deprecation, the despair, the resignation of a woman who had convinced herself that asking for help was futile. "Why would the Emperor even meet me?"

She was trembling. Confused. The hope, the despair, the conflict, all of it, was there.

The eldest prince, his sharp eyes, the warmth, the concern, the protective instinct of a man who cared about this woman, spoke.

"You should stay away from him," he said. His voice was firm. The warning, the protective, jealous, rivalrous warning of a man who had been humiliated by the Emperor and did not want the woman he cared about anywhere near him, was delivered.

"Why?" she asked. Her voice was soft. The question, the natural response to a warning, was there.

He looked at her. His scholarly face, the anger, the resentment, the frustration, was visible.

"Just stay away from that bastard," he said. His voice was tight. The insult, the venom, the personal animosity toward the Emperor, was clear.

The rivalry, the hostility, the deep, personal, simmering conflict between the eldest prince and the Emperor of the Long Dynasty, was there. She heard it. She noted it. She nodded.

She turned. She walked. Out of the courtyard. Through the garden. Her steps, measured, were the steps of a woman leaving with nothing. With no help. With no hope.

Her tears fell. Thirty years of tears. Thirty years of watching her father suffer. Thirty years of searching for a cure, of spending everything, of watching the merchant business decline, of watching her father wither. The tears, the silent, streaming, falling tears, ran down her cheeks.

’He couldn’t help. He is leaving. He is going on his expedition. He gave me a pendant. A communication device. But what good is a communication device when the person on the other end is gone? When the person on the other end cannot help? When the person on the other end is too busy chasing power and inheritance and glory to care about a dying merchant?’

’I came here. I stood. I asked. And I got nothing. Nothing but a pendant and a warning to stay away from the one person who might actually have the power to help.’

’What am I even thinking? Why would the Emperor meet me? Why would a god care about a merchant’s daughter? About a dying father? About a nobody?’

She walked. Through the garden. Through the paths. The spirit-flowers, the silver-leafed trees, the crystal stream, were beautiful. She didn’t see them. Her eyes, wet, blurred, were on the ground.

Then she looked up.

In the garden, among the flowers, a woman. A thick woman. Her body, the full, mature, curvy frame, was bent over. Her hands, pale, were in the dirt. She was pulling flowers. Her waist, the thick waist, was being rubbed. The woman, struggling to bend, was massaging her lower back.

The merchant’s daughter, her warm eyes, the instinct, the natural kindness of a woman who had been raised among common people, who knew the value of helping, moved.

"Let me help you, lady," she said. Her voice was soft. The offer, the genuine, spontaneous, kind offer of a woman who saw someone struggling and wanted to help, was real.

The thick woman looked up. Her face, the beautiful, mature, composed face, turned. A smile, warm, grateful, formed.

It was the headmistress. Madam Yueying.

"Thank you," the headmistress said. Her raw voice, the warm, soft tone, was genuine.

The merchant’s daughter, her warm eyes, on the flowers, on the headmistress’s hands, on the dirt, engaged.

"This flower is good," she said. Her voice was conversational. The observation, the natural small talk of two women in a garden, was easy. Natural.

They talked. About flowers. About the garden. About the spirit-blooms, the cultivation herbs, the properties of the petals. The conversation, the easy, flowing, comfortable conversation of two women who had found common ground, continued.

The headmistress, her dark eyes, her composed face, her trained, conditioned, corrupted mind, was working. The manipulation, the subtle, gentle, emotionally engineered manipulation of a woman who had been taught by her master, was in play.

She listened. She asked questions. She was sympathetic. She was warm. She was the perfect confidante.

The merchant’s daughter, her warm eyes, her heart, her pain, her desperation, opened. The conversation, the easy, comfortable, safe conversation with a kind, older woman, lowered her guard. The walls, the defenses, the pride that had kept her from begging, crumbled.

"Yeah," she said. Her voice was soft. The confession, the admission, the vulnerability, was there. "My father is ill. Years. I wanted the help of the immortal emperor. But naturally, why would he help someone like me?"

She laughed. The sound, the bitter, self-deprecating, hopeless laugh of a woman who had given up, was there.

The headmistress, her dark eyes, her composed face, held the warmth. The sympathy. The understanding.

Then she spoke.

"There is a way you can get to talk to the Emperor," the headmistress said. Her voice was soft. The tone of a woman sharing a secret. A gift. A lifeline. "I’m mortal. Though it is a strange thing. How would I say..."

The words, the hint, the suggestion, the promise of access, of a way to reach the Emperor, hit the merchant’s daughter like lightning.

Her hope, the desperate, all-consuming, overwhelming hope, surged. Her hands, her pale, slender fingers, grabbed the headmistress’s hands. She clasped them. The grip, the desperate, clinging, begging grip of a woman drowning, was there.

"Please tell me what I can do!" she said. Her voice was desperate. The plea, the raw, broken, pleading voice of a woman who had nothing left, was genuine. "How can I meet him? I will do anything to meet him!"