Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World

Chapter 310: Chapter 310- Taking the Free time to Clap Her

The Fairy Skin Art did not care about the source of stimulus. A tentacle pressing against her nipple reported as exactly what it was, with full resolution, with no capacity for her to scale it down or mute it. The suction ’pulled’, and her body processed this with the same attentive thoroughness it processed every physical event, and her pussy — which had been cold and appropriate and utterly uninvolved in any of this — clenched.

She did not have time to be mortified by this. She was busy being pulled underwater.

"MNGHH~!! — LET GO — LET—"

They dragged her under.

The pond was deeper than she’d read. She went down six feet before the pull stopped, the tentacles holding her in position — wrist, ankle, waist — while two more from below found her thighs and separated them with the slow, deliberate pressure of something that did not have goals but had instincts.

She held her breath. Worked her free hand toward the pole. Got the bronze cap against the thing in the depths and drove qi through it in a focused discharge.

The construct ’screamed’ — not in sound but in qi, a ripple of distorted spiritual energy that hit her sensory field like a physical blow and sent her vision — the spatial sense that was her vision — completely white for two seconds.

The tentacles did not release. They ’tightened.’

The one across her breast twisted. The suction along its length pressed harder against her nipple, and her body’s traitorous resolution kept reporting this with complete, enthusiastic accuracy — the warmth of it, the pressure, the pull — and she felt herself go wet between her legs in the cold water in a way that had nothing to do with the pond.

"HAANGHH~!! — STOP — MY BODY — IT’S — HNNGH~!!"

The fifth tentacle found her pussy.

Not penetrating. Just — pressing. The slick, thick, muscular head of it against her folds, exploring with the blind instinct of a creature that was not intelligent but was thorough, and the sensation of it there — against sixteen years of the Fairy Skin Art’s cultivated sensitivity, against the most sensitive surface she possessed — drove a sound out of her that she had never made in her life.

"HAAAANGHHT~!!"

Her spiritual sense came back on in fragments. She used it. She drove qi through the pole again — less focused, less disciplined, desperate — and the construct convulsed. The tentacle on her breast released. She pulled hard with the freed shoulder, got her wrist free, and drove herself toward the surface with everything she had.

She broke the surface gasping.

The tentacle at her ankle was still there. She grabbed the stone edge of the pond and pulled, and it stretched, and stretched — and snapped.

She lay on the stone floor on her back. Naked. Soaked. Breathing in ragged, full-body gasps that shook her whole chest. The fire was still burning six feet away. The pond’s surface heaved and settled.

Below the water, the construct’s qi signature was dimming. She had damaged it. Not killed it — she hadn’t had the cultivation output for a proper killing strike — but damaged it enough that it was retreating into the depths.

She lay there.

Her right nipple was flushed and swollen from the tentacle’s suction. Her inner thighs were slick with arousal that the cold water hadn’t cleaned away and wouldn’t because it wasn’t from outside. Her body was running at a frequency she could not turn down — every surface of her alive and reporting and the accumulated stimulus of the past several minutes still cycling through her nervous system with nowhere to go.

"Breathe," she told herself.

She breathed.

She tried to sit up.

Her arms did not cooperate. The exertion of the spider fight and the tentacle fight and the swimming and the qi discharge had simply used everything she had, and what remained was not enough to lift her torso off the stone floor with any authority.

The poison registered seven seconds later.

It was in the suction marks — she hadn’t noticed in the moment, but the tentacles had delivered something with the contact points, something that spread from her ankle and her wrist and the place on her thigh inward through her qi pathways with the particular cold tingle of a neurotoxin that targeted the body’s voluntary movement channels. Not her qi. Not her consciousness. Just her ability to move her limbs with intention.

"Oh," she said.

She tried her left hand. It moved — slowly, without strength, the fingers responding at a delay. Her legs wouldn’t lift at all.

She was lying on her back, naked, on the stone floor of a Labyrinth chamber, poisoned into paralysis, with the tentacle construct recovering somewhere below the water’s surface and her spiritual sense telling her she was absolutely alone in this chamber.

"Alright," she said, to the ceiling she couldn’t see. Her voice came out remarkably steady, given. "Alright."

She pressed her hands against the floor and managed to roll onto her stomach, which was — less exposed, and gave her the slightly better defensive option of being face-down if anything came out of the pond again. The effort cost her everything she had. She lay with her cheek against the stone, her hips pressed down, the fire warm on her left side.

She extended her spiritual sense. Pushed it outward as far as the Fairy Skin Art and her current state allowed.

She found him at the pond’s edge.

Not approached — ’at.’ He had been there already, or had arrived in the time between her rolling over and extending her sense, and his signature — the gap, the suppressed void that her spiritual sense read as an absence shaped precisely like a person — was standing six feet behind her at the water’s edge.

Wet. She could feel the water still running off him. He had been in the pond. He had been below the surface of the pond.

He had killed the tentacle construct.

She had not heard or felt this happen. It had happened after she’d dragged herself out, while she was lying here, without any disturbance to the water’s surface that she had registered.

The gap stood and looked at her.

She could feel the looking. She could feel his attention on her body — not through any cultivation technique, just through the Fairy Skin Art’s ambient resolution, the way warmth from a fire can be felt on skin that isn’t facing the fire. His gaze had a weight to it.

She was lying face down, naked, her ass and the backs of her thighs and the curve of her spine and every inch of her posterior surface completely visible to whatever was standing behind her.

"Who are you," she said. Into the stone floor. Her voice still steady. She was very good at steady.

The gap did not answer.

She felt his feet move — barefoot on the stone, she read it through the floor — coming closer. Stopping at her hips.

She felt his hands before they landed — the warmth of them, close enough that her skin was already reporting, the Fairy Skin Art already running at full capacity and producing a signal she was struggling to interpret through the lens of calm.

They landed on her hips.

Both hands. Large. Warm. The grip closing around the flare of her hips with the completeness of a hold that was not exploratory — it was arrival. It was someone putting their hands on something they intended to keep, with the particular certainty of a person who had decided before touching that they were going to touch.

The sensation of his palms against her hip bones detonated through sixteen years of the Fairy Skin Art like a struck qi formation.

"HAANGH~!!"