"Well, for now, I would like to keep the scans private. I trust you, Baizhi, and I trust Chixia and Yangyang, but it will take me some time to trust other people. And as for information about myself, I would be grateful if you could find some archives or files similar to my situation or possibly about the me in the past before I lost my memories? Anything would help."
Baizhi nods once—slow, measured, the faint rustle of her detached sleeves the only sound as you walk side by side along the quieter avenue leading to the Huaxu Academy. The spires grow larger ahead: a towering structure of pale stone and glowing blue veins, its architecture elegant yet functional, like a frozen wave reaching skyward. Researchers wearing professional white coats pass occasionally, offering polite nods to Baizhi but no more. Your presence draws a few lingering glances, but nothing overt. Yet.
"Privacy for the scans is acceptable," she replies evenly, voice low enough to remain between the two of you. "I anticipated as much. Trust is not granted lightly—especially after events like today. I will conduct the preliminary diagnostics myself in an isolated chamber on the lower levels of the Remnant Ecoacoustics wing. No assistants, no recordings without your explicit approval. You'tan can serve as secondary monitoring if needed; it is bound only to me and poses no external risk."
She pauses at a cross-path where a small fountain bubbles with faintly luminescent water—resonance-infused, calming the air around it—before continuing.
"As for archives… I can access restricted sections of the Huaxu database with my clearance level. Historical resonance evaluations, anomaly reports, and classified incident logs from the founding era onward are stored in the sealed vaults—even early Jinzhou records."
Her seafoam-green eyes flick sideways to you, assessing but not pressing.
"I have already cross-referenced your resonance signature—subtly, during our walk—from the Crownless encounter and your earlier spikes. There are… parallels. Anomalies that match patterns in very old files. One in particular stands out: a redacted evaluation report titled 'Resonance Evaluation Report On "the First Resonator"' from the Year of Wei, AL [redacted]."
She lowers her voice further as a pair of junior researchers hurry past, her tone is clinical, but there is a quiet undercurrent of fascination.
"Much is redacted—name, exact date, attachments… but the available information aligns closely with your observed patterns. Too closely for coincidence..."
She stops at the base of the Academy steps—wide, white stone leading to automated glass double doors etched with flowing resonance circuits.
She turns fully to face you now, expression composed but eyes searching.
"I can retrieve the file for you during our session—display it on a secure terminal for you to review privately. No copies will leave the room without your consent. Studying the file could unlock more fragments of your memory—or at least context for why your arrival feels… anticipated."
She gestures toward the doors.
"The private chamber is ready. We can begin whenever you are. Rest assured—I will guard your privacy as rigorously as I guard my own research."
The Academy looms welcoming yet imposing. Inside awaits answers—or more questions—in the form of cold scanners, glowing screens, and dusty files from a past that might be yours.
You step through the automated doors of Huaxu Academy side by side with Baizhi. The interior is cool, quiet, clinical—polished white marble floors reflecting soft blue light from resonance conduits running along the walls like veins of frozen lightning. The faint hum of machinery and distant voices of researchers echo softly, but the corridor Baizhi leads you down is empty, sealed off from the main wings.
She stops at a discreet door marked **Remnant Isolation Chamber – Level 3 – Authorized Personnel Only**. A palm scan and retinal check later, it hisses open.
Inside: a spacious circular room, walls lined with seamless panels that glow faintly when active. In the center stands a raised platform ringed by floating sensor orbs, a single reclining diagnostic chair, and several articulated scanner arms dangling from the ceiling like metallic serpents. No windows. No cameras visible—though you're certain some are hidden. The air smells faintly of ozone and sterile metal.
Baizhi gestures toward the platform.
"Please step onto the central dais and remove your outer layers—jacket, shirt, boots. The scanners require unobstructed skin contact for accurate surface resonance mapping. We will begin with non-invasive frequency sweeps, then move to deeper waveform analysis."
You nod once, then with a small smirk, begin to undress.
Jacket slides off. Shirt follows, you pull the fabric up your head and shoulders and put it to the side. Boots next, and following that you unstrap your built and put it to the side alongside your terminal and sheathed training sword. Then, with the same calm confidence, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your tactical pants… and push them down along with your underwear in one smooth motion. The result?
Your cock springs free—thick, veiny, heavy, already half-hard from the lingering adrenaline and the simple fact of being alone with her in this sealed space. It sways slightly as you straighten, fully nude now, golden Tacet Mark glowing faintly on the back of your right hand like a brand. Light reflecting from the golden pendant hanging over your chest.
Baizhi freezes mid-motion—tablet in hand, stylus hovering over the screen.
For the first time since you've known her, true color floods her cheeks. Seafoam-green eyes widen fractionally; her lips part on a soft, involuntary inhale. The stylus trembles once in her grip before she catches it.
"…Rover—Tian Yang," she corrects herself quickly, voice tighter than usual. "I specified outer layers. Full nudity is… unnecessary for the initial scans. The platform can adjust penetration depth without—"
You cut her off gently, stepping onto the dais completely bare. The cool metal kisses the soles of your feet. You spread your arms slightly—open, unashamed—letting her look.
"Full body inspection would be more accurate, wouldn't it?" you say, voice low, almost reasonable. "Every inch of skin is a conductor for resonance. Clothes interfere—fabric, seams, even undergarments create micro-shadows in the frequency field. If we want the cleanest data… the most precise mapping of how the Crownless Echo integrated… I should be completely exposed."
You tilt your head, golden eyes locking onto hers with that same suppressed hunger from earlier—only now there's nowhere for her to look away.
"For science," you add, the corner of your mouth curling into a slow, mischievous smile. 'I just said a bunch of gibberish, let's see if this works...'
Baizhi's throat works visibly. She swallows—once, hard. Her gaze flicks all over your body despite herself, over the defined lines of your broad shoulders, your muscular pecs, the stony ridges of your abdomen, then lower… lingering on the thick length hanging between your thighs, already thickening further under her scrutiny. Something shifts in her breathing—shallow, uneven. The hand not holding the tablet curls into a loose fist at her side.
Her logic is flawless. She knows it. Clothes do create interference patterns at this level of sensitivity. But the request is blatant. Transparent.
And yet…
Her eyes linger a second too long.
Then another.
The flush on her cheeks deepens—spreading down the elegant column of her throat, disappearing beneath the strapless black wrap of her dress. Her full E cup breasts rise and fall a little faster; the black cloth over her chest does nothing to hide the sudden stiffening of her nipples against the fabric.
She blinks—once, hard—as if trying to reboot her composure.
"…Your reasoning," she begins, voice huskier than before, "while technically sound for maximum fidelity… is… unconventional."
Another swallow. Her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip—barely noticeable, but there.
"But accuracy is paramount," she finishes, almost whispering the last word. "If… if full exposure truly optimizes the scan parameters… then… proceed."
She turns to the control panel—perhaps a little too quickly—fingers trembling just enough to make the first few taps clumsy. The scanner arms descend slowly, humming to life. Soft blue light washes over your naked form, mapping every muscle, every vein, every inch of skin.
Baizhi keeps her back to you for a long moment, shoulders tense.
Then she glances over one shoulder—eyes dark, pupils blown just a fraction.
"Lie back on the chair," she instructs, voice low and unsteady. "We will begin with surface resonance capture… then proceed deeper."
She doesn't look away this time.
You comply without further teasing.
The mischievous glint in your golden eyes fades into calm focus. You settle onto the reclining diagnostic chair—still fully nude, skin cool against the smooth, temperature-regulated surface—and let the scanner arms descend around you in slow, precise arcs. Blue light washes over every inch: chest, arms, abdomen, thighs, the heavy length resting against your hip. No comments. No lingering stares. Just quiet cooperation.
The room fills with soft chimes and the low hum of machinery. Baizhi stands at the control panel, fingers moving with practiced efficiency across holographic interfaces. She records waveform graphs, resonance spectrum overlays, Tacet Mark emission profiles, and the faint golden threads now woven through your core frequency—the unmistakable imprint of the Crownless Echo, perfectly integrated, no rejection, no instability.
You lie still, breathing even, letting the data speak for itself.
Baizhi exhales quietly once the final deep-tissue scan completes. The arms retract with a soft whir. The overhead lights dim back to ambient glow.
"Scans complete," she announces, voice returning to its usual measured calm. "No anomalies in Overclock risk. Your waveform remains stable—elliptical fluctuations within normal parameters, no abnormal spikes. The Crownless imprint has fused cleanly; your resonance matrix has already begun adapting its Havoc-attribute patterns into your native resonance spectrum. Integration efficiency… 100%. Truly unprecedented."
She taps a final command. The central screen displays a rotating 3D model of your energy field—golden core threaded with dark violet veins that pulse like captured lightning. Beautiful. Terrifying in its perfection.
Baizhi turns away from the display, gloved hands clasping behind her back. Her shoulders relax by a fraction—the tension of anticipation easing—but something lingers in the set of her mouth, the faint crease between her brows.
Relief, yes.
But also… emptiness.
She had braced herself—subconsciously—for another push. Another test of her composure. Another moment where your gaze would strip her bare the way your clothes had been stripped away. The way her own body had betrayed her earlier: flushed skin, quickened breath, the involuntary tightening of her thighs beneath the slit of her dress.
And now… nothing.
Just professionalism. Just data.
She admonishes herself silently.
'This feeling of expectation...it's unprofessional and deeply inappropriate. I just focus on the science.'
Yet the quiet disappointment coils low in her stomach anyway—sharp, unwelcome, impossible to ignore. She had not realized how much she had been waiting for you to cross that final line until you chose restraint instead.
Baizhi clears her throat softly.
"You may dress," she says, turning halfway so her back is mostly to you, though she does not leave the room. "I will compile the preliminary report. No external distribution, as agreed. The historical file you requested—'Resonance Evaluation Report On "the First Resonator"'—has been pulled to a secure terminal in the adjacent observation room. Redacted portions remain redacted, but the waveform graphs, combat logs, and most observations are intact. You may review them at your leisure."
She pauses, then adds—quieter, almost hesitant:
"If… there is anything else you require during your stay in Jinzhou—access to restricted archives, resonance stabilization techniques, or… further private consultation—I will make myself available."
She does not turn fully around. Not yet.
The room is silent except for the faint hum of cooling machinery and your own steady breathing.
You sit up slowly, the chair adjusting beneath you with a soft click.
"I will check the file...later", you reply.
You rise from the diagnostic chair with deliberate slowness, the soft click of the seat adjusting beneath you the only sound in the sealed chamber. Naked skin still faintly warm from the scanner lights, you cross the short distance between the dais and the control panel where Baizhi stands—back turned, shoulders rigid, fingers frozen mid-gesture over the holographic interface, as she felt you presence getting closer to her.
"Is this it?" you murmur, voice dropping into a low, hoarse register that vibrates through the quiet air. "Where did your earlier boldness go? Where is the Baizhi who approached me freely in the Gorges… who offered to examine me more closely… who didn't flinch when I looked at her like I wanted to devour her?"
You stop just behind her—close enough that the heat of your body radiates against her back, close enough that your next exhale brushes across the nape of her neck.
Baizhi shudders.
A full-body ripple that travels from the base of her skull down her spine, making her shoulders hitch and her gloved fingers curl against the edge of the console. The faint sound of her breath catching is unmistakable—sharp, needy, almost pained.
For a heartbeat she remains perfectly still.
Then something inside her snaps back into place.
She turns.
Not slowly. Not hesitantly.
She spins on one heeled boot, seafoam-green eyes blazing with the same cool fire you glimpsed when she first invited you to "examine" you more closely outside the city. The flush on her cheeks hasn't faded; if anything, it's deepened into a dark rose that spreads down her throat and across the tops of her heavy breasts, straining visibly against the tight black wrap of her dress.
"You want the Baizhi from before? At the Gorges of Spirits?" she says, voice low, controlled, but threaded with raw hunger. "The one who saw your resonance spike and felt it echo in her own frequency? The one who offered skin contact without hesitation because the data demanded it… and because she wanted it?"
She steps forward—closing the last sliver of space you left between you—until her covered breasts brush your bare skin. Her nipples are painfully stiff beneath the fabric; you can feel them drag across your lower pectorals with every shallow breath she takes.
"Then look at me," she whispers, tilting her chin up so her lips are a heartbeat from yours. "I'm right here."
She removes her gloves with graceful precision, before one hand rises—slow, deliberate—and presses flat against the center of your chest, right over your pounding heart. The leather is cool; her palm beneath it is burning.
"The scans are complete," she continues, voice dropping even lower, almost a purr. "Your waveform is stable. Your Echo integration is flawless. There is no medical necessity for me to touch you." Her fingers spread, nails lightly scraping down toward your navel. "But I am not finished."
Her other hand lifts—hesitates for only a fraction of a second—then wraps around the thick base of your cock. Her hand unable to close around it, falling a few inches short.
She doesn't stroke. Not yet.
She simply holds—firm, possessive—feeling the heavy pulse against her palm, the way you thicken and lengthen further in her grip. A soft, involuntary sound escapes her throat—half moan, half sigh of relief—at the searing heat of your thick veiny cock in contrast with her cold and soft hand, and as though touching you finally quiets whatever storm has been raging inside her since the moment you stripped.
"I told myself it was unprofessional," she breathes up, against your jaw, lips brushing skin. "I told myself the data mattered more than the way my body reacted when you stood naked in front of me… when I watched your cock harden under my gaze. I was wrong."
She squeezes once—slow, deliberate—then begins a languid upward stroke, thumb tracing the thick vein along the underside.
"I want to feel you," she says, voice cracking just slightly on the confession. "Not as a subject. Not as a Resonator anomaly. As a man who makes me forget every protocol I've ever memorized."
Her free hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you down until your forehead rests against hers.
"Tell me to stop," she whispers, eyes locked on yours—dark, desperate, utterly unguarded for the first time. "Or tell me to keep going. But choose quickly, Tian Yang… because I am no longer certain I can stop myself."
Her strokes remain slow—teasing, reverent—waiting for your word.
"Yeah, keep going. I love it when a woman I like takes the initiative."
Baizhi's breath hitches at your words—low, rough, approving.
The last thread of her restraint snaps.
Her soft hand tightens around your cock, no longer tentative. She strokes upward with slow, deliberate pressure, thumb dragging along the thick underside vein while her fingers curl just tight enough to make you throb in her palm. The skin of her hand is smooth, cool at first, but quickly warms from the heat of your member and the friction she's building.
"I was hoping you would say that," she murmurs against your throat, lips brushing the pulse point there before she nips—sharp, possessive, then soothes the sting with a slow lick. "I've spent years training myself to stay detached… clinical… but you make detachment impossible."
She pushes forward until your back hits the edge of the diagnostic platform. Not rough—just insistent. Her free hand slides up your chest, nails scraping lightly over a nipple before continuing to your shoulder, using it for leverage as she drops slowly to her knees.
The motion is graceful, controlled, but the look in her seafoam-green eyes is anything but. Pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed dark, lips parted—she looks up at you like you're the only variable left in her carefully ordered world that she can't predict… and she loves it.
"I've catalogued every frequency spike you've caused since you woke up," she says, voice husky, almost conversational even as her hand keeps pumping you in steady, twisting strokes. "Every time your resonance brushed mine in the Gorges… every time it surged during the fight… I felt it here." She presses her free palm low on her own abdomen, in the spot right above her womb. "Like static under my skin. I told myself it was just compatibility data. I lied."
She leans in.
Her tongue flicks out—hot, wet—tracing the slit at your tip, collecting the bead of precum already leaking there. She hums at the taste, low and appreciative, before wrapping her lips around the head.
No hesitation.
She takes you in slow, deliberate inches—cheeks hollowing as she sucks, as best as she could anyway with her mouth stretching wide to accommodate your girth as a slow but pleasant ache spreads in her jaws. Her tongue swirls along the underside while her hand works what her mouth can't yet reach. The wet heat of her mouth is perfect; the faint scrape of her teeth when she pulls back just enough to tease the crown is deliberate. She moans around you—soft, vibrating—eyes never leaving yours. Despite never being intimate with a man before, she knows enough about human anatomy to understand exactly what to do to please a man.
When she finally pulls off with a wet pop, a thin string of saliva connects her swollen lips to your glistening tip.
"I want you to take my virginity," she breathes, voice wrecked. "I want to feel every inch of you. I want to know what it's like when you lose control because of me… the way I almost lost it watching you strip earlier."
She rises just enough to press her body flush against yours again—her full breasts crushing against your lower chest through the thin fabric of her dress, nipples like hard points dragging over your skin. One leg hooks around your thigh, grinding her soaked core against your thigh through the layers of her clothing.
"Fuck me, Tian Yang," she whispers, lips brushing yours. "Right here. On the platform you just lay on for 'science.' Bend me over it, tear my human and spread me open, fill me until I can't think about data or protocols or anything except how deep you are."
Her hand never stops stroking—slow, firm, relentless.
"Or make me beg for it first," she adds, a lustful little smile curving her lips. "I won't mind. I've already broken every rule I set for myself the moment I agreed to let you stay naked."
She nips your lower lip—sharp, teasing.
"Your choice."
Your eyes momentarily open wide at her words, before an intense heat of hunger and lust take over. A lustful grin, matching hers, spreads across your face. Your words following in a low, commanding voice.
"Beg for it then. You said you want me. Show me how much. I won't give my cock to Baizhi the researcher, I will only give it to Baizhi the cock addicted whore. Submit to me... humiliate yourself to me... kneel to me. Then I will give you everything you want and more."
Baizhi's breath shudders out of her in a broken exhale the moment the words leave your mouth.
Her seafoam-green eyes—usually so sharp, so analytical—go glassy. The hand still wrapped around your cock twitches, fingers tightening involuntarily as though the mere sound of your command has sent a current straight to her core. She swallows thickly, throat working, the flush on her face now a deep, feverish crimson that spreads down her neck and disappears beneath the tight black fabric clinging to her heavy breasts.
For several heartbeats she simply stares up at you—lips parted, chest heaving—caught between the last fraying threads of her composure and the raw, aching need you've just named aloud.
Then she breaks.
Slowly—almost reverently—she sinks back to her knees.
The motion is graceful at first, then desperate. Her hands slide down your thighs for balance as she lowers herself fully, the cool marble biting into her bare knees. Her head tilts back so she can keep looking up at you, silver-streaked black-green hair spilling over her shoulders like ink, loose strands clinging to her damp cheeks.
"I…" Her voice cracks—soft, trembling, nothing like the measured researcher who greeted you before. "I want it. I want your cock so badly I can't think."
She presses her forehead to your thigh, nuzzling against the hard muscle there like it's the only thing grounding her.
"I've spent years convincing myself I don't need anyone. That data, that logic, that control was enough. But the moment you first appeared before me... stripped in front of me… the moment I felt how thick you were, how heavy… something inside me cracked open. I've been wet since then. Aching. Every time I tried to focus on the scans, all I could think about was how you'd feel stretching me open, filling me until I couldn't breathe."
Her hands slide up your legs again, trembling, until her palms cup your balls—gentle, worshipful, rolling them slowly while her other hand returns to stroke your shaft in long, needy pulls.
"As I have stated before, I am a virgin," she confesses in a broken whisper, the admission spilling out like a dam bursting. "I've never let anyone touch me. Never wanted it. But you… you make me want to be ruined. I want to be your cock-addicted whore, Tian Yang. I want to choke on you until tears run down my face. I want to spread my legs on this cold hard floor and beg you to breed me until I can't walk straight. I want to crawl after you through the Academy halls if that's what it takes to earn even one more inch."
She leans forward and kisses the tip of your cock in—soft, reverent, almost devotional—then opens her mouth, the kiss turning dirty and absence as her tongue swirls around the head. Then, she takes you deep in one slow, greedy slide. Her throat flutters around you as she gags softly, eyes watering, but she doesn't pull back. She finally stops after taking in half of your cock and holds you there, her hand working the rest of the shaft, moaning around your length like the taste alone is enough to make her come undone.
When she finally pulls off—gasping, drool stringing from her swollen lips to your glistening shaft—she looks up at you again, mascara smudged at the corners, expression wrecked and pleading.
"Please," she whispers, voice hoarse from the stretch. "I'm on my knees for you. I'm humiliating myself for you. I'm admitting I'm nothing but a needy, dripping virgin slut who's been fantasizing about your cock since the second I saw it. I'll lick your boots if you want. I'll call myself your personal cocksleeve in front of the entire Huaxu Academy if that's what it takes."
Her hands slide behind her back instinctively—offering herself up completely—shoulders back, breasts thrust forward, thighs pressed together as though trying to contain the slick heat soaking through her dress.
"I submit," she breathes. "Completely. Utterly. I'm yours to use, to break, to fill. Just… please… give it to me. Give your cock-addicted whore everything she's been dying for."
She leans forward again, tongue extended, waiting—eyes locked on yours, shimmering with desperate, shameless need.
"Good. Very good." You continue to grin. "Each of the things you said, I will make you do each thing you said you would do, but not today. Today, I will simply fuck the shit out of you and claim you as my personal cock slave, just like you want", I say with an almost feral growl. "Strip and take my entire cock down your throat, until my length reaches the end of your throat, milk me with your mouth. Show me your devotion."
Baizhi's eyes flare at your growl—wide, dark, pupils swallowing the seafoam green until only desperate black remains. The sound of your voice, feral and commanding, rips the last shred of hesitation from her.
She rises from her knees in one fluid, trembling motion. No words. No protests. Just action.
Her smooth hands move to the back of her dress—fingers fumbling for the hidden clasp before she simply tears at it in impatience. The strapless black wrap parts with a soft rip, sliding down her body like spilled ink. Full, heavy E-cup breasts spill free—pale, flushed, wide and puffy arealas, her rosy nipples already painfully stiff and begging. The white sheer panel over her cleavage clings for a heartbeat before she shoves it away too.
Her dress pools at her feet. Her boots stay on—black leather gleaming against creamy skin—but everything else stripped away in frantic seconds until she stands before you completely bare except for those boots.
Her body is perfection: soft curves, round fat ass, thick thighs trembling with need. Her tacet mark glows faintly on her right thigh, showing her lust and anticipation. Between her legs, her virgin cunt is already glistening—swollen, dripping down the insides of her thighs, untouched and aching.
She drops back to her knees instantly—hard enough that the impact makes her breasts bounce. Hands braced on your thighs, she looks up at you with pure, wrecked devotion.
"Yes… Master," she whispers, the title slipping out like prayer. "Claim me. Ruin me. Make me your cock slave."
No more hesitation remains.
She opens wide—lips stretching, tongue flat—and takes you in one long, greedy slide.
The first inch disappears easily. Then more. Her throat flutters, tight and hot, resisting for only a heartbeat before she forces herself deeper. Gagging hard, eyes watering, mascara already streaking—but she doesn't stop. She pushes forward until your cock finally bypasses the end of her throat and heads deeper still, the walls of her oesophagus convulsing around you, until finally coming to a stop against her lower esophageal sphincter, the soft impact sending a shiver do profound through that burst of liquid escapes her sealed lower lips. Her nose presses flush against your pelvis, lips sealed around the base, her throat and oesophagus stretching and convulsing around every thick inch buried inside her.
You look down with a deranged smile. At the impossible, obscene bulge going down her neck. Her throat desperately stretching to accommodate your length. Gagging around your cock as her body screams for oxygen, yet she doesn't relent.
She holds there—nose buried, throat stuffed full—moaning around your length in broken, muffled worship. The vibrations ripple straight through you. Tears spill freely down her cheeks now, but her eyes never leave yours—shimmering with absolute submission, with need, with something dangerously close to love.
Then she starts to move.
Slow at first—pulling back until only the head remains trapped between her lips, tongue swirling desperately around the slit, lapping up every drop of precum like it's nectar. Then plunging forward again—harder, deeper—taking you to the hilt each time. Her throat works you in rhythmic swallows, milking your cock with wet, obscene gulps. Drool spills from the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin, onto her heaving breasts.
She gags louder now—choking, sputtering—but never slows. One hand cups your balls, rolling them gently while the other grips your thigh for leverage, nails digging in as she fucks her own face on your length.
Every pull-back is accompanied by a desperate whimper.
Every deep-throat is punctuated by a muffled "Pleaszh… mhorree… uzsh mheee…"
Her hips twitch helplessly—grinding against nothing, thighs slick and trembling. She's dripping onto the marble floor beneath her knees, a small puddle forming from how soaked she is just from choking on you.
She pulls off just long enough to gasp—strings of spit connecting her swollen lips to your glistening cock—before diving back down, taking you even deeper, throat bulging visibly around your girth.
Her eyes roll back slightly as she loses herself in it—devotion made flesh, submission made sound.
She's yours.
Completely.
Utterly.
Your personal cock slave—on her knees in the heart of Huazu Academy, worshipping you with her throat like it's the only purpose she's ever had.