The void in Lín Jié's mind was absolute. The bureaucrat's mature, voluptuous body melted against the scarlet velvet, her green eyes rolled back in a blind stupor, while the volcanic, thick torrent of superdense Yang continued to pour and fill the depths of her womb.
Yù Méi, Mò Yán, and Bái Wǎn watched the ink woman's annihilation with voyeuristic hunger, intoxicated by the thick scent of sandalwood and fluids that saturated the air. The spectacle of that divine possession was so overwhelming that the three wives had temporarily forgotten about the rest of the room.
At the immense black wood headboard, Yù Qíng breathed deeply. The navy-blue robe was completely splayed open, and her pale skin gleamed with feverish sweat. The sick devotion of watching her husband conquer new ground was enough to fry her senses. Kneeling on the sheets, Huáng Bìyù kept her immaculate face rested against the priestess's leg, her liquid-amber eyes completely unfocused by the weight of energy in the atmosphere. Qīng Yǔ was no different; the healer fairy panted noisily, her trembling hands clutching the silk sheets while her own Yin simmered in her belly, anesthetized by the altar's heavy corruption.
Yù Qíng let out a low, hoarse laugh. The blue-robed priestess pulled away subtly from Bìyù and Yǔ with fraternal, indulgent pats on the flushed cheeks of both ancient heroines, crawling unsteadily across the scarlet sheets toward her husband.
Left behind, Bìyù and Yǔ panted, their bodies soft and entirely surrendered. The fairies had become mere devoted spectators, hypnotized by the presence of that singular god and tamed by the firstborn's roots.
Yù Qíng stopped precisely beside Zhì Yuǎn, who still kept his shaft buried in the depths of Lín Jié.
Yù Qíng lowered her face. The blue woman's dark, cunning eyes dropped to the secretary's belly. Lín Jié's abdomen was slightly distended, feverish and throbbing, filled to the brim with the god's volcanic essence.
Yù Qíng's sweet, lethal smile vanished, replaced by a dark, absolute, calculating possessiveness.
"Your seed is a fire too heavy to lie dormant in an untrained womb, my love," the priestess whispered, her cold fingers tracing the bureaucrat's warm belly. Yù Qíng tilted her face toward Lín Jié, who still blinked lethargically. "You cannot simply retain what our heaven has given you, ink woman. If you allow that essence to rest in your womb, your mortal biology will attempt to adapt. It will attempt to bear an heir."
Lín Jié's green eyes widened slightly, the orgasm's haze dissolving at the word "heir."
"And our altar has no room for cradles," Yù Qíng's voice dropped to a venomous, non-negotiable whisper, echoing the sick, possessive dogma of those women. "We are the soil that sustains his eternity. We will not allow children to steal our god's attention, his time, or his weight. You will not conceive, Lín Jié. You will make this seed your own power."
Zhì Yuǎn needed no further words. The silent pact of his universe with the adorable selfishness of his wives was an unbreakable law in his mind. He did not withdraw his physical possession, keeping his length buried inside her, but his right, calloused hand descended, pressing flat directly against the secretary's throbbing lower abdomen.
"Let your old mortality drain away, Jié," his deep, lethargic voice vibrated against the woman's bones.
The god's Primordial Qi invaded her stagnant flesh. Zhì Yuǎn did not use the patience of mortal texts. With surgical, crushing pressure, he forced open millions of locked pores in Lín Jié's Mortal Body simultaneously.
The excruciating pain of the biological rupture threatened to tear a scream of agony from the bureaucrat, but in the same millisecond, Zhì Yuǎn flooded her fried nerves with the anesthetic, thick warmth of his Inner Universe. The agony collided with a colossal surge of endorphins.
The contrast fried Lín Jié's mind.
"AAAAAH! ZHÌ YUǍN!" the roar tore through the secretary's throat. Her back arched in a hyperstimulated orgasm, the spasms milking his shaft hysterically as tears of pure carnal confusion streamed down her face.
Beneath the shock of absolute pleasure, the biological impurity yielded.
A black, thick, fetid sludge began to seep from Lín Jié's newly opened pores, expelling the mortal impurities of over three decades of bureaucracy and martial stagnation.
But Zhì Yuǎn would not allow the cadaverous odor and black filth to ruin the perfection of his sheets and the intoxicating atmosphere of the room. Without moving his eyes from the panting face of his new wife, the god raised the index finger of his free hand.
An invisible fragment of the Law of Destruction rippled through the air.
The putrid smell and black sludge evaporated instantly, swept from the plane of existence in a silent snap. Lín Jié's skin, now immaculate and resplendent as mature jade, gleamed beneath the oil lamp's light, purified and ready for eternity.
But the void in her belly still pulsed, unprotected.
Zhì Yuǎn used the very flow of the burning Yang flooding Lín Jié's womb to intervene. Guiding the energy with a creator's precision, he imprinted the foundation directly into the secretary's core, physically structuring her Dantian and installing the conceptual mechanism of the Primordial Mill into the girl's soul.
"Seize the seed I have deposited within you," Zhì Yuǎn instructed, the absolute command shaping the woman's wavering will. His fingers pressed her bare belly. "Do not let it rest. Use the mill."
Yù Qíng rested her chin on her husband's shoulder, her gaze overflowing with fanaticism.
"Turn the gear our heaven just forged in your center, new sister," the priestess whispered, unveiling the cosmic mechanics that had made her immortal. "His Hunger must be processed. Use the Mill's structure to crush his seed. Grind the biological life out of it. The mechanical friction will convert the burden of motherhood into your ascension."
Panting, blind with residual pleasure and feeling his member still buried in her insides, Lín Jié obeyed.
The secretary's pragmatic mind combed through the newly opened void and found the metaphysical gear — the perfect furnace Zhì Yuǎn had planted at the bottom of her being. Lín Jié activated the structure. The Primordial Mill began to turn, grinding the husband's volcanic, unbearable energy against the walls of that divine mechanism.
The friction was brutal.
The technique's mechanics inverted the polarity of his Yang nine consecutive times — from Yang to Yin, and from Yin to Yang. The reproductive seed, heavy and biological, was entirely pulverized by the rotations. It shed its material density of conception and violently transmuted into a dazzling torrent of pure Primordial Qi. The threat was obliterated, replaced by a sea of absolute power.
Golden light seeped into Lín Jié's Dantian. The 9th Mortal Stage was reformed by the purest Qi it had ever received, and the secretary's reborn Dantian flooded her new meridians with a force she had never believed possible.
The shock of the transcendence knocked the ink woman's nervous system out cold. Lín Jié collapsed against the velvet sheets, gasping, her green irises completely clouded by a submissive, exhausted devotion, her voluptuous body melted beneath the irrevocable mark of the abyss.
Zhì Yuǎn withdrew slowly. The robed god observed the mature woman's rhythmic breathing, her skin now immaculate and the golden foundation pulsing in her belly, entirely free of mortal risk.
"The pact is sealed," Zhì Yuǎn murmured, the quiet warmth in his eyes caressing the ruined, perfect figure of his new wife.
Yù Qíng smiled, laying her pale head against her husband's chest, while the other sisters crawled across the sheets to nest around the core of their family. The altar was clean, the dust had been ground away, and the furnace remained, as it always had — eternally lit, and exclusively theirs.