The Main Hall fell silent after the priestess's remark.
Mò Yán remained with her forehead pressed against the carpet. Humiliation burned at the back of the diplomat's neck. She had broken her own principles, offered her purity as sacrifice, and had been cast aside like a useless object.
Yù Qíng stepped down from her husband's lap. The navy-blue silk brushed against his leg.
"Stand up, snow flower," Yù Qíng's voice was soft yet authoritative. "Our husband needs to stock up on energy, and the two of us are going to work. Your duty tonight is to make sure the trash from your sect doesn't interrupt us. Stay in the corridor and guard the door."
Mò Yán obeyed. She rose with her spine straight, her face still flushed red, and murmured, "Yes, my Lady."
Zhì Yuǎn did not look at the white-haired girl. He turned his back and walked toward the Sect Master's chambers at the end of the stone corridor. Yù Qíng followed him.
Yù Méi passed by Mò Yán while cracking her neck and grumbling, "Finally. I was starting to think we'd spend the whole night talking."
The three entered the main bedroom. The heavy cedar door closed behind them. The iron lock slid into place with a loud thud.
Mò Yán was left alone in the dark corridor.
She clasped her hands in front of her body, adopting the formal posture of a guard. The heir of the mountain tried to convince herself that she was fulfilling an honorable duty.
The silence lasted less than a minute.
The first impact shook the door. The thick wood trembled on its hinges. Soon after, the dense, rhythmic sound of flesh against flesh echoed through the empty corridor. There were no slow preliminaries or sound-dampening techniques. Only fast, heavy, and constant friction.
Then came the voices.
Yù Méi's moans held no trace of modesty. They were loud, rough, and shameless — the sounds of someone who didn't care about being heard.
Mò Yán closed her eyes. The diplomat began mentally reciting the Shattered Heaven's Sutra of the Pure Mind. It was the dogma that had guided her since childhood: The mountain is unshakable. The river is serene. Lust is the path of beasts. Purity is the only path to heaven.
Slap! Slap! Slap!
The rhythm inside grew faster. Yù Qíng's voice cut through the echo — no longer velvety or poetic, but strained, demanding in a loud and clear voice that her husband thrust harder.
The sutra in Mò Yán's mind failed.
The diplomat's imagination perfectly painted what was happening on the other side of the door. The memory of the man in the gray tunic — his size, his apathy, and his heat — invaded her mind all at once. The girl's pure Yin boiled, responding to the dominance pouring out of the bedroom.
Mò Yán's breathing quickened. The silver-gray tunic stretched, becoming unbearably tight against her rising and falling breasts. She pressed her thighs together, but it was useless. A warm, unwanted moisture slid between her legs, soaking her undergarments.
She had been left in the corridor, treated like a guard dog, and yet her body cried out with the desire to be inside, participating in that degradation. The first barrier of Mò Yán's sanity cracked right there, ruined by her own desire and the absolute humiliation of being rejected.
------
The following three weeks at the Shattered Heaven crushed the passage of time.
The obsidian courtyard outside continued in perfect normality. The sun rose, the wind blew cold, and the disciples trained in absolute silence.
For Mò Yán, normality had died.
The diplomat's routine was reduced to guarding the cedar door. Every day, in the middle of the afternoon, the iron lock would slide open from inside. The silence would last only a few minutes. Soon the heavy sound of flesh hitting wood would begin, followed by the shameless shouting of the wives.
Roughly three hours a day.
In the first few days, Mò Yán kept her hands behind her back and recited the sect's purification mantras in an attempt to block out the sounds. By the second week, the sutras stopped. She began pressing the side of her face against the warm door, closing her eyes and listening to every thrust, every rough curse from Yù Méi, and every demanding moan from Yù Qíng. Heat would rise up her pale neck. The silver-gray tunic would become unbearably tight against her breasts, and the unwanted moisture between her thighs turned into a daily punishment.
The cedar door opened with a soft click, cutting through the girl's trance.
Yù Qíng stepped out into the corridor. The priestess wore only a short navy-blue tunic. Her pale skin showed no signs of exhaustion; it glowed impeccably, saturated with the freshness of someone who had just devoured pure energy. The corridor smelled of sandalwood and a sweet, addictive scent.
Mò Yán quickly straightened her spine. She clasped her hands in front of her body and lowered her scarlet face.
Yù Qíng stopped in front of her. The eldest's smile was slow and satisfied.
"You're sweating quite a lot for someone who's only standing in the corridor, snow flower," Yù Qíng commented, her voice soft and casual. She touched Mò Yán's burning cheek with the tips of her cold fingers. "Do you have a fever?"
"The corridor is stuffy, my Lady," Mò Yán replied, her voice thin and trembling, refusing to admit the obvious.
Yù Qíng let out a low, crystalline laugh.
"It's our husband's fire. His vigor grows heavier every day," Yù Qíng's tone carried a venomous pride. "Méi and I can barely walk after these few hours. Our bodies shut down. But it's a shame your foundation is so fragile. If your Yin weren't so useless, maybe you could come inside and help us share his weight."
The priestess removed her hand from the girl's face and turned around.
"Go get clean clothes and linen towels. He needs to get dressed."
Yù Qíng walked back into the room.
Mò Yán was left alone in the corridor. The heir of the South's stomach twisted with envy. The desire to save the sect or protect her father's legacy had completely evaporated; all her corrupted mind wanted now was to be strong enough to be used inside, even if it meant being broken like the other two.
The iron lock clicked. Mò Yán pushed open the heavy cedar door, balancing the silver tray with warm towels and clean gray linen tunics.
The main bedroom was destroyed. The bed's support beams were cracked. Torn silk sheets covered the stone floor.
The room exuded a thick, sweet smell. It was an intoxicating fragrance that Mò Yán never grew tired of breathing — a scent that clung to the throat and always left her dizzy, weakening her knees with every gust of air.
Yù Méi was sprawled face-down on the remains of the mattress, her skin covered in reddish marks, breathing slowly. Near the window, Yù Qíng rested on the armchair, her eyes closed in exhaustion.
In the center of the ruined carpet, Zhì Yuǎn stood.
Completely naked, he was drying his broad, damp chest with a towel.
Mò Yán took two steps inside and froze. Orthodox discipline demanded that she keep her eyes on her own shoes. But her scarlet irises ignored the order. The diplomat's gaze traveled up the man's thigh and locked onto his hips.
His member rested heavy and wet with his wives' fluids, still semi-erect and radiating a physical heat that warmed the air around it. Mò Yán's mind short-circuited. Her mouth went dry instantly. Her fingers gripped the edges of the silver tray until her knuckles turned white. She stopped breathing. All sense of shame vanished, swallowed by a visual hunger that prevented her from blinking.
Zhì Yuǎn stopped drying his neck. His dark gaze landed on the white-haired woman paralyzed in front of him.
He extended his hand toward the tray.
"Are you going to keep drooling or are you going to hand me the clothes?" his deep voice sounded dry.
The shock of his pragmatism broke the trance. Mò Yán blinked quickly and turned her face away violently. Her neck and ears burned a vivid red. With trembling arms and failing breath, she pushed the tray forward, offering the linen.
On the broken bed, Yù Méi opened one lazy eye. The youngest let out a hoarse, exhausted laugh.
"Careful not to slip in your own drool, snow flower," the blonde mocked, adjusting her sweaty face back onto the pillow.
Mò Yán took two short, shaky steps. The diplomat circled around Zhì Yuǎn's body, draping the clean gray linen tunic over the man's broad shoulders.
The proximity obliterated what remained of the girl's reason. Her scarlet eyes mapped every centimeter of that flesh. The dense musculature, the warm and scar-free skin, the strength that repelled the filth of the room. Mò Yán's brain engraved the contours of his chest and back deep into her mind. It felt like a fever dream. Her orthodox foundation tried to deny it, but she simply couldn't believe that such physical perfection could exist on the same plane as her.
The young woman picked up the clean silk pants.
She bent her knees, sinking onto the dirty stone floor without caring about her own tunic. Mò Yán guided Zhì Yuǎn's bare feet through the fabric and began pulling the pants upward. The cloth passed over his ankles, rose over his knees, and reached the base of his thick thighs.
And then she froze.
A palm's width from the white-haired woman's face, his member rested. Still semi-erect, glistening wet with his wives' fluids. The sweet, musky scent invaded the girl's nostrils. Mò Yán's breathing faltered. The Yin in the diplomat's veins boiled, responding to the abyss autonomously.
Her pale hands froze, holding the fabric halfway up his thighs. Her scarlet eyes became glazed, staring at the object in front of her with the same absolute reverence as someone discovering a divine treasure. Her mouth went dry. She couldn't look away, and her body refused to move a single finger to finish dressing him.
Zhì Yuǎn lowered his face and looked at the crown of white hair.
He let out a short sigh.
His hands descended, grabbed the waistband of the pants that Mò Yán was holding stuck, and pulled the fabric up in one motion, finishing the job. He tied the leather belt firmly.
Mò Yán remained on her knees, her hands hovering empty in the air, her eyes still lost in the space where his body had been exposed seconds before.
"The energy we've accumulated over these weeks is more than enough for the journey," his deep voice cut through the girl's trance, sounding right above her head.
Zhì Yuǎn looked toward Yù Qíng, who was resting on the armchair.
"Stay here and organize our departure. I'm going to activate the matrices at Misty Peak, Stone Cauldron, and Iron Abyss. I'll be back soon."
Without waiting for a response, Zhì Yuǎn raised his right hand. His two fingers sliced through the air from top to bottom. Space tore open with a dry crack. A silver void opened in the center of the ruined living room.
He stepped into the dimensional rift. The portal closed behind him instantly, erasing the man's presence and leaving Mò Yán kneeling on the floor, her face burning, completely fanatical and with her mind melted.