The next two days passed in a haze of controlled desperation.
Each morning, Li An swallowed a Pain Reduction Pill and sealed her residence with the concealment formations she had personally crafted centuries ago. The pill dulled the cramping agony to a manageable ache, but it could not suppress the other sensations—the heightened sensitivity, the maddening heat, the relentless pulse of arousal that accompanied her menstrual cycle.
She knew what was coming.
Yesterday had taught her everything she needed to know about this body's responses. The pleasure would surge within minutes. The heat would become unbearable. And the only way to relieve the cramping was to widen her passage through repeated stimulation.
She didn't waste time.
The moment the pill took effect, she stripped off her robes with practiced efficiency, exposing the modest curves of Li An's body—small, pert breasts with pale pink nipples, a slender waist, and narrow hips that belied the perfection hidden beneath the skin.
Beneath the disguise, Wu Meng Ting's true form pulsed with restrained power: full, heavy breasts that defied gravity, a waist so narrow it seemed impossible, hips that flared into a perfect hourglass, and thighs that were soft yet strong. The primordial yin energy coiled in her womb like a sleeping dragon, amplifying every sensation a thousandfold.
Li An lay back on the bed, her movements deliberate and controlled. She knew exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly which angle would bring the fastest relief.
Her left hand went directly to her breast, pinching the nipple with firm, precise pressure—not teasing, not exploring, but targeting the nerve cluster that would send the sharpest jolt of pleasure straight to her core. Her right hand slid between her thighs without hesitation, parting the black curls and finding her clitoris already swollen and slick.
She didn't circle. She didn't tease.
She pressed down hard and rubbed in tight, rapid strokes.
"Nnh—"
The moan was quieter this time, more controlled. She bit her lip and focused on the rhythm, the pressure, the exact motion that would trigger the release she needed.
Her passage clenched, slick with menstrual blood and arousal, and she plunged two fingers inside without preamble. The sensation of fullness was immediate, but she didn't pause to savor it. She thrust deep, curling her fingers to scrape against the sensitive ridges of her inner walls—the spot she had discovered yesterday, the one that made her body convulse the hardest.
Her hips rolled in time with her hand, efficient and practiced. She knew the sequence now: clitoral stimulation to build the pressure, internal penetration to widen the passage, nipple stimulation to amplify the peak.
It took less than three minutes.
Her back arched, her thighs trembled, and the orgasm hit with brutal efficiency. Her inner walls spasmed violently, clenching and releasing in rapid succession, and fluid gushed from her entrance—menstrual blood and arousal mixing together, soaking her hand and the sheets beneath her.
"Ah—!"
The cry was sharp and brief. She didn't let herself linger in the aftershocks. She pulled her fingers free, wiped them on the sheets, and waited.
The cramping should have eased.
It didn't.
Her womb pulsed hungrily, the primordial yin energy coiling tighter, demanding more. The heat in her lower abdomen intensified, spreading through her thighs and up her spine.
Not enough.
She gritted her teeth and thrust her fingers back inside, harder this time, deeper. Her other hand flew to her clitoris, rubbing in frantic, precise circles. She knew the rhythm. She knew the pressure. She knew exactly how to push herself over the edge again.
The second orgasm came faster than the first.
Her body convulsed, hips jerking against her hand, and another wave of fluid gushed from her entrance. The pleasure was sharper this time, more intense, but still not enough to satisfy the hunger coiled in her womb.
Again.
She didn't stop. She thrust her fingers in and out with mechanical precision, her thumb grinding against her clitoris, her other hand pinching and pulling her nipple until it throbbed.
The third orgasm hit before the second had fully subsided.
And then the fourth.
And the fifth.
By the time the pill's effects wore off six hours later, her passage had widened enough that the menstrual blood flowed freely, reducing the cramping to a dull ache. Her legs were weak, her body trembling with exhaustion, but at least she could lie down without agony.
She stared at the ceiling, her breathing ragged, her mind numb.
I've become efficient at this, she thought distantly. Like a technique. Like a sword form.
But the thought brought no comfort.
Because no matter how precise her movements, no matter how quickly she brought herself to climax, the hunger never truly subsided. It only retreated, waiting for the next cycle, the next pill, the next three days of controlled desperation.
She repeated the process for the next day.
When the cycle finally ended, Li An stared at the soaked bedsheets with a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief.
The fabric was stained dark with menstrual blood and slick with the remnants of her arousal. The scent lingered in the air—metallic and musky and undeniably female.
I was once a man, she thought distantly. A muscular, battle-hardened cultivator. And now...
Now she was a horny maiden who moaned and writhed under her own fingers.
She cleaned the evidence quickly, scrubbing the sheets and airing out the chamber until no trace remained. Then she sat cross-legged on the freshly made bed and pulled out the Mystic Yin Sword Art manual.
The second level had been easy to master. Her primordial yin spiritual roots—hidden deep within Wu Meng Ting's body—already contained an extreme yin source that nourished her meridians. The sword art had only required minor adjustments to guide the flow of spiritual energy, allowing her to coat her blade and body in destructive yin qi.
The third level, however, was different.
Li An read the instructions carefully, her brow furrowing.
"The third level condenses spiritual energy outside the body, projecting it as ranged attacks—qi slashes, yin blades, and spiritual strikes that can travel miles to strike distant targets. However, this level requires Golden Core cultivation. The rotation of the golden core generates the momentum and friction necessary to amplify the yin qi's power and range."
She closed the manual and exhaled slowly.
Golden Core.
She could reach it in five years if she cultivated at full speed. Her primordial yin spiritual roots made advancement almost effortless—each breakthrough came naturally, each bottleneck dissolving like mist under the sun.
But she couldn't.
On the surface, Li An only possessed mid-grade yin spiritual roots. If her cultivation soared too quickly, it would draw suspicion. Questions. Investigations.
She would have to advance slowly, carefully, hiding her true progress behind a mask of mediocrity.
Thirty years, she decided. I'll break through to Golden Core in thirty years. That's reasonable for mid-grade roots.
As for the Golden Core tribulation...
She grimaced.
That was a problem for the Li An of thirty years in the future. The Li An of the present had more immediate concerns.
With nothing urgent to occupy her time, Li An wandered the sect aimlessly.
She passed disciples sparring in training yards, elders meditating in pavilions, and junior sisters gossiping near the spirit herb gardens. The Frost Cloud Pavilion was vast and bustling, yet she felt strangely disconnected from it all.
Her legs carried her without conscious thought, and before she realized it, she stood before the Mission Pavilion.
Inside, the walls were lined with jade slips detailing various tasks: escorting merchants, gathering spirit herbs, subjugating demonic beasts, investigating spatial anomalies.
One mission caught her eye.
"Seeking volunteers to test a newly constructed combat mannequin. Applicants must possess Foundation Establishment cultivation and proficiency in at least one weapon art. Contribution points awarded based on participation duration. Contact: Zhang Hao, Forging Peak."
Li An stared at the slip for a long moment.
A combat mannequin.
She remembered the ambush after her Foundation Establishment tribulation—the leering cultivators who had surrounded her, their hands reaching for her weakened body. She had fought them off, but barely.
She needed more experience fighting humanoid opponents. Beasts were predictable. Humans were not.
She plucked the jade slip from the wall and headed toward the Forging Peak.
The Forging Peak was a sprawling complex of workshops, furnaces, and storage halls. The air shimmered with heat, and the rhythmic clang of hammers on metal echoed through the courtyards.
Li An found Zhang Hao in one of the larger workshops, bent over a humanoid construct made of dark iron and spirit wood. His robes were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms marked with old burn scars. His face was plain but honest, with a strong jaw and steady eyes that reflected quiet determination rather than striking handsomeness.
He looked up as she approached, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Junior Sister Li An," he greeted, his voice warm. "You're here for the mannequin testing?"
"I am." She glanced at the construct. It stood roughly six feet tall, with articulated joints and a featureless face. "What exactly are you trying to accomplish?"
Zhang Hao's expression brightened. "I want to create a training tool for junior disciples—especially those in Qi Condensation who lack combat experience. Most of them get injured or killed on their first missions because they've never faced a real opponent."
He gestured to the mannequin. "This construct can learn. Its core is inscribed with a formation that records combat techniques. Every time someone spars with it, it absorbs their movements, their timing, their strategies. Eventually, it will be able to replicate hundreds of different fighting styles."
Li An raised an eyebrow. "That's... ambitious."
"It's necessary," Zhang Hao said firmly. "Too many disciples die because they don't know how to react under pressure. If this mannequin can give them that experience safely, it's worth the effort."
She studied him carefully. His tone was earnest, his gaze unwavering. There was no hint of ulterior motive, no calculation in his words.
Is he really this selfless? she wondered. Or is this just another mask?
"There's a flaw in your design," she said after a moment.
Zhang Hao blinked. "What do you mean?"
"The mannequin can replicate movements and postures, but it can't replicate spiritual energy. Take my Mystic Yin Sword Art, for example. The first level is pure technique—anyone can learn it. But the second level requires yin spiritual energy to coat the blade. Without that energy, the mannequin's strikes will lack power."
Zhang Hao nodded slowly. "You're right. But I'm not trying to create a perfect sparring partner. I just want to improve the juniors' awareness and reaction speed. For Qi Condensation disciples, direct combat experience is more valuable than flashy techniques."
Li An considered this. "That's reasonable."
"So... will you help me?" Zhang Hao asked, his expression hopeful.
She hesitated.
Most cultivators acted on benefits and profits. They calculated every exchange, every favor, every alliance. But Zhang Hao seemed different. He was building this mannequin not for personal gain, but to protect disciples he would never meet.
Is he genuine? Or am I just desperate to believe someone can be trusted?
Her chest felt tight, her thoughts tangled.
If she helped him and he turned out to be a hypocrite, it would confirm everything she believed about the cultivation world. But if he was sincere...
Then maybe I've been wrong all along.
"I'll help," she said quietly.
Zhang Hao's face lit up. "Thank you, Junior Sister. I really appreciate it."
She nodded and turned toward the mannequin. "Let's start."
Over the following weeks, Li An threw herself into the project.
She spent her days completing sect missions to earn contribution points, then used those points to exchange for combat manuals from the library. Sword arts, spear arts, fist techniques, palm strikes—she studied them all, memorizing the forms and principles.
At night, she returned to the Forging Peak and sparred with the mannequin.
The construct was crude at first, its movements stiff and predictable. But as Li An fed it technique after technique, it began to adapt. Its strikes grew sharper, its footwork more fluid, its responses more varied.
And as the mannequin learned, so did Li An.
Her sword strikes became more refined, her posture more stable. She learned to read an opponent's intent from the shift of their weight, the angle of their blade, the flicker of their eyes.
Her body moved with increasing grace. Li An's plain, slender frame belied the perfection hidden beneath—the narrow waist that swayed with each step, the subtle curve of her hips, the controlled strength in her thighs. Even in disguise, her movements carried an unconscious elegance, a fluidity that drew the eye.
Zhang Hao often watched her train, his expression thoughtful.
"You're incredibly skilled," he said one evening as she kept her sword. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Li An wiped the sweat from her brow. "Experience."
"Must have been a lot of experience," he said with a faint smile. "I've never seen anyone master techniques so quickly."
She shrugged. "I've had time to practice."
After each session, Zhang Hao performed maintenance on the mannequin, adjusting its core and refining its formations. Sometimes they stayed late into the night, discussing forging techniques and formation theory.
"You know more about forging than I do," Zhang Hao admitted one night, his tone half-joking, half-awed. "How is that possible?"
Li An smiled faintly. "I've dabbled."
"Dabbled?" He laughed. "Junior Sister, you're being modest."
She didn't correct him.
Three years passed.
The mannequin grew more sophisticated with each sparring session. It could now replicate dozens of sword arts, adapting its style to counter Li An's attacks. Junior disciples began using it for training, and the injury rate on missions dropped noticeably.
But Li An wasn't satisfied.
She exchanged for more manuals—spear arts, staff techniques, unarmed combat styles. She trained with the mannequin every night, pushing herself harder, faster, deeper into the principles of combat.
Her understanding of the sword reached new heights. Each strike contained the essence of a hundred techniques, blending speed and power, aggression and defense, lethality and restraint. It was as if ten thousand swords moved within her blade, each one a different path, a different possibility.
Her body adapted as well. Li An's plain exterior concealed the transformation beneath—Wu Meng Ting's flawless form growing stronger, more responsive, more attuned to the flow of combat. Her waist remained impossibly narrow, her hips perfectly balanced, her thighs taut with controlled power. Even the way she walked had changed, her weight shifting naturally to her hips, her steps light and soundless.
She no longer thought about it. The femininity had seeped into her bones, her instincts, her very soul.
Fifteen years passed.
The mannequin was finally complete.
It could replicate hundreds of combat techniques, adapting to any opponent's style. Junior disciples sparred with it daily, honing their skills in safety. The Forging Peak declared it a resounding success, and Zhang Hao was praised by the sect elders.
But Zhang Hao's attention was elsewhere.
He watched Li An more often now, his gaze lingering a moment too long. When they spoke, his voice softened. When they worked side by side, he stood closer than necessary.
One evening, as they finished another maintenance session, he cleared his throat.
"Senior Sister Li An," he began hesitantly. "I... I wanted to thank you. For everything. You've spent fifteen years helping me with this project. No one else believed in it, but you did."
Li An glanced at him. "It was a worthwhile endeavor."
"It's more than that," he said quietly. "You've been... you've been a true friend. I don't know how to repay you."
She studied his face—plain but earnest, his eyes warm with unspoken emotion.
He's developed feelings for me, she realized.
It wasn't surprising. Fifteen years of daily interaction, shared meals, late-night conversations about forging and formations. He had confided in her, relied on her, trusted her.
And she had been there, constant and unwavering, even when others doubted him.
Of course he fell for me.
But for Li An, Zhang Hao was just one small encounter in two centuries of life.
Wasn't he?
She wasn't sure anymore.
"You don't need to repay me," she said softly. "I helped because I wanted to."
Zhang Hao smiled, but there was something fragile in his expression. "Still... thank you."
As she left the workshop that night, she felt a strange tightness in her chest.
Am I starting to care about him?
The thought unsettled her.
She had spent two centuries trusting no one, relying on no one, expecting betrayal at every turn. But Zhang Hao had been nothing but kind, nothing but genuine.
Is he really that selfless? Or am I just desperate to believe it?
She didn't know.
And that uncertainty gnawed at her.
Meanwhile, Zi Qing had noticed.
"You've been spending a lot of time with Senior Brother Zhang," she said one afternoon, her tone teasing. "Are you two...?"
Li An blinked. "Are we what?"
"You know." Zi Qing grinned. "Courting."
"We're not courting," Li An said flatly.
"Really? Because you've been working together for fifteen years. That's longer than most marriages!"
Li An sighed. "We're fellow disciples. Nothing more."
Zi Qing's grin widened. "If you say so, Junior Sister. But I've seen the way he looks at you."
Li An said nothing.
Because she had seen it too.
And soon, she suspected, Zhang Hao's feelings would become impossible to conceal.