Yan Chi became aware of something warm and wet spreading across his thighs.
He looked down.
A dark stain had bloomed across the front of his trousers, already cooling, the cloth stuck to the shaft beneath it in sticky folds. At some point in the last minute, without stroking himself once, without any touch but the pressure of his own palm, he had come in his pants like a boy at his first glimpse of a naked shoulder. He hadn't even felt it as a separate thing. His mother's orgasm and his father's and his own had all blurred into the same blinding wave.
Shame hit him like a slap, hot enough to sting his ears. On its heels came an almost hysterical urge to laugh.
He stepped back from the window very carefully, placing his bare feet on the boards one at a time. His last look through the gap showed him the long red curve of her punished ass, the white trickle of seed running down between her parted thighs, and the black silk over her eyes, still turned toward a man she was not supposed to know was there.
Then he was in the barrier, and then he was through it, and the corridor's ordinary night closed around him and swallowed every sound.
***
The walk back felt three times as long as the walk there.
His legs had turned half to water, and the wet cloth dragged against his thighs with every step, cooling into a clammy paste that made him grit his teeth. Twice he had to stop in the shadow of a carved screen and press his back against the wall while a lamp guttered in its niche and the mansion breathed around him, because the images kept rising up behind his eyes with such force that his knees threatened to fold. He stepped over the third board past the walkway without thinking about it. The garden was still silver under the half moon. The pond was still black. Everything looked exactly as it had an hour earlier, and none of it looked the same.
He slid his door shut behind him, set the latch with clumsy fingers and dragged his trousers down.
They were ruined. A thick, sticky load had soaked through the inner cloth and smeared across his belly and the tops of his thighs, already turning tacky at the edges. His cock was still half hard inside the mess, flushed dark and twitching faintly, glossy with his own cum from root to tip, as if the orgasm in the corridor had only been a warning shot. He stared down at it in the faint moonlight leaking through the curtains, half appalled and half delighted, and a breathless laugh escaped him.
A year of dead flesh, and this is what it does the first night it works.
Ding!
[Mission Complete]
[Sneak into your father's room]
[Reward ready]
He opened it so quickly his fingers shook in the air.
[Received: 100 Pervert Points]
He nearly whooped out loud and had to clap his clean hand over his mouth. The number glowed in front of him like a gold coin held up to the sun. That morning the system had paid him five points for staring at his mother's ass as she walked out of his room. Tonight it had paid him a hundred for watching that same ass spanked red while his father fucked her. The system's scale of values was becoming very clear, and it was filthy, and some shameless part of Yan Fan's soul loved it for being so honest.
He called up his status, found the small glowing plus beside his cultivation and touched it.
[Cultivation Breakthrough]
[Body Refining 4th Stage — Cost: 30 points]
[Body Refining 5th Stage — Cost: 60 points (from 4th)]
Thirty points to break into the fourth stage, and sixty more to reach the fifth. Ninety in total, nearly everything he had just been paid.
He didn't hesitate.
He sat down on the floor where he had cultivated that afternoon, crossed his legs, and spent the first thirty.
Power struck him like a wave of molten metal. It poured into his dantian and erupted out along his meridians, crashing through narrow places he hadn't known were narrow and filling his muscles and bones until they ached with it. The jump from third stage to fourth came as a clean, bright snap somewhere deep in his spine, the feeling of a joint popping into place after years out of true, and for a heartbeat the room tilted around him. He gasped and dug his fingers into his knees and rode it.
Then he spent the remaining sixty.
The second breakthrough was heavier and hotter and came on the heels of the first before the room had finished tilting. Heat roared up from his belly and swept through him until sweat broke out over every inch of his skin at once, beading on his chest and running down his back in streams. Something in his spine stretched and settled. Something in his dantian woke up with a low, rolling growl that he felt in his teeth. His bones seemed to grow denser, as if each one were being packed with wet sand and fired in a kiln, and the qi that had come pouring in finally slowed, circled, and sank into its new, larger shape.
When it was over, the room seemed sharper around the edges. He could pick out the grain of the floorboards under his knees, and the moonlight through the curtains had more shades of silver in it than before. His lungs filled deeper. When he flexed his hand, the muscles slid under his skin with a smooth heaviness that the old Yan Chi's hands had never carried, and when he punched the mattress beside him, experimentally, the whole bed jumped on its legs. Follow the newest chapters on novelping dot com.
[Body Refining 5th Stage]
Fifth stage. It still wasn't Qi Refining, and it still wasn't Yan Jing's realm, but he was no longer third-stage trash who ate punches in the garden and swallowed his own blood. If his cousins laughed at him tomorrow, the laughter would end a great deal sooner than it used to.
He checked the next cost.
[Next Breakthrough: 120 Pervert Points]
A hundred and twenty for the next stage, roughly double the last. The pattern was plain already. The system was generous, but it was also a merchant who raised his prices after every sale.
He found he didn't mind. He had ten points left and a body that felt brand new, and he had just learned that the house he lived in was full of the kind of secrets this system paid for.
He got up, stripped off the ruined trousers and the sweat-soaked inner robe, wiped himself down roughly with a cloth from the washbasin and lay back naked on the bed.
He meant to rest. He meant to circulate his qi and let the new stage settle.
Instead the room came back.
It came all at once, the moment he closed his eyes, in perfect clarity, as if the breakthrough had sharpened his memory along with everything else. He saw the gold lamplight again and smelled the musk and amber and wet, aroused woman, and behind his eyelids the black silk was knotted over her eyes once more while the crimson robe hung over the screen like a discarded skin.
His cock stirred against his thigh. Within a few breaths it had risen all the way, thick and hard, pointing up toward his navel, and it throbbed with each beat of his heart.
He looked down at it in the dark. A day ago this cock had been dead flesh that hung between his legs like an insult. Now it was longer and thicker than anything Yan Fan had ever owned, flushed dark and heavy, and his new strength seemed to have flowed into it too, making it harder than it had any right to be after coming once already.
He told himself it was wrong. The body's memories offered up every reason why. She was his mother. She had raised the boy whose skin he was wearing. She had sat by his bed through fevers and slipped him sweets behind his father's back and cried quietly over him when the physicians gave up.
Yan Fan's soul listened to all of it with interest and very little guilt. He had been born in another world to another woman. He had no love for Yan Mei that he could call his own, only the borrowed warmth of memories that had come with the body like furniture in a rented room, and a hunger that had nothing borrowed about it at all.
He wrapped his hand around his shaft.
The first touch was so sharp that his hips jerked off the mattress. A whole year had passed for this body without real sensation, and even after tonight his nerves hadn't learned to be calm about it. His skin was still faintly sticky from the first load. He spat into his palm, spread it over the head, and began to stroke, slowly, from root to crown.
Shlick.
He let himself go back to the window.
He saw her bent over the dark lacquer again, the curve of her back bowed by the steel at her wrists. He saw her enormous breasts squashed flat beneath her and spilling out at the sides, the edge of one rose-pink areola, the stiff nipple dragging across the wood every time she moved. He remembered the tiny gasp that scraping had pulled out of her, and his grip tightened on its own.
He stroked faster.
Shlick. Shlick.
He saw his father's hands sinking into her red ass and spreading it wide, and the memory unfolded in slow, exact detail: the wet sound her pussy had made as it peeled open, the way her clit had swollen out from under its hood, the little pink pucker above stretched into a taut oval. He saw her entrance flutter in the lamplight and drip, and he imagined, for one forbidden instant, that it was his own hands holding her open.
The thought made him groan aloud into the dark room. He bit down on it, his face hot, and didn't stop.
He went back to the moment of entry. The thick crown pressing in and her lips stretching to swallow it, the long stroke that had buried his father in her to the hilt, the cry it had torn out of her. He went back to the sound of hips on flesh. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
Plap. Plap.
His hand found that rhythm without being told. He stroked in time with the memory, long and hard, his thumb dragging over the sensitive ridge beneath the head on every upstroke, until precum welled from his slit and ran down over his knuckles and the slick sounds of his own fist filled the room.
He saw her breasts again after Yan Tian had hauled her up by her hair, hanging free and swinging, those heavy pale globes rolling forward and slapping back against her ribs, the nipples dark red and swollen from the table. He saw the drool hanging from her chin and the tears soaking the bottom edge of the blindfold. He heard her voice saying your cock, please put your cock inside me, so small and broken that it had sounded like a confession.
Fuck.
His other hand slid down to cup his balls. They were drawn up tight and aching, heavy with a second load that seemed impossible so soon after the first. He rolled them in his palm and pumped harder, his hips beginning to lift off the bed to meet his fist, the mattress creaking beneath him.
He thought of her coming. The curl of her toes, the tremor racing up her thighs, the silent scream before the sound found her, and the hot gush that had sprayed out around his father's cock and spattered the floor.
He thought of the guards, too, and that was the part he didn't want to look at too closely. Two naked men three paces away with their cocks straining toward her, forbidden to touch, forced to stand there and want her. He understood, with a sudden lurch, exactly how they had felt. He had stood at that window just as they had stood beside the table, close enough to smell her and too far away to have her. The understanding didn't cool him at all. It poured more heat into him until he was panting through his teeth.
And then he thought of the end. His father's shaft sliding out of her, coated white. The gape it left behind. The thick, slow rope of seed welling up at her entrance and running down over her clit and dripping to the rug. The thumbs spreading her open so the guards could see.
The way her blindfolded face had turned toward the broad guard and stayed there, as though she could see straight through the silk.
She knows, he thought, and she let it happen anyway.
That was the thought that broke him.
His balls drew up tight. Heat rushed up the length of his shaft from somewhere deep in his belly, and his back arched off the mattress as the orgasm tore through him. The first rope shot so hard that it splashed against his chest. The second landed in a hot stripe across his stomach, and the third and fourth spilled over his fist and ran down between his fingers while his hips kept bucking into his hand, his breath coming out in harsh, broken grunts that he smothered against his own shoulder. A few drops flew wide and spattered on the silk sheets.
He kept stroking slowly through the last weak pulses until it was almost too much to bear, and then he let go and fell back against the pillow.
For a long while there was nothing in his head at all. There was only the pounding of his heart and the cooling stickiness on his belly, the slow rise and fall of his chest, and the moonlight on the ceiling.
When thought came back, it came back with a grin. It felt like the first honest expression this face had worn in years.
He lay there in the mess he'd made and let his breathing slow. The bruise Yan Jing had left across his chest that afternoon was almost gone; when he pressed his fingers to it, he felt only the faintest tenderness, as if the breakthrough had washed it out of his flesh along with the weakness. His muscles hummed. His meridians felt broad and open, clear channels where that morning there had been nothing but silt. When he sat up the room didn't spin, and when he clenched his fists he could feel the new strength packed into his bones.
He wiped his hand on the ruined trousers, then wiped his stomach, and tossed the bundle into the corner where the maids would find it in the morning and say nothing, because that was what maids in this house did.
He lay back down.
Somewhere on the far side of the compound, behind a gold-grade barrier, his mother was still lying across a lacquered table, or else being unbound and helped to the silk bed, with her husband's seed drying on her thighs. Two masked men were putting their clothes back on and melting back into the walls. And Yan Tian was probably smiling that private smile, believing his wife had never once guessed.
Yan Chi pulled the thin summer blanket over his hips and called up his status one last time before sleep.
[Status Window]
[Name: Yan Chi]
[Status: Weak]
[Cultivation: Body Refining, 5th Stage]
[Pervert Points: 10]
Ten points. A day ago he'd had nothing at all, not even a working cock.
He let the panel fade, closed his eyes and turned his breathing back toward the Divine Cultivation Method. The pattern opened behind his eyelids in lines of clean light, nine counts in and six held and nine out, and the thin night qi of the room began to drift toward him again, cool on his skin and warm as it sank. The heat gathered low in his belly and spread outward through the new, wider channels of the fifth stage, easing the last of the ache from his thighs. Somewhere in the garden the night insect started singing again. He followed the qi down through his body one slow cycle at a time, and before the third cycle was finished he had fallen asleep with the method still turning in him.