In late winter and early spring, on the eighth day of the first lunar month, the warm sun bathed Bright Hua, gently nurturing the land.
Some time had passed since the surreal spectacle that seemed like a mirage to Shengjing's residents. The common folk remained unaware that millions of lives had nearly been lost to the schemes of righteous and demonic factions. The New Year's Eve lantern festival became mere gossip, a fleeting amusement for the people.
An immortal relic had emerged, only to be suppressed by Emperor Ming, keeping both righteous heroes and demonic fiends busy reaping rewards over the past half-month. Sect leaders later received Ming's terms. After weighing their options, they reluctantly agreed. The righteous factions were at fault, and Ming's demands were reasonable, leaving little room for refusal.
Mortals dreaming of immortality knew nothing of the pact between Ming and the righteous sects, a deal that would doom countless prodigies over the next two decades. For these commoners, the events were beyond comprehension. Ignorance was pitiable, yet a kind of bliss. To die unaware was better than to perish in despair.
Life continued. As the Spirit Mountain Realm vanished into the void, awaiting its next opening, Shengjing's undercurrents calmed. Righteous and demonic forces withdrew, and Bright Hua's divine capital regained its peace. Shengjing stood unchanged, the imperial palace unmoved, and the rear mountain serene. Qing, the celestial maiden, remained tranquil, like ink on a canvas.
Nothing seemed different, yet everything felt altered.
"Ha," Elder Mu sighed.
Halfway up the rear mountain, the hunched, frail figure rose from bed. Elder Mu stretched, opened the tightly shut window, and exhaled a puff of white breath. A sharp spring breeze swept in, lifting the few strands on his bald scalp, chasing away his drowsiness. Shivering, he slammed the window shut and retreated inside.
Winter's chill faded, spring's warmth grew, but the breeze was still biting. Thin clouds parted, letting slivers of sunlight carry faint warmth, melting ice and reviving the earth.
"Dawn's here," Elder Mu muttered.
He yawned, scratching his chest, where new, pale skin glowed with vitality, unlike his dark, sallow body. He rummaged in his trousers, scratching his swollen testicles. After a vivid dream and multiple releases the previous night, he'd slept deeply. By morning, his sacs were full again, brimming with thick, pungent semen, gelatinous and teeming with sperm. The overnight buildup left his groin itchy, urging him to rub repeatedly.
Since the Spirit Mountain Realm, his bond with Qing had subtly shifted. Even now, Elder Mu found it unreal. He had survived death's edge and tasted her lips. Those soft, cool lips, like a clear spring, had brushed his foul mouth in a fleeting, intimate moment. Her breath, fragrant and pure, had warmed his face.
Most astonishingly, he'd seen her pussy, plump and dazzlingly white, tender yet full, a contrast to her aloof, ethereal grace. Who could imagine her private area, smooth and hairless, beneath her cold demeanor? Elder Mu had expected a lush thicket, but this bare, tender sight stunned him.
"A woman's pussy?" he mumbled, puzzled. A faint memory flickered, decades old, perhaps a glimpse of a palace maid or a young girl caught unawares. The memory slipped away.
Scratching his scalp, Elder Mu couldn't recall his past clearly. In hazy fragments, he'd once been powerful, with countless groveling before him. Like a grand eunuch, he'd held authority, but the details blurred.
His clearest memory was agony, dragged like a dying dog before a man in a dragon robe. "This is your end," the man declared, his gold-threaded boot grinding Elder Mu's face into the ground. Cold eyes gleamed with triumph. "You're smarter, more gifted, yet so condescending. You cultivated immortality, acting like a savior. Your hypocrisy sickened me. A time-traveler, naive despite your power, even achieving longevity. It's unfair! You were sincere, but you knew too much, my origins, my rise. You made me, yet haunted me. You had to die."
The dragon-robed man leaned close. "I won't let you die easily. Without crushing your soul, I can't rest. I'll make you suffer, turn you into a dog, strip your pride, and watch you rot until you're nothing."
A scream of despair had echoed in Elder Mu's mind. His body endured torment, his mind plagued by that crazed voice until he became a hollow shell.
The cold wind slapped his face, jolting him. Cold sweat beaded on his wrinkled brow as he dove under the covers, trembling. "Don't come near me! Please," he muttered.
It took time to calm, his heart pounding. That voice had vanished after the Spirit Mountain Realm, and the dragon-robed man now lay dead, silent forever.
"It's over," Elder Mu whispered, wiping sweat. Qing had pulled him from that abyss.
He sat at the doorway, lost in thought, until the sun warmed his bald head, soothing him. Suddenly, he leapt up, cursing. He'd forgotten Qing's breakfast!
Slapping his forehead, he rushed to the kitchen. Firewood was ready, ingredients delivered from the imperial kitchen, though chefs doubted his skill for a princess. Since Qing never complained, they let him be.
He heated a pan with oil, sprinkled spices, and sliced fresh meat into thin strips. The tender meat sizzled, turning pale. The imperial kitchen used spiritual beasts, like lobster meat, prized by rogue cultivators but mere fare here. Thanks to Qing, Elder Mu tasted such delicacies.
The aroma of sizzling fat and spiritual energy rose, tantalizing. He plated the meat on jade-green leaves, knowing Qing liked simple dishes, reflecting her refined taste. Heavy delicacies, like spiritual bear paws, she gifted him untouched.
He prepared jade lotus meat, lotus seed soup, and golden fish crisps, wiping sweat with pride. His younger self must have been a skilled cook, as even imperial chefs were impressed.
Opening the water tank for Qing's rice porridge, he froze. It was empty. He groaned, recalling he'd meant to fetch water. Winter's snow had made paths treacherous, and last night, lost in lustful thoughts of Qing's pussy, he'd masturbated furiously, falling asleep after multiple releases, wasting the morning.
Scratching his scalp, he glanced at a hidden tank by his bed. No, he couldn't use *that*. Qing would know. He'd secretly added drops of his semen to her meals before, but a whole tank? She'd notice.
Yet, with her vast powers, hadn't she sensed his actions? She could see miles away, know everything. His depraved thoughts surged. If she tolerated his small sins, perhaps more wouldn't matter?
Trembling, he opened the bedside tank. A pungent stench of semen filled the room, thick, white, and gelatinous, like tofu curd, with solid clumps. The odor was overwhelming, a testament to his oversized cock and testicles, unmatched even by beasts.
Swallowing hard, he closed the tank. "Fresh is better," he stammered, climbing onto the stove. He lowered his pants, revealing his erect, monstrous cock, over thirty centimeters long, thick as an arm, veined and scalding. His testicles, swollen like goose eggs, pulsed with thick semen, some hardened into blocks.
His frail hands struggled to grip the cock, absurd against his shriveled frame. Compared to most men, even Feng Wei, Elder Mu's cock was unmatched.
Breathing heavily, he stroked the searing shaft, warming his stiff fingers. The purple tip oozed precum. His mind filled with Qing's beauty, her shy gaze, her plump pussy. With a groan, he climaxed, his semen spurting into the pot of spiritual rice. The thick, white liquid drowned the grains, each burst like a torrent, forming gelatinous clumps.
Panting, he covered the pot, collapsing onto the threshold. When it steamed, a strange mix of semen's stench and rice's sweetness wafted out. The porridge, all semen-based, was thick and frothy, the rice swollen with fluid.
Resolute, he ladled the "porridge" into a jade bowl, placed it in Qing's food box, and headed to her palace, heart pounding with dread and hope.
At Pity Moon Residence, nestled in the rear mountain, the palace was simple yet elegant, like Qing. Bamboo swayed, and a spiritual spring steamed gently, fueled by a jade platform.
Qing sat serene, her white robes pristine, eyes closed, face flawless like a painting. Her breath stirred the breeze, her movements shifting the misty clouds. She was timeless.
Elder Mu's hurried steps broke the silence. "Immortal, I'm late! Sorry for keeping you waiting!" he gasped, clutching the food box.
Qing opened her calm eyes, unfazed by his tardiness, and nodded slightly. Relieved, Elder Mu's fawning smile widened, guilt making him bow lower. He set out the dishes but hesitated at the final layer.
Her gaze shifted. "What's wrong?" she asked softly.
He froze, bowing deeper, mumbling, "Nothing." Opening the box, a potent stench wafted out. Qing's brow furrowed, then smoothed. Her eyes fixed on the bowl, where thick, white liquid swirled, rice grains bloated, more like tofu curd than porridge.
The smell was sharp, like concentrated stonecrop flowers, piercing and unforgettable. Qing's gaze turned to Elder Mu, who shrank under her stare, his smile strained.
His mind raced. Would she punish him? Hate him? Yet a hope lingered, if she didn't mind…
Qing studied him until he nearly collapsed, then looked at the "porridge." After a pause, her fingers lifted the spoon. Her lips parted, and the scalding, viscous liquid entered her mouth.
It was foul, pungent, overwhelming her refined palate. Her brow furrowed, her body recoiling from the taste. The rice's sweetness was buried under the semen's stench, each grain soaked in it.
Elder Mu watched, heart pounding, as her lips touched the bowl, sipping his raw semen. Not a trace, but a full bowl of his essence. His heart urged her to swallow.
A flush colored their eyes. Qing felt the Supreme Yin Mysterious Sword stir, its energy surging, opening a hidden barrier. She sensed the link to Elder Mu, clear now, from months ago. The yin-yang fish in her mind danced, her yin fish activated by his yang energy.
She understood. His massive cock held potent yang power, capable of reviving life. The yang fish chose him, as the yin fish chose her. She was the Supreme Yin Mysterious; he was her balance.
Closing her eyes, she savored the semen, the Sword accelerating, sparking desire. Heat bloomed in her belly, her untouched pussy growing wet, a primal pleasure stirring her pristine body. The yin-yang balance demanded this.
The taste grew bearable. She swallowed, her throat moving delicately, warmth spreading. Sip by sip, she adapted, the stench fading. Elder Mu watched, breathless, as she emptied the bowl.
She set down the spoon, the bowl bare. Neither moved. After a long silence, Elder Mu gathered the dishes and empty bowl, retreating quietly. At the door, he paused, summoning courage. "Would you like this porridge again?"
Qing stiffened briefly, then relaxed, silent. Emboldened, he stammered, "My injuries aren't healed. Could you heal me again?"
He thought he saw a blush, but her face stayed serene. Disappointed, he turned, until a faint sound, like a breeze, reached him.
"Mm," she murmured.
It was fleeting, like a dream, but it sent his heart soaring.
As dusk fell, the sky burned red.