The dim glow of Yan Fan's laptop screen flickered like a dying star in the cramped confines of his one-room apartment. Posters of scantily clad anime heroines plastered the walls, their exaggerated curves and come-hither stares a testament to the solitary obsessions that had consumed his twenty-three years. Empty ramen cups teetered in precarious stacks on his desk, and the air hung heavy with the stale scent of unwashed laundry and unfulfilled desires. Yan Fan, a lanky figure with unkempt black hair falling over his bloodshot eyes, slumped in his creaking chair, his right hand a blur beneath the desk.
It had been hours—days, perhaps—since he'd last emerged from this ritual. His latest binge: a doujinshi marathon of tentacle-laden fantasies and harem conquests that would make even the most jaded erotica connoisseur blush. His breath came in ragged gasps, sweat beading on his forehead as the on-screen heroine writhed in exaggerated ecstasy, her pixelated moans syncing with the frantic rhythm of his strokes. "Just... one more," he muttered through gritted teeth, his cock throbbing in his grip, slick with overuse. The pressure built, a familiar coil tightening in his gut, promising release.
But release never came. Instead, a sharp, searing pain lanced through his chest, as if an invisible hand had clamped around his heart and squeezed. His vision blurred, the screen warping into a kaleidoscope of colors. "What the—?" His hand faltered, slipping free as he clutched at his sternum. The room spun, the posters leering down at him like mocking sirens. Panic surged, hot and metallic on his tongue. *This isn't right. This can't be—* Darkness swallowed him whole, the last sound in his ears a faint, mocking *ding* from his speakers, the end credits rolling on an unfinished scene.
When consciousness clawed its way back, it wasn't to the blare of an alarm or the ache of a hangover. It was to silk sheets whispering against skin that felt... foreign. Yan Fan's eyes fluttered open, heavy lids parting to reveal a canopy of embroidered crimson fabric overhead, threads of gold depicting snarling demons locked in eternal combat. Sunlight filtered through latticed windows of polished jade, casting ethereal patterns on walls adorned with scrolls of ancient calligraphy. The air was perfumed with incense—sandalwood and jasmine, laced with something darker, like blood and blooming nightshade. This wasn't his apartment. This was... a palace?
He bolted upright, heart hammering anew, only to wince as a flood of memories crashed into his skull like a tidal wave. Not his memories. *Foreign* ones. Flashes of a life that wasn't his: a sprawling mansion of dark timber and vermilion tiles nestled in mist-shrouded mountains; a family of shadowed figures in flowing robes, their eyes cold with ambition; beatings in shadowed courtyards, fists raining down from jealous cousins; and always, the sting of impotence, a hidden shame buried deep. *Yan Chi.* The name echoed in his mind, layering over his own like a palimpsest. He was Yan Chi now, the disgraced young master of the Yan Clan, a middling power in the infamous Bloodshadow Demonic Sect of the Tianmo Continent.
Yan Fan—no, Yan Chi—pressed trembling fingers to his temples, willing the vertigo to subside. The transmigration trope. He'd devoured enough webnovels to recognize it: the isekai cheat, the overpowered system, the harem of sultry cultivators. But this body... it felt wrong. Too light, too fragile, like a porcelain doll teetering on the edge of a shelf. He glanced down, noting the lithe, almost delicate build—long limbs, smooth skin unmarked by the acne scars of his old life, and a cascade of silky black hair tumbling past his shoulders. Handsome, yes, in that ethereal, androgynous way favored by xianxia protagonists, with sharp cheekbones and full lips inherited, the memories whispered, from a mother whose beauty was legend.
But beauty was a double-edged sword in a world like this. The Tianmo Continent was no fairy tale realm of righteous immortals; it was a brutal forge where the weak were hammered into oblivion or twisted into tools for the strong. Demonic sects ruled here, their cultivation paths steeped in yin-yang dual practices that blurred the line between enlightenment and debauchery. Qi flowed not just through meridians but through desires—lust, rage, envy—fueled by rituals that would scandalize the orthodox sects. The Yan Clan, a vassal under the Bloodshadow's iron fist, thrived on slave trades, forbidden elixirs, and alliances sealed in bedsheets stained with more than sweat. And Yan Chi? He was the clan's shame: stuck at the 3rd stage of Body Refining at nineteen, his dantian a stagnant pool while his peers surged into Qi Refining.
Worse still, the impotence. Yan Chi's face—*his* face now—flushed with borrowed humiliation. The original soul had hidden it like a festering wound, a "gift" from Yan Jing, that venomous cousin whose boot had connected with brutal precision during a childhood "spar." Since then, nothing. No stirrings, no shameful nocturnal emissions, just a limp betrayal between his legs that had turned every stolen glance at the clan's beauties into exquisite torture. Yan Fan had died chasing ecstasy; now he was trapped in a body denied even its echo.
"Fuck," he whispered, the modern curse slipping out amid the antique elegance of the room. He swung his legs over the edge of the massive four-poster bed, carved from spirit-oak etched with warding runes that hummed faintly against his skin. The floor was cool polished marble veined with crimson quartz, muffling his bare feet as he paced. His sleep robes—silk the color of spilled wine—clung to his frame, whispering with each step. He caught his reflection in a bronze mirror across the chamber: tall for his age, perhaps five-foot-ten, with a scholar's build rather than a warrior's—narrow shoulders, tapered waist, hips that spoke of untapped potential rather than honed lethality. The face was a killer, though: almond eyes of deepest obsidian, lashes like raven feathers, a nose straight as a sword's edge, and lips that begged to be bruised. If only the body matched the promise.
Despair coiled in his gut, hot and familiar. "So this is the joke? Reincarnate me into a pretty-boy cripple in a world of sex and slaughter? Where's the system? The golden finger? Heaven, you sadistic prick, give me something!" He slammed a fist into the bedpost, wincing at the jolt—Body Refining 3rd stage meant he had the strength of a fit mortal, nothing more. Tears pricked his eyes, unbidden, as memories of Yan Chi's isolation resurfaced: the mocking whispers in the clan halls, the pitying glances from servants, the way even his own father, Yan Tian—the iron-fisted patriarch at Heavenly Realm 4th stage—treated him like a disappointing ornament rather than a son.
Yan Tian: muscular, scarred from a thousand duels, his presence a storm cloud over the clan's lesser branches. He ruled with a velvet glove over an iron fist, his "love" for Yan Chi manifested in tolerance rather than training. And then there was the mother... Yan Mei. The memories bloomed like forbidden lotuses: her laughter like wind chimes in a blood-red garden, her touch a balm against the clan's cruelties. A beauty that could topple empires, her Heavenly Realm 1st stage cultivation a siren song of power and allure. The clan elders lusted after her openly, their jealousy a venom Yan Jing had spat into young Yan Chi's veins.
A sob escaped him, raw and ugly. "Surrounded by goddesses, and I can't even... fuck, why?" He collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in the pillows that smelled of lavender and faint, feminine musk—perhaps from a servant's recent attentions. The impotence wasn't just physical; it was a curse on his soul, a denial of the very perversions that had defined his old life. Masturbation marathons had been his escape; now, even that door was barred.
And then, as if the heavens had tired of their cruelty, a chime pierced the silence. *Ding.*
Light bloomed in his mind's eye, not a holographic screen but a subtle interface overlaying reality like augmented vision. Words unfurled in elegant crimson script, pulsing with an undercurrent of... mischief?
**[Perverted System Activated. Synchronizing with Host's... Unique Physiology. Process: 0%.]**
Yan Chi froze, breath hitching. The system. His golden finger, late but unapologetic. A grin cracked his tear-streaked face, wild and hopeful. "Finally! Come on, you glorious bastard, give me power. Make me a god among perverts." He sat up straighter, watching the progress bar crawl: 10%... 25%... The interface felt intimate, almost invasive, tendrils of ethereal energy probing his meridians, lingering scandalously at his groin before retreating with what felt like a digital chuckle.
At 100%, the chime rang again, deeper, resonant.
**[Synchronization Complete. Welcome, Host Yan Chi. The Perverted System is tailored for those who thrive in the shadows of desire. Earn Pervert Points through acts of lewd observation, seduction, and conquest. Spend them on skills, artifacts, and cultivation boons. Remember: The deeper the depravity, the greater the reward. Your journey begins now.]**
A secondary window flickered open: his status.
**[Name: Yan Chi]**
**[Cultivation: Body Refining 3rd Stage (Impure Dantian: 15% Blocked)]**
**[Vitality: Low (Due to Recent Poisoning and... Dormancy)]**
**[Pervert Points: 0]**
**[Skills: None]**
**[Special: Impotence Curse (Yan Jing's Legacy - 100% Active)]**
The curse line hit like a gut punch, but Yan Chi laughed, bitter and triumphant. "At least you're honest, you cheeky fucker." No immediate flood of points or overpowered techniques—just a promise. Minimal interference, as if the system knew his soul's hunger for subtlety. Good. He wasn't some brainless power-fantasy drone; he wanted to savor this world, peel back its layers like silk from sweat-slicked skin.
Before he could probe further, footsteps echoed from the antechamber—soft, deliberate, the swish of fabric like a lover's whisper. The door slid open with a hushed rasp, admitting a vision that stole the breath from his lungs.
Yan Mei, his mother. The memories had painted her in broad strokes of awe, but reality was a masterpiece of carnal artistry. She glided into the room like a phoenix reborn in crimson flames, her presence filling the space with an aura that was equal parts maternal warmth and unspoken sin. At thirty-eight, she defied the ravages of time and tribulation, her Heavenly Realm cultivation weaving youth into her form like threads of divine silk. Her skin was porcelain flawless, glowing with an inner luminescence that spoke of qi refined through dual-cultivation arts—the demonic path's gift of eternal allure.
She wore a robe of deepest scarlet, the fabric a whisper-thin layer of demon-silk imported from the abyssal forges of the Bloodshadow Sect's inner domains. It clung to her like a second skin, the material so fine it caught the light in iridescent waves, hinting at the treasures beneath without fully revealing them. The neckline plunged daringly low, a V-cut that framed the swell of her magnificent breasts—full, gravity-defying orbs that strained against the silk, each easily a generous G-cup, their weight shifting hypnotically with her steps. The fabric parted just enough to expose the deep valley of her cleavage, a shadowed ravine dusted with the faintest sheen of perfumed oil, where the faint outline of dusky areolas teased at the edges. Her nipples, pert and responsive even in repose, pressed twin peaks against the silk, creating subtle tents that drew the eye like magnets.
The robe's bodice hugged her hourglass figure mercilessly, cinching at her narrow waist—barely twenty inches, a waspish taper earned through years of qi-forged discipline—before flaring into hips that swayed with predatory grace. Side slits climbed high from hem to thigh, revealing flashes of her long, toned legs with every movement, the muscles flexing beneath skin as smooth as polished jade. Her thighs were plush yet firm, the kind that promised to clamp like velvet vices in the throes of passion, leading up to the juncture where the robe's central panel clung scandalously tight, molding to the subtle mound of her sex, the silk dampened just enough by ambient humidity—or perhaps her own subtle arousal—to hint at the cleft beneath.
From behind, as she turned slightly to close the door, the view was no less devastating. The robe's back draped low, exposing the elegant curve of her spine down to the dimples above her ass—a perfect heart-shaped expanse that jiggled ever so slightly with her gait, the silk stretched taut over twin globes that begged for hands to knead and span. Her ass was a masterpiece of demonic allure: full, rounded, and high, each cheek a plush pillow separated by a shadowed crease that the fabric teased but never fully concealed. Black hair like a midnight waterfall cascaded to her waist, unbound and fragrant with lotus essence, framing her exposed back like a lover's caress.
Yan Mei's face was the crowning sin: heart-shaped, with high cheekbones flushed a natural rose, full lips painted the color of ripe cherries, and eyes of smoldering amber that held the wisdom of ages and the fire of unspoken hungers. Fine lines at the corners only accentuated her maturity, lending her an air of ripe, forbidden fruit—untouched by decay, only deepened by time.
"Chi'er," she murmured, her voice a silken melody laced with concern, the diminutive endearment rolling off her tongue like honeyed wine. She crossed the room in three gliding steps, the robe's slits parting to offer teasing glimpses of her inner thighs, pale and unmarred save for a faint qi-brand tattoo low on her hip—a serpentine dragon coiling toward more intimate territories. "How are you faring, my son? The poison... does it still gnaw at you?"
Yan Chi's throat went dry, his gaze locked on the hypnotic sway of her breasts as she sank onto the bed's edge beside him. Up close, her scent enveloped him: jasmine and musk, with an undernote of feminine warmth that stirred something primal in his blood. The original Yan Chi's memories supplied context—Yan's protective fury at Yan Jing's schemes, her late-night qi-infusions to stave off the poison's relapse—but Yan Fan's soul added a layer of raw, unfiltered lust. *Mother or not, she's a goddess carved from sin.* His cock twitched traitorously in his robes, a faint stir long denied, as if the system's touch had nudged it from slumber.
He swallowed hard, forcing his eyes to her face—those amber depths brimming with unshed tears. "Mother... I'm... better. The pain has ebbed. Just need rest, as the healers said." His voice cracked slightly, a mix of the original's deference and his own awe. To lie here, inches from this vision, while his body betrayed him yet again... it was exquisite agony.
Yan's relief was palpable, her full lips curving into a smile that lit the room brighter than the jade windows. "Oh, my brave boy." Without warning, she leaned in, enveloping him in an embrace that crushed his head to her bosom. The silk barrier was negligible; her breasts yielded like heated clouds, enveloping his cheek in overwhelming softness. He felt the rapid thump of her heart against his ear, the subtle friction of her nipples hardening against the fabric from the contact—or perhaps the chill of the room. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, one hand stroking his hair with maternal tenderness, the other pressing his back, drawing him deeper into her warmth.
Yan Chi's world narrowed to sensation: the plush give of her tits molding to his face, the faint salty tang of her skin where sweat beaded in the valley, the way her robe gaped further with the motion, allowing a glimpse of dusky areola pebbled with gooseflesh. His nose brushed the edge of one mound, inhaling her essence—sweet, intoxicating, with a hint of the aphrodisiac elixirs demonic women favored for cultivation boosts. His cock, that dormant traitor, surged to half-mast, a painful throb against his thigh. *Fuck, yes—system, whatever you did, keep doing it.* But doubt crept in; would it hold? Or was this just a cruel tease?
She held him for what felt like an eternity, murmuring endearments in the lyrical tongue of the continent. "My poor Chi'er... that wretched Jing dared lay hands on you again. If not for your father's edict against intra-clan violence..." Her voice trailed into a sigh, hot breath stirring his hair. Yan Chi's hands, of their own volition, rose to her waist, fingers splaying over the silk-clung curve—narrow, resilient, flaring to hips that could birth empires or break them. He resisted the urge to slide lower, to cup the ass that memories painted as legendary: firm yet yielding, the kind that left handprints like badges of conquest.
Finally, she pulled back, but not before pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead—lips soft, moist, tasting faintly of plum blossom tea. Her amber eyes searched his, concern etching fine lines around them. "Rest, my love. I'll have the servants bring restorative broth. And Chi'er... promise me you'll cultivate harder. The sect's trials loom, and I cannot bear to lose you." Her hand cupped his cheek, thumb tracing his jaw with a touch that sent shivers down his spine.
"I promise, Mother," he whispered, voice husky. She rose then, the motion a symphony of sensuality: breasts bouncing free of their confines for a heartbeat, nipples tenting the silk brazenly; hips swaying as the robe's slits parted, revealing the full length of one alabaster thigh, toned from qi-leap drills yet plush at the inner seam. From behind, as she glided to the door, her ass was a revelation—two perfect hemispheres rolling with hypnotic rhythm, the silk molding to their cleft like a lover's tongue, hinting at the puckered rosebud and slick folds hidden within. Her hair swayed like a dark veil, brushing the top of that glorious curve.
Yan Chi's erection strained fully now, a rigid heat that bordered on pain—miracle or madness, courtesy of the system. He didn't notice the faint *ding* at first, too entranced by the retreating vision.
**[Pervert Points +5: Lewd Observation (Maternal Allure). Current Total: 5.]**
A grin split his face, feral and grateful. "You beautiful, twisted genius." The system didn't respond, its interface fading to a subtle HUD in his periphery—minimal, as requested. No blue boxes cluttering his view; just notifications when earned. Perfect for immersion in this den of delights.
The door clicked shut, leaving him alone with his arousal and the chamber's echoes. Yan Chi flopped back, robes tenting obscenely. "Alright, system. Shop time." Mentally nudging the interface, a discreet menu unfolded: **Skills | Resources | Equipment**. Most grayed out—"Insufficient Depravity"—but a few gleamed. Under Resources: **Low-Grade Qi Restoration Potion (5 Points)**. He "purchased" it without hesitation, a vial materializing in his palm—crystal-clear liquid swirling with emerald motes.
*Ding.* **[First Purchase Bonus: Welcome Package Unlocked.]**
Three icons pulsed: a glowing scroll, a shimmering talisman etched with serpentine runes, and a slender armband of black jade veined with gold. He claimed them one by one.
The **Divine Cultivation Method** unfurled in his mind like a forbidden sutra: a technique blending orthodox qi-gathering with demonic yin-yang harmonies, promising exponential growth through "harmonized dual practices." Explicit diagrams flashed—bodies entwined in tantric poses, qi flowing from cock to womb in luminous streams. Yan Chi's dick throbbed approval.
The **Barrier-Piercing Talisman** hummed in his fingers, a one-use ward-key to slip through any formation below Imperial Realm. Useful for midnight trysts or espionage.
The **Defensive Armband** slipped onto his bicep like liquid shadow, cooling his skin. It promised imperviousness to strikes below Qi Consolidation—perfect against petty bullies like Yan Jing.
Emboldened, he rose, splashing the potion down his throat. It burned like liquid fire laced with aphrodisiac honey, meridians igniting as blockages crumbled. Body Refining 3rd Stage stabilized; a faint push toward 4th hummed in his dantian. "Not bad for a starter pack." But points were scarce; he'd need more "depravity" to climb.
The chamber's luxury mocked his ambition: incense burners shaped like writhing nudes, a vanity laden with rouge and oils, a screened alcove for... private meditations. Yan Chi stripped, examining his new form in the mirror. Lithe, yes—six feet of lean muscle waiting to be forged, cock now a respectable seven inches semi-erect, veined and promising. *Thanks, system.* He dressed in fresh robes: outer layer of midnight brocade embroidered with clan sigils (a blood-dripping lotus), inner tunic of breathable linen that hugged his form without constriction. No underwear—demonic fashion favored freedom for "qi circulation."
Hunger gnawed, but curiosity won. He slipped into the corridors, the mansion unfolding like a labyrinth of opulence and menace. Hallways of dark teak lined with jade lanterns; courtyards blooming with nightshade and aphro-lilies whose pollen induced fevered dreams. Servants bowed low—petite maids in translucent veils that did little to hide pert asses and budding breasts—muttering "Young Master" with averted eyes. The clan's demonic bent showed in every detail: murals of orgiastic rituals, where cultivators merged qi in tangled limbs; air thick with the moans of distant "dual practice" chambers.
The garden called him, a verdant sprawl of spirit herbs and koi ponds reflecting storm-gray skies. Mountains loomed beyond, peaks piercing thunderheads, forests cloaked in perpetual mist. This was the Yan Estate, heart of a clan that trafficked in slaves and secrets, their power a fragile web under the Bloodshadow's shadow. Yan Chi inhaled deeply, qi tingling in his lungs—purer here, laced with the continent's wild essence.
A voice, crystalline as spring bells, shattered his reverie. "Big Brother Yan Chi!"
He turned, and his world tilted again. Cao Ning stood at the garden's edge, a silver-haired apparition framed by blooming hellflowers. At nineteen, she was the Cao Clan's jewel—a vassal house's pride, her Qi Consolidation 3rd Stage a whisper of prodigious talent. But it was her body that ensnared him, a symphony of innocence corrupted by demonic allure.
Her hair, like molten moonlight, cascaded in loose waves to her mid-back, framing a face of ethereal perfection: wide emerald eyes fringed with lashes like spider silk, a button nose dusted with faint freckles from sun-kissed trainings, and lips plump as fresh cherries, parted in a smile that revealed pearl teeth. High cheekbones flushed with youthful vigor, her skin a canvas of cream kissed by dawn.
She wore the sect's junior disciple attire, twisted through the Cao Clan's sensual lens: a robe of pale azure silk, lightweight as gossamer, tied at the throat with a golden chain that plunged into V-neck daring enough to expose the upper swells of her E-cup breasts. The fabric cupped them like jealous lovers, the swell rising and falling with her breath, nipples faint shadows beneath—pert, raspberry-hued peaks that strained the weave on cooler breezes. The bodice nipped at her ribcage, accentuating a waist slender as a willow wand, before the skirt flared into asymmetrical slits: one modest to the knee, the other climbing to her hip, baring a leg that was a study in lethal grace—thigh thick with muscle yet soft at the inner curve, calf tapering to delicate ankles shod in embroidered slippers.
The robe's central panel clung to her core like a second skin, molding to the subtle V of her mound, the silk sheer enough in the sunlight to hint at the smooth-shaven slit beneath—no undergarments, as per sect edict for "unhindered qi flow." Her hips, wide and fertile, promised hips that could grind empires to dust, flaring to an ass that, even from the front, curved invitingly—full cheeks that jiggled subtly as she shifted weight, the fabric whispering over them like a teasing finger.
"Junior Sister Ning," Yan Chi managed, his voice a touch too rough, cock stirring anew at the sight. Memories flooded: childhood romps in these gardens, her innocent hugs turning awkward as puberty sculpted her into this temptress; the way she'd shielded him from bullies, her small hands fisting in defiance. Now, those hands—slender, with nails lacquered crimson—twisted in her skirt, betraying worry.
Cao Ning's brow furrowed, those emerald eyes scanning him like a healer's probe. "Brother Chi, you look pale. The poison... it lingers? Why aren't you resting? The healers said—" She stepped closer, the wind lifting her robe's hem, flashing a tantalizing expanse of inner thigh, smooth as satin, veined faintly with glowing meridians.
He waved it off, forcing a smile. "Just cabin fever, Ning. The walls were closing in. Besides, fresh air clears the mind." His gaze dipped involuntarily to her cleavage, where a bead of sweat traced the valley, disappearing into shadowed promise. *Fuck, those tits... heavy enough to smother a man, soft enough to drown in.* The system's chime was silent—no points yet, or perhaps it waited for intent. He tore his eyes up, heat crawling his neck.
She tilted her head, silver strands sliding over one shoulder to brush the exposed swell of her breast. "If you say so. But promise you'll take it easy? The clan's entrance exams are months away, but with your... dantian..." Her voice softened, hand reaching to squeeze his arm—fingers warm, grip firm from spear drills. Up close, her scent wafted: wild orchids and virgin sweat, innocent yet laced with the sect's aphro-pollen.
"I promise," he echoed his mother's words, the lie bitter. Months? In webnovels, that was a prologue's blink. Here, with his curse and low base, it loomed like a guillotine. "Tell me about your training. Cao Clan's been pushing you hard, I hear."
Her face lit, cheeks blooming rose. "Oh, it's grueling! Elder Chang has us on water-walking drills—my legs ache for days." She shifted, the motion parting her robe's slit wider, revealing the full curve of her hip, the silk clinging to the underside of one breast as it threatened to spill free. Yan Chi's cock ached, fully hard now, a steel rod tenting his robes. *System, you magnificent bastard, this is living.*
They talked then, words flowing like the garden's brook: her triumphs in qi-arrows, his fabricated "insights" from the Divine Method (kept vague—minimal interference meant no overt cheats). Laughter bubbled from her, light and freeing, her breasts quaking with mirth, nipples scraping silk audibly. He drank it in, cataloging every detail: the way her thighs rubbed together when excited, creating a subtle friction that scented the air with arousal; the faint qi-glow in her eyes, hinting at untapped yin potential.
*Ding.* **[Pervert Points +10: Prolonged Lewd Observation (Innocent Allure). Current Total: 15.]**
Grinning inwardly, he pressed on, drawing out the moment until her maid summoned her—duties at the Cao pavilion. "See you soon, Brother Chi. Stay safe." She leaned in for a peck on the cheek, lips brushing his skin like fire—close enough that her breast grazed his arm, the nipple a hard pebble through layers. Then she turned, ass swaying in farewell: cheeks clenching with each step, the robe's fabric riding up to bare the lower curve, a promise of the cleft between.
Yan Chi watched until she vanished into the mist, hand adjusting his straining cock. "Fifteen points. Not bad for a chat." But euphoria soured as footsteps crunched gravel—deliberate, mocking.
"Well, well. The little eunuch emerges." Yan Jing sauntered from the treeline, a smirk twisting his handsome features into something feral. At twenty, he was Yan Chi's mirror corrupted: same lithe build, but bulked with Qi Refining 1st Stage muscle, black hair cropped short in warrior's style, eyes narrow with perpetual disdain. His robes were sect-formal—crimson edged in gold, belted to accent broad shoulders and a V-taper earned in the clan's blood-pits. But his gaze... it slithered, lingering where Cao Ning had stood, as if scenting her phantom allure.
Yan Chi's blood boiled, memories igniting: the boot to his balls, the jeers in the training halls, the whispers of "impotent whelp." The armband warmed on his bicep, a subtle shield. "Jing. Come to gloat? Or just slithering for scraps?"
Jing's laugh was a bark, echoing off the mountains. "Bold words for a corpse-walker. Poison suits you—pale as a ghost's prick." He circled, boots scuffing spirit-grass, eyes raking Yan Chi's form with contempt. "Saw you eye-fucking little Ning. Dream on, cousin. A beauty like that needs a *real* man—one who can fill her without wilting." The jab landed, low and vicious, dredging the curse like pus from a wound.
Yan Chi's fists clenched, qi flickering erratically in his veins—the Divine Method stirring, but unmastered. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Jing. Not when the elders know your 'talents' are bought with your father's bribes."
Jing's face darkened, a storm brewing. "You dare—?" His fist lashed out, qi-wrapped knuckles whistling—Qi Refining force enough to crater stone. Yan Chi braced, the armband flaring invisible; the blow connected with his shoulder, a dull thud rather than shattering impact. He staggered for show, tumbling into the grass, but inside? Elation. *It works.*
Jing loomed, sneering down. "Pathetic. Stay down, worm. Your father's patience wears thin— one more 'accident,' and even Mei's tears won't save you." He spat, the glob landing near Yan Chi's cheek, then turned on his heel, robes flaring like a demon's wings. "Learn your place."
Yan Chi lay there, feigning gasps, until Jing's footsteps faded. Then he rose, brushing dirt from his robes, a cold fire kindling in his chest. "Your place, cousin? At the bottom of my boot. Soon." The armband cooled, spent for the day, but the system's silence was approval enough.
*Ding.* **[Pervert Points +5: Endured Humiliation (Latent Vengeance). Current Total: 20.]**
He pocketed the points mentally—enough for another potion, perhaps a basic skill. But revenge? That would demand more. Deeper depravity. As the sun dipped toward the peaks, casting the garden in bloody hues, Yan Chi straightened. The Tianmo Continent awaited: sects teeming with seductresses, trials of flesh and fury, a harem waiting to be claimed. Impotence be damned; with this system, he'd forge a cock of legend, a throne of conquered queens.
And Yan Jing? First on the list.
The evening bells tolled from the clan's pagoda, summoning to communal meal. Yan Chi moved toward the great hall, robes whispering promises, cock still half-hard from the day's teases.