The dirt road wound through frost-touched fields like a scar, leading Lin Tian toward the slow brown ribbon of the River Murk. Three days after leaving Azure Leaf Village—and the grateful, freshly awakened body of Widow Mei—he felt the lingering warmth of her rich yin still circulating in his dantian.
The dual cultivation had been deliciously prolonged: two full nights of slow, greedy exploration of her heavy breasts, thick thighs, and the slick, clutching heat that had milked him again and again until she sobbed with overstimulation. Each release into her had granted a thin thread of power—enough to consolidate his 10-star Rank 0 foundation, but not enough for breakthrough. Progress was slow, deliberate, exactly as it needed to be if he was to savor every mature beauty along the path.
Now, as dusk settled, he crested a ridge and saw Miller's Ford below: thirty-seven crooked houses huddled around a black-stone watermill whose great wheel turned with patient, grinding inevitability. Smoke rose in thin columns. Somewhere a dog barked, then yelped and went silent.
The air carried the scent of fresh rye, woodsmoke, and something sharper—old blood and new fear.
Lin Tian's lips curved. Conflict. Ripe, festering conflict. And where there was conflict between stubborn families, there were always widows, neglected wives, lonely mothers whose bodies had ripened untouched for far too long.
He walked down the road openly, cloak thrown back, letting the faint glow of his newly refined physique draw eyes. Mortal villages like this had no cultivators; even his Rank 0 vitality made him move with unnatural grace, skin clear, muscles defined beneath simple linen.
A Greyson sentry—broad-shouldered farmer with a scarred face—stepped from behind a hayrick, pitchfork leveled.
"State your business, stranger."
Lin Tian met his gaze calmly. "Passing through. Heard there's a mill that grinds good flour. Thought I'd trade labor for bread."
The man spat. "Labor's cheap. Blood's cheaper. Blackwaters own the mill tonight. Greysons'll own it tomorrow if Red Willem has his way. Best keep walking."
Lin Tian only smiled and continued into the village.
That night he slept in the hayloft of a neutral barn, listening to whispers carried on the wind: poisoned wells, castrated cousins, stolen brides who refused to return home. Two names rose again and again—Marta Blackwater, iron matriarch of the mill, and Red Willem Greyson, ox-built lord of the fields. And beneath them, the women who kept both houses running while the men bled each other dry.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would begin.
The hedge witch lived half a mile into the dark woods, in a hut that smelled of dried nightshade and warm honey.
Her name was Rowan Voss, thirty-eight winters, widowed twice (once to fever, once to a Greyson knife). She was tall, broad-hipped, with heavy breasts that strained the laces of her green wool dress and thick auburn hair barely tamed by a leather cord. Her skin carried the faint sheen of someone who spent days gathering herbs in sun and shade alike, and her green eyes held the calculating gleam of a woman who had learned to profit from other people's hate.
Lin Tian arrived at mid-morning carrying a brace of rabbits he'd caught with bare hands—his enhanced senses making the hunt trivial.
Rowan leaned in the doorway, one eyebrow raised, gaze traveling slowly over his young, hard body.
"Pretty boy bringing gifts. Either you want poison or you want something else."
"Both, eventually," Lin Tian said. "But today I want information. And perhaps… company."
She laughed, low and throaty, and stepped aside.
Inside, the hut was warm from a small hearth. Bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, brushing his hair as he passed. Rowan poured two cups of spiced plum wine, hips swaying deliberately.
"You've walked into a bloodfeud older than you are, boy. Blackwaters and Greysons have been killing each other since my mother's mother was a girl. Mill's the prize. Whoever controls it controls the grain, the taxes, the bellies."
Lin Tian sipped the wine, eyes never leaving the rise and fall of her breasts. "And you sell to both sides."
"Clever." She leaned forward, cleavage deepening. "Poisons for one, antidotes for the other. Keeps me fed."
He set the cup down and stepped close, letting his new physique's subtle charm radiate—warmth, faint masculine musk refined by Luxuria's blessing.
Rowan's breath caught. Her nipples stiffened visibly against wool.
"I need a neutral place to stay," he murmured, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her neck. "And I find mature women… irresistible. Especially ones who know exactly what they want."
Her hand slid up his chest, testing muscle. "And what do you want, pretty boy?"
"To taste you," he said simply. "Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you forget every lonely night in these woods."
An hour later the hut smelled of sweat, plum wine, and aroused woman.
Rowan lay sprawled across her narrow bed, thick thighs trembling, dress rucked up around her waist. Lin Tian knelt between them, mouth buried against her slick, swollen folds, tongue circling her clit with deliberate patience. She was drenched—pink inner lips glistening, nectar coating his chin as he sucked gently, then harder, drawing out her first orgasm in long, shuddering waves.
When he finally rose and slid into her, she gasped at his size, nails raking his back. He took her slowly at first, letting her feel every inch, letting her rich yin flow into him like warm honey. Each deep thrust drew a little more—enough to refine his qi, to feel the barrier to Rank 1 thin by a hair's breadth.
They coupled twice more that afternoon—once with her riding him, heavy breasts swaying as she ground down greedily, once from behind over the herb table, his hands gripping her wide ass while she begged hoarsely for harder, deeper, fill me up.
When dusk fell she lay spent and glowing, body subtly rejuvenated by his yang essence, skin smoother, eyes brighter.
Lin Tian dressed, feeling the small but precious gain settle in his dantian.
"You'll stay?" she asked, voice soft for the first time.
He brushed a kiss across her forehead. "For a night or two more. Then I move on."
Something flickered in her eyes—acceptance, resignation—but she only nodded.
Power gained: Qi refined. Distance to breakthrough: still far. Plenty of mature beauties left in Miller's Ford.
Two nights later Lin Tian slipped across the river under moonlight, moving silently toward the black-stone mill.
Marta Blackwater's daughter-in-law, Lena, kept watch on the upper floor. Thirty-five, widowed three years ago when her husband caught a Greyson arrow in the throat. She was built like fertile earth itself—wide hips that had borne two children, full heavy breasts still leaking milk for the youngest, long black hair and storm-gray eyes.
She paced the mill's loft with a loaded crossbow, body tense beneath a simple linen shift.
Lin Tian climbed the outer wall as easily as walking, physique granting him grip and balance no mortal could match. He stepped through the open window behind her.
Lena spun, crossbow rising—but he was already inside her guard, hand gently closing the weapon's lever down.
"Easy," he murmured. "I'm not here to hurt you."
Her breath came fast, breasts heaving. Up close she smelled of fresh bread, milk, and warm woman. Fear and exhaustion warred in her eyes.
"You're the stranger Rowan's been smiling about," she said finally.
"Word travels." He stepped closer, letting charm and warmth radiate. "I'm here to offer… relief. From the watching, the waiting, the grief."
Lena's lips parted. It had been three years since any man touched her with gentleness.
They did not speak much after that.
He laid her down on sacks of rye flour, kissing slow trails down her throat, freeing heavy breasts from linen. Milk beaded at dark nipples; he latched gently, suckling while she moaned and arched. The taste was sweet, rich—her yin thicker than Rowan's, flavored by motherhood and long denial.
When he entered her she was slick and ready, inner walls fluttering around him as though starved. He took her tenderly at first, then harder when she begged, hips rolling deep, hands kneading her ass until she came with a muffled cry against his shoulder.
They coupled until the moon set—missionary on the flour sacks, her astride him grinding desperately, finally standing against the mill wall with one leg hooked around his waist while he thrust relentlessly, filling her twice with thick heat.
Each release drew more yin—richer, deeper. His qi condensed further, meridians widening almost imperceptibly.
At dawn Lena lay curled against him, body glowing with subtle rejuvenation, milk-heavy breasts fuller, skin luminous.
"Stay," she whispered. "Marta could use a strong man. I… could use you."
Lin Tian kissed her once, softly. "I'll return tonight. Then I must go."
She watched him leave with quiet acceptance.
Power gained: Another thin layer of refinement. Still no breakthrough. Still many women left.