Chapter Six: Chains of Memory
The heroines no longer sought other men out of curiosity or necessity.
By now, every encounter had become compulsive. Each touch, each brush of skin, each whispered word from another man sent shivers through them they could neither resist nor explain. Every pulse, every tremor, every wave of heat reminded them of him—Li Chen—the one who had touched their minds and hearts without even being present.
Yue Ling knelt alone in her chamber, robes loose and trembling, her body humming with heat she could not name. She pressed her palms against her thighs, shivering, moaning softly as memory coursed through her. He had been here, had claimed her in ways no one else could replicate. And now, as she leaned closer to the empty space beside her, she felt every sensation of that memory as vividly as if it were real.
Her pulse raced, heat pooling low, and shame bloomed like fire across her chest. She hated herself for trembling, hated herself for moaning, hated herself for letting memory dominate her so completely. And yet, she could not stop. She could not fight. Her body moved as if independent, arching, trembling, shivering under the invisible weight of desire and remembrance.
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Mei Xin's fall was deeper.
She had allowed another man, a young cultivator from a neighboring sect, to guide her through a complex technique. His hands brushed hers lightly, carefully, trying not to overstep. But every time, every flicker of contact, sent a bolt of memory and need through her. She pressed her hands over her chest, moaning softly, shivering, trembling as though her body had a mind of its own.
She could feel guilt twist inside her like a blade. She should not be like this. She should not be trembling, moaning, surrendering to a body that remembered another. Yet the memory of Li Chen's hands, his whispers, his dominance, had taken root so deeply in her flesh and nerves that nothing could shake it. Every touch from another man was a cruel reflection of what she truly wanted. Every sigh, every shiver, every trembling gasp reminded her that her body belonged to someone else—even now.
She was a prisoner of memory, her flesh a vessel for obsession, and every sensation only deepened her need and shame.
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Fen Xian, proud Fen Xian, had never imagined she would fall this far.
She had prided herself on control, on discipline, on mastery of body and mind. Yet now, kneeling in her chamber, robes slipping, heart hammering, she shivered uncontrollably at a mere brush of another man's hand. Every subtle touch triggered heat, tremors, soft moans, and low gasps she could not control. She pressed her face into her palms, ashamed beyond measure, yet leaning closer, needing the sensation, unable to resist.
Her body was no longer her own. Her mind was no longer her own. Every shiver, every gasp, every moan was claimed by memory, by obsession, by him. She hated the pleasure, hated the need, hated herself—but could not stop.
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Across the continent, the same pattern repeated.
The heroines had become unrecognizable from their former selves. Pride, discipline, cultivation, and reason all crumbled beneath the weight of craving. They sought other men not for love, not for companionship, not even for satisfaction—they sought substitutes, vessels for memory. And every encounter, every fleeting touch, every breath and brush of flesh, sent shivers through them, moans from their lips, and waves of heat through their limbs.
They were whored not in body, but in mind, in flesh, in surrender.
And yet, guilt burned brighter than desire. They hated themselves for trembling, for moaning, for leaning into sensation they could not name or resist. Every shiver reminded them of what they had lost, every pulse of heat reminded them of who they truly craved, every moan reminded them of him.
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Yue Ling trembled in her chamber as the memory of Li Chen pressed against her from every nerve. She leaned into the imagined weight of him, trembling, gasping, moaning low and helplessly, her body arching as if seeking what could not exist. Shame and desire coiled in her chest, twisting together so tightly she could barely breathe. She wanted to scream, to cry, to collapse—and yet she shivered, moaned, and surrendered, powerless against the ghost of memory.
She was addicted to absence.
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Mei Xin curled against her cushions, quivering. She had allowed herself to be touched, gently guided, yet the moment reminded her of everything she truly craved. Heat pooled, her body trembled, and soft, helpless moans escaped her lips. She covered her face, shivering, knowing that she was betraying herself, her pride, and her discipline. But even as guilt clawed at her chest, she leaned further, craving the sensation of being claimed, remembered, dominated—even by a memory.
Her body betrayed her. Her mind betrayed her. Every nerve, every pulse, every shiver was proof of surrender she could not resist.
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Fen Xian's hands trembled as she pressed them to her thighs, robes slipping, pulse racing, cheeks flushed. She moaned low, helpless, the sound carrying a mix of shame and craving. Her memory of Li Chen dominated her completely. Every touch, every whisper from another man, was magnified, twisted into waves of impossible need. She pressed herself closer, knees bending, body trembling with desire she could neither deny nor escape.
She had opened herself fully—to memory, to obsession, to craving—and the guilt that burned inside her only made the sensation sharper, more intense, more consuming.
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And then it became collective.
All ten heroines, scattered across lands and sects, experienced the same torment.
Every man they touched became a mirror, every brush of flesh a reflection, every whisper a reminder. They trembled, moaned, shivered, flushed, opened themselves in surrender to sensation they could not name. They hated themselves for it. They wept quietly in corners, trembling, flushed, moaning softly at their own helplessness.
Yet no matter the shame, no matter the guilt, no matter the humiliation, they could not stop. They were addicted to absence.
They were enslaved to memory. They were mentally "used" by every encounter with another man. Their bodies betrayed them. Their minds betrayed them. Their flesh, their nerves, their very being belonged to someone else—even in his absence.
And he, Li Chen, far away, walked unknowing, sensing their trembling, their gasps, their moans, their surrender without ever appearing. Their obsession, their shame, their compulsion, all answered to him alone.
They were undone.
And he had won without touching a single one of them.
-l