Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 204 - The Women for Entrance Test

He noted: MILFs. The Eye of Truth’s flat, clinical, entirely-neutral assessment of two women whose bodies expressed their cultivation history with the full, warm, comprehensive honesty of structures that had been assembled over time and were at their complete, natural expression.

One went to his left side.

One went to his right.

Both of them finding available surfaces and addressing the available surfaces with the specific, cultivator-frank, completely unembarrassed efficiency of women who had assessed what was available and had made their professional determination. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

The left one: her mouth at his jaw, his neck, moving down with the flat, patient thoroughness of someone doing a complete survey.

The right one: both hands at his chest, her face pressed to the side of his ribs, breathing in the Herb Integration passive at point-blank range and making the specific, involuntary, full-body sound of a woman who had done this and was filing a comprehensive report on what she had found.

"—Aahh~...—"

The blue-eyed one was still on her knees.

Her mouth was doing the specific, warm, thorough, front-to-back survey of someone who had located a primary subject and was conducting the examination with the full, present, unhurried attention of someone who had decided this was excellent material.

"—Mmnh~... mmngh~...—"

The remaining compound women were watching.

The specific, two-hundred-and-something-person, comprehensive, forward-leaning watch of a tribe of cultivators seeing something that was directly relevant to their cultivation development and their personal ambitions and their very human, very honest, very biological responses to the situation in front of them.

He looked at them over the heads of the four women.

Some of the remaining women were — he noted — pressing their thighs together. The specific, involuntary, diagnostic tell of a body receiving ambient qi at full broadcast range and having a physiological response to it that the body was trying to manage through available means.

They were failing to manage it.

The Herb Integration passive was running.

He did not increase it. He did not need to.

"This is a contract," he said.

His voice, still flat, still the same register, still carrying to every woman in the compound with the specific, effortless, present clarity of someone whose voice did not need effort.

The four women continued what they were doing.

He let them.

"If you come to me," he said, "you are mine for the duration of what follows. Not forever. Not permanently. For the work. And in that work, you will advance. How much — depends on what you have and what you give."

He looked at the remaining women.

"You have seen the Chief," he said.

He let that sit for two seconds.

"You have seen her disciples," he said. "The ones who trained with me yesterday."

He let that sit for two more seconds.

He did not need to say the rest. The compound had eyes. The compound had seen Sora come back from the cedar room with a cultivation light that had not been there before. The compound had seen the Chief come down from the tower this morning being supported by two guards and glowing with the flat, warm, permanent amber of Core Formation Peak.

The compound had done the math.

The math was not complicated.

Another woman walked.

Then two more.

Then four at once.

Their robes coming off as they crossed the ground — the specific, varied, individual, honest disrobing of women of different ages and sizes and cultivation levels and body types, all of them walking with the specific, present, decided walk of women who had done their calculation and were executing the result.

He counted.

Twelve.

Twelve women, in various states of approach and disrobement and proximity, the compound’s morning having been entirely revised by the specific, accumulated, non-theatrical weight of twelve individual decisions.

He looked at the remaining women.

The ones who were still watching.

Some of them would come later. He noted this. Some of them were at the specific, threshold-adjacent position where watching the first twelve for a day or two would provide the remaining activation energy.

He looked at the twelve.

He looked at the compound.

"Close the gates," he said.

His voice, still flat.

"Five days," he said. "Nobody enters. Nobody leaves."

The guard women — the two who had been at the tower base, who were currently in their patrol positions with the specific, professionally-assembled neutrality of women who had resumed their assignments and had no professional issues with the interval — looked at him.

They looked at the Chief.

The Chief, from her position at the tower’s base, looked at them.

She nodded. One nod. The Chief’s nod — the flat, present, single-motion authorization of a decision that had been made.

The gates closed.

He sat down.

The specific, flat, direct, completely un-theatrical sit of a man choosing a position — the compound’s central clearing, the broad, flat ground where the cultivation circles ran their morning forms, now empty of everything except morning light and twelve women and the specific, warm, accumulated, Herb Integration ambient field of a man who had been broadcasting it at full passive range for thirty-six hours.

He looked at his system.

[Herb Storage: 847 units. Compressed spiritual energy variants: 14. Atmospheric broadcast capacity: unlimited.]

He reached into it.

The flat, present, internal hand of someone selecting from a cabinet. The specific compound he wanted was the one he had been building since the cave — the atmospheric broadcast that amplified not desire specifically but receptivity. The specific, biological, cellular-level openness to spiritual energy input that made cultivation transfer run faster and cleaner and deeper.

He released it.

Not gradual. The full, immediate, complete broadcast — fourteen compressed spiritual energy variants releasing simultaneously into the compound’s enclosed air, the sealed gates holding the atmospheric event inside the perimeter, the specific, comprehensive, irreversible saturation of the enclosed space with a cultivator’s full, unrestrained, point-blank ambient field.

The twelve women felt it simultaneously.

Not subtly.

The specific, full-body, immediate, comprehensive physiological response of twelve different nervous systems receiving the same sudden, overwhelming input at the same moment — twelve different sounds, twelve different postures changing, twelve different pairs of eyes going to varying degrees of wide and glassy and present.

"—Aahh~...—"

"—Nnh~...—"

"—Aaahn~...—"

He looked at them.

Twelve women.

The blue-eyed one, still on her knees, had pressed both hands flat to the ground to keep herself upright.

The two MILFs had pressed their backs together, both of them, the specific, instinctive support-seeking contact of two bodies that had just received significant input and had located the nearest stable surface.

The remaining nine were in various states of the specific, individual, honest physiological response of women receiving full spiritual broadcast at enclosed range.

He looked at the group.

He looked at each face.

Then: "Line up," he said.

The youngest was at the front.

She had positioned herself there. He had not assigned positions — the line had assembled itself with the specific, organic, mostly-unconscious logic of a group of women sorting themselves, and the youngest had found the front with the flat, forward, eager certainty of someone who had made a decision and was first in the execution.

Nineteen.

He could see it. The Eye of Truth filed its assessment automatically — nineteen, Foundation Establishment Early, the specific, early, honest cultivation light of someone who had been building for a few years and had the foundation but not yet the altitude.

Brown hair. The Void Return territory’s warm, dark, natural brown. Both of her hands were at her sides, pressed flat against her outer thighs, the specific, present, controlled posture of someone who was managing the body’s current state with the available architecture.

She was managing it at moderate success.

He looked at her.

"How old are you," he said.