Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 252- Taking Maids Payment

She bowed without hesitation.

Immediate, complete — and was moving before she had finished straightening, taking the lead down the corridor with the specific bright, uncertain quality of a nineteen-year-old who had been given a task by someone who had just given her a decade of cultivation in four seconds and was treating the task as the only important thing currently happening.

He followed.

His hands went behind his back.

The other servants in the corridor had their heads bowed — the specific row of bent necks and still bodies of people who had seen something they were still processing and had defaulted to the posture that covered the most categories of appropriate response.

The queen stood where he had left her.

Head down.

The corridor was quiet except for the retreating sound of his footsteps and the lighter sound of the maid's ahead of them.

She looked at the floor.

Her hand went to her belly, the specific unconscious movement of a woman whose hands find their way there without instruction during moments of weight.

She felt the child move.

Something in her chest — not grief, not relief in the clean sense, but the specific, enormous, exhausted quality of something that has been held against the body for a very long time and has just been given a reason to believe it might not need to be held that way forever.

Her eyes ran.

Not crying.

Just — running, the way eyes run when the pressure that has been building finally has somewhere to go.

'Finally,' she thought, and the word arrived in the specific register of a woman who had been waiting in the specific dark of not knowing what came next for long enough that the question had started to feel permanent.

'Is this the hope I was waiting for?'

----

Maid walked ahead of him.

Down the inner corridor, past the last of the lined servants, turning at the carved doorframe that led to the guest wing — and the way she walked had changed slightly from the way she'd walked in the main corridor with the queen behind them.

There, she had been performing.

Here, she was just herself.

Nineteen and newly broken-through, the cultivation still cycling warm through her meridians in the specific, busy way of a base that had just crossed a threshold and was taking inventory of all the new rooms it had access to — and the warmth of it sat in her face, in the brightness of her eyes, in the small private smile that kept arriving and departing the corners of her mouth as she walked.

She was tall.

Not the queen's height — the giantess tribe proportions working differently at nineteen than at the queen's age, the lineage present but not yet fully committed to its expression — five foot ten, perhaps five-eleven, the legs long and her stride carrying that particular length in the way that long-legged women move through corridors they know well.

She glanced back.

He was there.

Behind her, hands clasped, robe settling at each step, and she met his eyes for exactly as long as her composure allowed — which was approximately one second — and looked forward again, the smile doing the arriving-and-departing thing.

She glanced again.

He was still looking.

She faced forward.

Her ears were warm.

The bedroom door was at the end of the wing's short final hall — tall door, giantess-scaled, the wood carved with the tribe's specific lineage symbols at the frame — and she stopped at it, turned, pressed both hands together in the formal posture of a maid who has completed a guiding task.

"'—The guest bedroom, honored Immortal,'" she said. "'—If you require anything—'"

He opened the door.

Walked through it.

She stood in the hallway with her hands together and the sentence unfinished.

He looked back from inside.

"'—come in,'" he said.

She looked at the room past him.

Then at him.

The nineteen-year-old's specific arithmetic — the person who gave you the thing you've been working toward for a decade just told you to come into his bedroom and he is looking at you with an expression that has no ambiguity in it, and you are computing whether the world contains a polite way to decline.

She stepped inside.

He closed the door.

She turned to face him — and he was already there, two steps closer than the closed door should have allowed for, closer than she had registered, and his hand closed over her crotch through the fabric without introduction or interval.

Not soft.

His fingers gripped the whole region — the full, fabric-covered, specific junction of her thighs — closed around it with the deliberate tightness of someone taking something, and through the thin fabric of her uniform trousers the pubic hair caught in the grip and pulled, the pressure so specific and sudden and total that her body's entire system of protest fired simultaneously.

She screamed.

"'—AAAHN~!!!—'"

Her hands went down — both of them, trying to pry his grip apart, fingers at his wrist — and his free hand found her breast, the right one, the specific dense warmth of giantess tribe proportions in the palm, and he kneaded it in the same motion, squeezing in the same rhythm his fingers applied below.

"'—Stop — please — that hurts — please—'"

He pulled her in by the crotch-grip.

Her body came forward — all of it, because his grip had the entirety of her lower center and she had no option but to follow — and her face was suddenly close to his, and she had exactly enough time to read that something was about to happen before it happened.

He kissed her.

Full, present, his mouth closing over hers with the specific, unhurried certainty of someone who had decided to do this and was doing it.

Her eyes went wide over the kiss.

Both of them — the specific, enormous, what-is-this quality of wide eyes during a first kiss that arrived without warning from a Nascent Soul cultivator who had her pubic hair in one hand and her breast in the other.

Tears.

Not crying-tears — the specific reflex tears of shock, of an overwhelmed system leaking through its available exits, running from the outer corners of her wide eyes down toward her temples while he held her there.

He separated.

Leaned back just enough to look at her face.

Her mouth was still slightly open.

"'—so,'" he said, reading the specific trembling-lipped, bright-eyed, wide quality of the face in front of him with the same expression he wore when reading the system window. "'—a virgin.'"

"'—Please—'" Her voice had gone small, the specific register of a voice that has been startled out of its normal operating size. "'—please I don't — it hurts — please let go—'"

He laughed.

Short, warm, genuine.

And pulled her in tighter — one arm wrapping around her back, the crotch-grip becoming a hip-grip, the full length of her against him — and she was tall enough that the height differential was minimal, her head almost level with his, and her hands were still at his wrist going nowhere.

Then he threw her.

Not violently — not the throw of anger — but the specific, directed, two-handed throw of someone who had decided where something was going and had committed to the delivery, and she left the ground briefly and hit the bed, the soft-solid impact of a giantess-proportioned body landing on the mattress with the weight that physique carried.

The bed took it.

She bounced once.