The Chrysanthemum Suite was a cage of perfumed air and silent despair. Chu Ling sat on the edge of a divan carved from a single block of soothing Heart-Soothing Jade, its innate energy doing nothing to calm the tempest within her. The opulence was a mockery. Spirit stones embedded in the walls glowed with a soft luminescence, highlighting tapestries that depicted grand phoenixes and coiling dragons—symbols of power and freedom that now felt like taunts. She was a jewel, yes, but one locked in a vault, awaiting the appraisal of a collector who saw her not for her beauty, but for her utility.
The memory of the Ancestor's gaze, those ancient, pitiless green stars in a boy's face, was seared into her soul. It had been a look of assessment, of valuation, utterly devoid of humanity. He had not seen Chu Ling, the talented disciple, the beloved successor of Grand Elder Yu Ming. He had seen a set of qualities: Innate Yin Spirit Veins, High Womb Value, Connection to the Protagonist. She was a resource to be acquired.
The door to the suite opened without a sound. Not a guard, but a severe-looking woman in the robes of a Lu Clan senior stewardess entered. Her hair was pulled into a tight, silver-streaked bun, and her eyes held the cold efficiency of a master artisan about to prepare a precious material.
"The audience is assembled," the woman stated, her voice devoid of inflection. "The Ancestor awaits his tribute. You will come."
Chu Ling's defiance, the last ember of her old life, flickered. "I will not. You can tell your monstrous Ancestor that I would rather—"
The stewardess moved faster than sight. There was no flash of qi, no violent motion. Simply a precise tap of two fingers on a specific point between Chu Ling's shoulder blades. A wave of paralyzing cold flooded her meridians, not freezing her, but seizing control. Her body rose to its feet of its own accord, her limbs moving with a stiff, puppet-like grace. She could see, hear, and feel, but her will was no longer her own. The technique was the 'Hundred Puppet Strings Art', a domineering method used by the Lu Clan to control unruly prisoners and slaves. Terror, pure and absolute, eclipsed her anger. She was a spectator in her own body.
She was led not to the main hall, but to a vast, open-air ceremonial platform at the rear of the citadel, the 'Plateau of Declarations'. It was a place where the Lu Clan traditionally announced wars, executed traitors, and formalized the absorption of vassal sects. Today, it would serve a new, more intimate purpose.
The scene stole what little breath she had left. The plateau was arrayed with hundreds of figures, a meticulously organized tableau of power. On the right, in strict military rows, stood the elite Blackscale Guards of the Lu Clan, their obsidian armor drinking the light, faces hidden behind featureless helms. Their silent, collective aura was a palpable weight, a wall of disciplined menace.
On the left, a stark contrast, was a disorganized, terrified cluster of individuals in the blue and white robes of the Profound Yin Sect. They were the sect's leadership: Elders, core disciples, and stewards, forced to attend. Their faces were pale, their eyes downcast or wide with fear. Among them, her master, Grand Elder Yu Ming, looked decades older, his face a mask of shame and powerlessness. They were not just witnesses; they were props in the Ancestor's theater of domination, their humiliation a key ingredient in the ceremony.
At the center of the platform, upon a dais of black diamond, sat the Ancestor. He was lounging on a simple throne of woven shadow and solidified moonlight, his boyish form looking incongruous yet radiating an authority that dwarfed the physical space he occupied. He was idly sipping from a cup of steaming jade tea, looking utterly bored, as if awaiting a mildly interesting performance.
The stewardess guided Chu Ling's paralyzed form to the base of the dais and released the technique with another subtle touch. Control flooded back into her limbs, leaving her trembling on her knees, gasping for air before the seated figure.
The Ancestor's glowing green eyes slid down to her. "You have been brought here to formalize your new station," he began, his voice calm, conversational, yet carrying to every corner of the plateau without effort. "The previous owner of this body would have simply thrown you in a dungeon or made you a bedwarmer for his witless descendants. I have a… grander vision for my possessions."
He set his cup down on a pocket of solidified air. "You will swear an oath. You will renounce your past. You will pledge yourself, body, soul, and destiny, to me. Not as a wife—that honor is reserved for the first and most blessed. For you, there is a more… foundational role. You will be my personal maid. Your hands will serve my tea. Your ears will hear my commands. And your womb… your womb will bear the fruits of my lineage when I deem it ready."
A collective, horrified gasp went up from the Profound Yin Sect contingent. For their brightest star, their Grand Elder's successor, to be reduced to a maid was an insult so profound it was cultural annihilation. Chu Ling felt the heat of shame burn her cheeks. This was worse than death.
"I will never," she whispered, her voice cracking with a mixture of fear and fury.
The Ancestor giggled. "Your spirit pleases me. It will make the breaking more satisfying." He didn't move, but the pressure in the air changed. It focused on her alone, the immense spiritual weight of a Soul Transformation expert. It was not a blow, but an immense, inexorable force pressing down on her soul, demanding obeisance.
"Kneel," his voice commanded, not loud, but absolute.
Her body, betraying her will, shuddered. Her back bent. Her knees, as if pressed by a mountain, buckled, driving her into a kneeling position on the cold stone.
"Now," his voice came again, a whisper that was a thunderclap in her mind. "Prostrate. Show your new master the depth of your submission. Acknowledge the new truth of your existence."
Tears of sheer humiliation streamed down her face, tracing paths through the dust of the platform. She fought it with every fiber of her being, every memory of Ye Fan's smile, every lesson from her master, every dream of her own future. But it was like a sparrow fighting a hurricane. The pressure was divine, absolute. A sob wrenched from her throat as her forehead touched the cold, unyielding stone of the dais. The posture of total surrender. The complete kowtow.
A beat of silence hung over the plateau, broken only by her ragged weeping.
"Well done," the Ancestor said, his tone one of mild approval, as if training a stubborn pet. "The form is accepted. But words and postures are fleeting. Property requires a permanent mark."
He rose from his throne. In his hand, materialized from swirling shadows, appeared two objects. One was a stylus, its tip glowing with a molten, divine gold light. The other was a needle, thin and cruel, shimmering with liquid silver.
"The world shall know whom you belong to," he announced, his voice now ringing with ceremonial gravity. "And you shall feel the reminder with every movement."
He gestured. Two stewardesses, their faces impassive, moved forward. With practiced, unemotional efficiency, they loosened the ties of her robe and pulled it down to her waist, baring her back to the assembled crowd and the sky. The cool air on her skin was a violation. Whimpers escaped her lips as she clenched her eyes shut, trying to retreat into the darkness of her own mind.
The Ancestor approached. He first touched the golden stylus to the space between her shoulder blades.
"This mark is for the world," he intoned. The tip touched her skin. There was no pain. Instead, there was a sensation of profound, searing finality, as if a cosmic law were being inscribed directly onto her existence. He moved the stylus with an artist's precision. When he lifted it, a single, complex character glowed upon her flawless jade skin before cooling into a permanent, gleaming golden tattoo: 有主 (Yǒu Zhǔ) - Owned.
The character was not merely written; it was infused with his will and the System's power. It was a brand of possession that sank into her very soul, a declaration that would be visible to any cultivator with spiritual sense. She was now marked goods.
He then circled her. The humiliation intensified as she felt his gaze, and the gaze of hundreds, upon her exposed back and the curve of her hips. He paused behind her.
"And this mark," he whispered, his voice for her alone now, though the act was utterly public, "is a more private reminder. For you, and for me."
The silver needle descended. This sensation was different—a sharp, intimate sting, followed by a deep, spreading warmth that felt shockingly, shamefully pleasurable amidst the terror. It was the System's energy, ensuring the brand was not just a scar but a permanent, functional part of her, designed to stimulate certain energies within her. With swift, sure motions, he etched two smaller characters onto the crest of her right buttock, a place that would press against her garments with every step, a secret known to all who saw her disrobed. The characters shimmered with liquid silver light before settling: 陆天 (Lù Tiān) - Lu Tian.
The process was complete. The gold brand on her back proclaimed her status to the world. The silver brand on her buttock declared her owner's name in a place of intimate possession.
The Ancestor stepped back, admiring his work as a sculptor would admire a finished statue. The stewardesses pulled her robe back up, covering the golden brand but leaving the feeling of the silver one a fresh, tingling secret against the fabric.
"Rise, my maid," the Ancestor commanded, the pressure lifting.
Chu Ling pushed herself up, her movements robotic, her eyes vacant. The fire in them had been extinguished, replaced by a dull, horrifying acceptance. The ceremony was over. She had been broken, branded, and remade. The talented disciple Chu Ling was dead. Only the maid remained.
The Ancestor turned to address the silent, horrified audience, his gaze sweeping over his own stoic guards and the shattered members of the Profound Yin Sect.
"Let this be a lesson in the new order," his voice rang out, devoid of malice, filled only with absolute certainty. "What I desire, I take. What I take, I mark. What I mark, is mine for eternity. Your sect, your talents, your very bodies, are now assets of the Lu Clan. Serve well, and you may be blessed to contribute to the dynasty I will build. Oppose me…" He let the sentence hang in the air, more terrifying than any explicit threat.
He then looked down at Chu Ling, who stood with her head bowed, the golden character on her back seeming to glow with its own light.
"Your first duty begins. Attend me."
With a final, chilling giggle that echoed across the plateau, the Eternal Goblin Ancestor turned and walked back into the depths of his citadel, his newest possession, beautifully broken and permanently branded, following numbly in his wake. The first seed of conflict with Ye Fan had been planted not in challenge, but in absolute, humiliating conquest.