"The tribute."
The voice was low and heavy like grinding stones, and the two words seemed to make the very air in the Cold Hearth Hall grow colder. The sound vibrated through the unforgiving wood of the chair, up Yang Kai's spine, a dull, resonant hum that joined the chorus of pain his new body was constantly screaming at him. He flinched, a nervous tic he couldn't control.
His gaze, which had been lost in the dust motes dancing in a muted sunbeam from Lumina, slowly lifted to the imposing silhouette at the head of the long, dark, and heavily scarred wooden table. Patriarch Yang Kun, a cold fragment of memory supplied. Peak of the Third Stage, Stellar Reforging Realm.
The Third Stage, a faded memory from his childhood lessons supplied, the first true realm of power where a cultivator could affect the world beyond their own skin. The words were a distant echo, but the pressure the man radiated was an undeniable, physical weight in the air that made the very act of breathing feel like a conscious effort.
"The Feng Clan and the Tie Clan have paid theirs," the Patriarch continued, his voice flat, emotionless. "The Governor awaits our answer. What is it to be?"
"Answer?" a rough voice barked from beside him. Yang Zhan. His new father. Mid Stage 3. A warrior with the thick, calloused hands of a man who was more comfortable with a blade than a ledger. "Disgrace?" His laugh was a harsh, bitter bark.
"This is beyond disgrace, brother! Our ancestor, the Sun-Forged Blade, was carving out this province when the Tie family was still hammering horseshoes and the Feng were trading squirrel pelts! We gave them their lands! And now…" He slammed his fist on the table, the sound a dull crack of aged wood. "We are expected to grovel before them? To beg for a loan from blacksmiths so we can pay our tribute? I would rather die fighting."
So, we were strong once, Yang Kai thought. He risked a glance down the length of the table, his eyes, the eyes of a pervert and a terrified observer, doing their work.
His gaze swept past the Grand Elder, a man who looked like a desiccated husk, his eyes closed as if the conversation were beneath him. Early Stage 3. The power felt thin, like dry paper. The old man opened his cloudy eyes, and a dry, rasping sound filled the silence.
"The sun has set, Second Master," the Grand Elder rasped, his voice thin as parchment. "It does not matter how loudly you curse the darkness. The night has already come for this house." He then closed his eyes again, as if the effort had exhausted him.
Yang Kai's eyes then fell upon his Third Aunt, Madam Xue, seated beside her own fuming husband, Yang Lei, both Early Stage 3. She was a silent statue of pale lavender silk, her grey eyes fixed on nothing. Her beauty was a cold, sorrowful thing — a sacred winter flower that had bloomed in shadow.
Her long, porcelain-pale face was framed by raven-black hair threaded with a single streak of silver near her left temple, braided loosely and adorned with delicate silver hairpins that chimed softly when she moved. Her high cheekbones and fine nose gave her an elegant, noble silhouette, while her lips, unpainted and naturally mauve, looked too soft for the silence she carried.
The silk of her high-collared robe, layered in shades of lavender and frost, could not hide the grace of her form — tall and slender, yet unmistakably feminine. Her medium bust, perfectly rounded, shifted subtly with her breath beneath the inner silks. Her waist was trim from decades of disciplined posture, and her backside, sculpted and tight, moved with restrained elegance. The hem of her robe brushed the floor like mist, yet when she walked, the soft press of fabric over the swells of her rear betrayed a hidden sensuality. Her fingers were long and still, tipped with clear gloss, folded quietly in her lap like closed petals. She wore no garish jewelry, only a thin silver bangle etched with phoenixes lost in snow.
Then, his gaze shifted to the woman seated directly beside him. His mother.
Madam Liu, Early Stage 3. The Fire Orchid in Silk.
Her proximity was a wave of heat — rich with the scent of spiced plum, warm amber, and the wild sharpness of dragon pepper oil from her cultivation baths. She was a vision of brazen, breathtaking sensuality. Her heart-shaped face bore high cheekbones and a strong, sculpted jaw, with amber eyes that slanted like a fox spirit's — narrow, shadowed, and smoldering. A small mole beneath her left eye gave her already provocative beauty a wicked, irresistible allure.
Her burnished chestnut hair fell in tousled waves around her shoulders, only half-tied with deep crimson silk. Long gold-threaded earrings dangled from her ears, each shaped like blooming fire orchids. Her lips, painted in dark plum gloss, were full and luscious, parted in perpetual, feline boredom.
She wore a layered robe of deep red and coal black, tailored tight against her generous form. The outer robe strained against her magnificent bust — heavy, high, and shamelessly displayed through a parted inner wrap. Her nipples, if he dared look closely, pressed faintly against the thin inner silk, hardened by the chill of the hall.
Her waist was a narrow span wrapped tightly in an embroidered black sash, cinched just below the ribs to exaggerate the dramatic swell of her hips. The slit of her outer robe revealed the beginnings of flawless, golden-toned thighs, while her ass — round, proud, and unashamed — was outlined perfectly with each shift she made in her chair. Bangles of flame-carved jade glinted around her wrists, and a phoenix hairpin shaped like a rising flame adorned her untamed mane.
Even sitting still, she moved like fire lapping at silk. She crossed one leg over the other, the robe parting subtly, just enough to tease the eye. Every inch of her declared war on subtlety.
Finally, his gaze settled across the table, upon the woman seated beside the Patriarch.
Madam Lan, Early Stage 3. The Alchemist of Still Waters.
She was draped in serene jade-green silk, her robes layered in shades of pale mint and moon-white. The embroidery on her outer robe glinted faintly — interwoven lotus blossoms and alchemical sigils that marked her as a master of refined brews and spiritual purity.
Her oval face carried soft cheekbones and a graceful, aristocratic nose. Her full lips were the color of dried rose petals, and her jade-green eyes — framed by long lashes and slightly heavy lids — had a placid, waiting intelligence. She rarely blinked, her gaze weighed every man in the room and found them lacking.
Her inky-black hair, perfumed with a subtle herbal mist, was tied in a healer's knot with a white orchid pin — a symbol of her alchemical origin. A silver chain circled her brow, inset with a single jade stone, accentuating the scholarly grace of her countenance.
Her body was a perfect sculpture of balance and maturity. Her bust was full and high — not the excessive swell of youth, but the perfected curve of a woman who had tempered her form with spiritual refinement. Her waist was slim and tight, leading into wide, flowing hips that granted her an unmistakable hourglass shape beneath her robes. Her rear, plush and firm from years of perfect posture and cross-legged meditation, shifted subtly beneath the silks like a polished river stone beneath water.
She wore soft pearl rings on her fingers, her nails shaped neatly and polished with translucent pink gloss. Her movement was always unhurried — every gesture was calculated, precise, and strangely magnetic. She walked like water flowing around obstacles, her steps curved and silent.
Compared to Madam Liu's flame and Madam Xue's frost, Madam Lan was the calm poison: slow to act, but fatal in large enough measure.
And Yang Kai, sitting among them — broken, trembling, and ghostlike — could only think: this clan is filled with monsters in silk.
Before the Patriarch could respond to Yang Zhan's outburst, the Third Master, Yang Lei, slammed his hand on the table. "My brother is right! The Governor insults us because he sees weakness!"
He stood up, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. "I say we answer him not with tribute, but with steel! Let me take a hundred of our best men and remind his city guards what a Yang Clan blade feels like!"
His father let out a weary sigh. "With what hundred men, third brother? And with what steel? Sit down. You are making a fool of yourself."
As Yang Lei sat down, his face flushed with angry humiliation, a soft, cool voice, as quiet as falling snow, filled the hall. It was Madam Xue. She had not moved, her grey eyes still fixed on a point beyond the wall.
"The problem is not that our swords are rusted, husband," she said, her words directed at her own fuming husband but meant for the entire room. "It is that the hands that hold them are afraid to be stained with the ink of a contract."
A stunned silence fell over the room. She had just, in a single, quiet sentence, perfectly diagnosed their failure: they were warriors trying and failing to play a merchant's game.
She set her teacup down on its saucer with a soft, deliberate click that seemed to cut through the stunned silence. The sound was quiet, but it drew every eye in the room. Madam Lan looked at the men, at their flushed faces and their foolish, martial pride.
An emotional outburst, she thought, is always unproductive. Her brother-in-law, Yang Zhan, spoke of ancestors. Her other brother-in-law, Yang Lei, spoke of fighting. They were children, playing with broken toys in a burning house.
Her mind was not on the tribute. It was on a more pressing, more important matter. Her son. Yang Wei. His breakthrough to the Third Stage was imminent, a critical moment that would determine the future of the First House. His foundation was stable, but the final forging of his meridians required a catalyst of immense purity. The last of the clan's Spirit-Calming Draughts.
The past was a weight. The future was a hope. And hope required resources. To her analytical mind, the choice was simple. Securing the rise of the next generation's strongest talent was a far more sound investment than placating a greedy governor with resources they did not have.
"Your pride will not fill our granary, Second Brother," she said, her voice cool and smooth, a quiet, dismissive slap to Yang Zhan. "Nor will it pay the Governor. This emotional outburst is unproductive." She turned her serene gaze to the Patriarch.
"My son's breakthrough, however, is a tangible investment in this clan's future. He requires the last of the Spirit-Calming Draughts. We cannot sacrifice a real future for a pride that is already dead."
The words were a statement of fact, but the soft click of the porcelain was a declaration of power.
The sheer, unmitigated gall of the woman. Madam Liu almost laughed. She watched her sister-in-law, the placid crane, calmly dismiss the clan's impending doom in favor of her own precious son. It was so typical. So... First House.
Her gaze fell upon her son. The breathing corpse. He sat hunched in his chair, a pathetic, trembling thing. For eleven years he had slept, a constant, living monument to her shame. And now he had woken up, just in time to witness their final collapse.
Her husband looked at her, his eyes pleading for her support. "Liu'er, you agree, don't you? This is an insult to our ancestors."
She let out a sharp, mirthless laugh. "Our ancestors are dust, husband. And soon, so are we." She leaned forward, feeling the satisfying pull of silk across her full bust. She knew they were looking. Let them look. "Risk his foundation?" she purred, her voice a silken mockery aimed directly at Madam Lan. "Sister-in-law, the clan's foundation is already sand. The Governor is simply the tide."
Her gaze swept the room and landed on Yang Kai. She saw the flicker of terror in his eyes as her gaze met his. Good. Let him feel something. Let him understand the gravity of the ruin he had awoken to. She held his gaze, a predator pinning a frightened mouse, and let the silence stretch.
His mother's gaze was a physical weight. The meeting dissolved in a cloud of impotent anger. The Patriarch slammed his hand on the table. "Enough. We will find a way. Dismissed."
The scraping of chairs was the sound of retreat. Relief, potent and immediate, flooded him.
He pushed himself to his feet, his limbs clumsy, uncoordinated. He stumbled, lurching forward, his arms pinwheeling. He bumped into a wall of impossible softness and warmth.
It was his mother.
His flailing hand brushed against the small of her back. His fingers registered a shocking series of sensations: the coarse silk of her outer robe, the gossamer-thin softness of an inner garment, and beneath it all, the living, breathing heat of her skin. Her scent, a heady mix of spiced plum and warm amber, filled his nostrils.
She froze. Slowly, she turned. Her expression was not anger. It was a strange, searching look of disgusted surprise. As if a piece of furniture had just moved on its own. Her eyes raked over him. He saw her mind working, reassessing him. He had ceased to be a piece of broken furniture. He was now an unpredictable, moving piece on the board. The thought was more terrifying than any shout.
She looked down at him, her expression shifting to a slow, chilling smile. She reached out and gently brushed a speck of dust from the shoulder of his robe, her touch shockingly light.
"Oh, careful now, little Kai," she purred, her voice a silken caress, yet her amber eyes were as cold and hard as glass. "You must watch your step on these old stones. A boy in your… fragile… condition could so easily take a tumble."
Her hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment too long, her thumb pressing down with a subtle, dismissive pressure.
"And we wouldn't want you to break anything… important… would we?" Her gaze flickered meaningfully down his body before meeting his eyes again, her smile widening into a look of pure mockery.
She turned without another word.
The crimson silk of her robe shimmered like flowing blood as it caught the light, every sway of her hips a carefully measured insult—a predator's tail swishing after the kill.
He stood rooted to the spot, his heart pounding a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs. The fear was a physical thing. He was weak. He was worthless.
But underneath the terror, buried deep, a single, insistent thought sparked to life, a ghost of the man he used to be. A perverse, damning, and utterly exhilarating thought.
So soft.
Note:
Early Cultivation Stages:
Stage 1: Stellar Awakening Realm
Stage 2: Stellar Foundation Realm
Stage 3: Stellar Reforging Realm