CHAPTER 42: CHAPTER 42 - TEA CEREMONY

Next day arrived,

The pleasure palace’s ambient glow dimmed as I withdrew from both women—pulling my mouth and my throbbing cock from Mei Ling, and my eyes from Lin Yue, who was more like a spectator all night.

Mei Ling collapsed back onto the silk sheets, her tits heaving, marked with teeth marks, bruises, and dried cum, her face flushed and glistening with a mix of tears and arousal.

Lin Yue rolled to her side, her bronze skin glowing with sweat—just watching us made her sweat. That alone tells the intensity I went on Mei Ling, green eyes still sharp despite the haze of lust, as she seemed to have the most insane control even after watching the rough fuck I gave Mei Ling all night long.

Never once did I see Lin Yue masturbating, just watching as if she was trying to learn what positions excite me most—a true wife for you.

But now it was time to visit the tea ceremony.

After an hour of recovery—given my seed, due to inheritance, being more vitalizing than depleting—Mei Ling was once again as good as fresh without exhaustion, and I was already burning with vitality as the system poured into me all night while I poured my cum inside Mei—mutual help.

We all arrived outside the venue.

The Jade Pavilion was exactly what you’d expect from a sect that valued appearances: elegant architecture perched on an artificial lake, connected by bridges that probably cost more spirit stones than most kingdoms saw in a decade.

Inside, low tables arranged in careful hierarchy hosted about thirty disciples, their seating positions telling a story of rank, favor, and influence that would make a court genealogist weep with joy.

"Quite the turnout," Lin Yue murmured beside me, her archer’s eyes already cataloging exits and potential threats. She’d chosen simple brown robes that did nothing to hide her warrior’s build.

Mei Ling stayed close to my other side, her servant’s instincts making her nearly invisible despite her Core Formation aura.

The pencil skirt and modest top she’d selected struck the perfect balance between respectability and subtle allure—exactly what I’d expect from someone who’d spent fifteen years navigating palace politics.

"Remember," I said quietly as we approached the designated guest area, "we’re reformed, grateful, and completely harmless. Let them underestimate us."

The seating arrangement was a masterclass in calculated insult.

Our table sat at the pavilion’s edge, separated from the main gathering by a decorative screen that might as well have been a prison wall. Close enough to observe, far enough to remind us of our place.

Zhang Mei held court at the central table, her silver-trimmed robes catching the morning light as she gestured with practiced elegance.

The disciples around her laughed at precisely the right moments, their attention focused with the intensity of courtiers seeking favor.

But it was the other tables that told the real story.

Jian Wei sat with his usual crew of sycophants, their hostile glances making no pretense of subtlety. One of them—a thin-faced disciple with nervous hands—kept fidgeting with a small vial partially concealed in his sleeve.

"Well, well," came a nasal voice from behind us. "Look what the morning mist dragged in."

I turned to find a portly disciple with the soft features of someone who’d never faced real hardship. His robes marked him as outer sect, but the expensive jade accessories suggested family money or political connections.

"I am Zhou Fatty," he announced with pompous gravity, as if the name should mean something. "Senior Outer Disciple of the Administrative Division. I’ve heard... interesting... stories about your group."

"Have you now?" I replied mildly, accepting a cup of tea from a serving disciple. The liquid was fragrant, high-quality, but I made no move to drink yet. "I hope they were entertaining."

Zhou Fatty’s laugh was like oil on water—slick and somehow unclean. "Oh, very entertaining. A dead emperor risen from his tomb, claiming miraculous transformations. Traveling with a servant girl and a... what was it... ah yes, a ’reformed bandit.’ The stories just write themselves, don’t they?"

More disciples had begun to gather, drawn by the promise of entertainment at the foreigners’ expense.

I recognized the dynamic immediately—court politics in miniature, where destroying someone’s reputation was both sport and survival.

"Dead emperors are so last dynasty," came another voice, sharp and feminine. A young woman with elaborate hair ornaments stepped forward, her robes marking her as inner sect despite her apparent youth. "Though I suppose resurrection is fashionable among the desperate these days."

"Inner Disciple Zhao Ling," Zhou Fatty supplied helpfully, "specializes in... historical research. Particularly regarding fallen dynasties and their pretenders."

Zhao Ling’s smile was winter-cold. "Indeed. We’ve seen so many ’lost heirs’ and ’rightful rulers’ over the years. They all have such similar stories—mysterious powers, loyal companions, tragic falls from grace. It’s almost like they’re reading from the same script."

The gathering crowd chuckled appreciatively. This was clearly a practiced routine, the verbal equivalent of circling wolves testing for weakness.

I sipped my tea thoughtfully, letting the silence stretch just long enough to suggest discomfort without appearing weak. The liquid was excellent—subtle flavors layered with genuine spiritual energy that would enhance cultivation if consumed regularly.

"You know," I said finally, voice carrying just enough to reach the entire gathering, "you’re absolutely right. The stories are remarkably similar." I set down my cup with deliberate care. "Take yours, for instance, Inner Disciple Zhao. Ambitious young cultivator from a merchant family, uses daddy’s money to buy her way into the sect, specializes in ’research’ because actual combat would chip her manicure. It’s such a common tale."

The temperature in the pavilion seemed to drop several degrees. Zhao Ling’s face went rigid, her carefully applied cosmetics unable to hide the flush of anger creeping up her neck.

"How dare you—"

"Oh, was I wrong?" I interrupted with mock concern. "My apologies. Perhaps you earned your position through merit alone. Though I notice your cultivation seems rather... limited... for someone of your supposed talents."

It was a calculated insult, questioning both her integrity and her abilities in front of her peers. In sect society, reputation was everything, and I’d just challenged hers directly.

Zhou Fatty stepped forward, puffing up like an offended toad. "You forget yourself, ’Emperor.’ You’re a guest here, dependent on the sect’s charity. Perhaps you should show more gratitude and less arrogance."

"Gratitude?" I smiled, the expression cold enough to freeze fire. "Oh, I’m enormously grateful. Where else could I find such a perfect example of everything wrong with modern cultivation society? Young ’disciples’ more concerned with politics than progress, hiding behind titles they haven’t earned while sneering at their betters."

The crowd stirred, anger rippling through the gathering like disturbed water. Several hands moved toward weapons, though none quite dared to draw steel in the pavilion’s sacred space.

That’s when Zhang Mei finally intervened.

"Now, now," she said, her voice carrying effortlessly across the pavilion as she rose from her central table. "Surely we can be more welcoming to our honored guests." Her smile was perfectly calibrated—warm enough to appear genuine, cool enough to maintain authority. "Elder Feng specifically requested that they be treated with courtesy."

The mention of Feng’s name had immediate effect.