The Martial God who started at Mantuo Manor

Page 40

A deep-seated, soul-deep fear, like a flood bursting its banks, instantly overwhelmed all her reason and dignity!

Her body trembled violently uncontrollably, and an indescribable heat surged from deep within her lower abdomen, instantly spreading throughout her limbs and bones.

Her legs went weak, and a warm, moist current uncontrollably surged from between her legs, soaking her inner clothes.

Do not!

We can't let him leave!

This thought overwhelmed everything!

It crushed her pride as the owner of Mantuo Manor and humiliated her in front of everyone!

"No...fierce official!"

She let out a broken sob, and almost scrambled forward a few steps, spreading her arms wide to block Wang Meng's path.

She dared not look up into Wang Meng's cold eyes, keeping her head tightly bowed. Her once stunningly beautiful face was now drained of color, her lips trembling uncontrollably. In a voice trembling with sobs and uttered with utter humility, she struggled to utter a few words: "Meng Guan... this servant... this servant was wrong..."

Wang Meng stopped and looked down at her, his face expressionless. He simply asked, "What did you do wrong?"

Those three simple words carried more weight than any harsh interrogation. Like an invisible mountain, they crashed down on Li Qingluo, shattering her already fragile nerves.

She could no longer hold on, her knees buckled, and with a "thud," she knelt straight down on the cold bluestone slab.

Her forehead was pressed against the ground, her dark hair cascading down, obscuring her tear-streaked face. She was kneeling right in front of Wang Meng.

Her gaze passed through his disheveled hair and landed precisely on the bed sheet that was only wrapped around his waist.

The bed sheet had become somewhat loose from the movement, barely concealing Wang Meng's imposing figure. But even through the thin fabric, the heavy, lurking, terrifying outline was still clearly visible, rising and falling slightly with Wang Meng's breath. Li Qingluo's body trembled uncontrollably.

She knew, of course, what a shocking scene lay beneath those sheets.

She could almost feel the aggressive heat emanating from it, burning her cheeks through the fabric. A more intense wetness surged from between her legs, making her feel as if she were sitting in a warm spring.

Shame, fear, and a morbid longing wove together into an impenetrable net within her. She choked back sobs, her voice barely audible, yet echoing with unparalleled clarity in the deathly silent courtyard: "This servant…this servant shouldn't…shouldn't have…disobeyed my master's wishes in front of others…This servant…it was this servant who…forgot her place…"

With each word she spoke, she moved forward a little, until her lips, through the thin sheet, almost touched the sleeping yet destructive outline of him.

This scene stunned everyone present. After a brief silence, some suppressed, amused, and ambiguous chuckles rose from the crowd.

They looked at Li Qingluo, who had been so dignified just moments before, but now stood in front of the man like a kitten that had made a mistake, and their eyes became meaningful.

But some people—Huang Rong, the Taoist nun, and Ning Zhongze, who remained silent—had no smiles on their faces.

Ning Zhongze's face was flushed, and her breathing was rapid, as if she had just gone through a fierce battle.

Her hand, calloused from years of wielding a sword, was now gripping the hilt of her sword tightly, her knuckles white from the force.

The cold touch of the sword hilt was the only thing she could grasp at that moment, to fight against the unfamiliar, surging heat inside her body.

This primitive, barbaric scene, filled with the sense of absolute dominance and conquest, was far too impactful for a Huashan Sect heroine who was deeply influenced by etiquette and whose life was guided by the principles of "propriety" and "virtue"!

A tingling, numbing electric current, making her legs weak, shot from her tailbone straight to the top of her head.

Deep within her abdomen, that core area that had rarely been truly touched as a woman and as a wife, now twitched and spasmed uncontrollably, like parched land yearning for a belated downpour.

A strange, damp heat seeped out, making her body stiffen.

She never imagined that she would have such a strong, almost instinctive, physical reaction to a man she had never met.

The Daoist nun Yanqing's reaction was a hundred times more intense than Ning Zhongze's.

Her wide Taoist robe was the best disguise, covering her chest, which was already heaving uncontrollably, and also her jade hand, which was clenched tightly, with nails digging deep into her palm without her realizing it.

The thought of "my senior brother being reincarnated" in my heart has become more than just real; it has almost become a brand!

A surging tide of jealousy, worship, and madness turned her once aloof doorway into a muddy mess, its flow unstoppable.

Huang Rong was different from the other two; her clever and lively eyes were now sparkling with an unusual brilliance.

She didn't struggle like Ning Zhongze, nor did she have the madness of a Taoist nun; she was simply...indulging in fantasy.

It was quite natural for him to replace Li Qingluo's face with his own.

Although Brother Jing is honest and kind, he is always a bit awkward when it comes to matters of the bedroom.

And he always put her first.

In an instant, the women, each with their own thoughts, had different ideas when they saw Li Qingluo stop Wang Meng. And a few of them, without prior agreement, felt a faint sense of crisis rising from the depths of their hearts!

Wang Meng stood there, motionless. His deep eyes held no warmth, only a chilling, scrutinizing gaze.

He looked down at Li Qingluo, who was kneeling on the ground and trembling, as if she were an insignificant object that could be discarded at any time.

This indifference was more destructive to Li Qingluo's will than any vicious curse.

A stronger surge of heat, mixed with fear and shame, exploded from deep within her lower abdomen.

It was a feeling of utter despair, of being completely ignored and about to be abandoned, that strangely made half of her bones feel weak.

She could clearly feel a thick, uncontrollable flow gushing out from her tightly closed vulva, completely soaking the lining of her expensive clothes. The wet, shameful sensation made her legs go weak, and she could barely stand.

Time seemed to stretch on endlessly at that moment. The varied gazes of the women around her felt like needles pricking her, but she couldn't care less.

Finally, just when Li Qingluo felt she was about to be driven mad by this silent torment, the unyielding icy expression on Wang Meng's face seemed to soften slightly.

He said nothing, only glancing at her one last time. His gaze was still indifferent, but it seemed to have lost some of the decisiveness he had shown just moments before.

Then, he turned around, dragging his injured leg, and instead of heading towards the servants' quarters, he limped slowly toward the two-story building.

He's still angry, but at least... he didn't leave.

Chapter Twenty-Five: My wife, I still want to drink the medicine you personally feed me!

The dungeon's stone door was thick and cold, isolating it from all sound and light from the outside world.

The air was thick with a nauseating stench: the dampness of the earth, the lingering mustiness, the metallic smell of rust, and the sweet, metallic scent of dried blood. All these smells mixed together, fermenting into the stench of despair.

Deep inside the dungeon, there were four figures hanging high above the ground.

Thick iron chains hung down from the slippery dome, their hooks gleaming menacingly dark.

That was no ordinary hook, but the "collarbone hook" that strikes fear into the hearts of martial arts practitioners.

Each iron hook cruelly pierced their collarbones from behind, completely sealing off their prized inner strength, rendering them unable to stand up even with extraordinary abilities, turning them into four pieces of flesh and blood at the mercy of others.

Right in the center is none other than the world-renowned "Southern Murong"—Murong Fu.

He used to be so full of vigor, with a handsome face and dressed in fine clothes, he was the center of attention wherever he went.

But now, his expensive long robe has been reduced to tattered strips, soaked in sweat, mud, and blood, its original color unrecognizable.

His handsome face was now bloodless, his lips were cracked, and his eyes were tightly closed.

Her carefully tied-up black hair was now disheveled, mixed with blood and cold sweat, and stuck to her cheeks in a sorry state.

From the point where his shoulder blade was pierced, the blood had stopped flowing, leaving only dark red scabs and outwardly rolled-up flesh.

His limbs hung limply, swaying slightly with the swaying of the chains, much like an animal hanging in a butcher shop.

Occasionally, he would let out a low groan from deep in his throat, a sound he couldn't suppress, a sound mixed with pain and resentment.

On either side of him, also suspended high, were his three loyal retainers.

Bao Butong, Feng Bo'e, and Gongye Qian, these men who were once heroes in the martial arts world, are now in no better shape than their young masters.

Bao Butong, who was always talkative, was now completely unconscious with blood foam at the corner of his mouth. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest proved that he was still alive.

The fierce and ruthless Feng Bo'e was now hanging his head, motionless, his fate unknown.

Only the oldest, Gongye Qian, remained somewhat lucid.

His refined face was now covered with wrinkles of pain, but he did not look at his own injuries. Instead, he stared intently at Murong Fu in the center with eyes full of despair and sorrow.

Seeing the young master, whom he had served since childhood and on whom he had placed all his hopes, end up in such a state, this heartache was far more tormenting than the excruciating pain of having his collarbone pierced.

"Son..."

He called out with difficulty in a weak, feeble voice.

However, the only answer he received was the sound of water droplets dripping from the cold, damp stone wall.

"Tick...tick..."

Just then, with a creak, the heavy stone door of the dungeon was slowly pushed open from the outside. A dim beam of light slanted into the darkness, and dust particles danced uneasily in the beam of light.

Aunt Wu appeared at the door.

She still had that strangely shaped, oar-like long knife at her waist, and her face wore the same unchanging, numb expression.

But today, she had something in her hand that Wang Meng was relatively familiar with—a long, shiny black whip with barbs at the end, coiled around her arm like a snake.

Closely following behind her were several solemn-looking maids.

Their movements were light and practiced, clearly indicating that they were already accustomed to the dungeon environment.

Two of the maids carefully carried trays. One tray held a porcelain bowl filled with dark brown medicinal wine and a small silver knife that gleamed coldly. The other tray held a copper brazier filled with glowing red charcoal that had not yet been lit.

They came to "treat" the wounds.

In this dark and damp dungeon, even the smallest wound is extremely prone to infection and suppuration, let alone a severe injury like being pierced through the collarbone by a "clavicle hook".

To prevent these four important "prisoners" from dying from festering wounds, daily cleaning was a necessary act of "mercy."

However, this process of "mercy" is more cruel than the punishments of hell.

Wu Ma waved her hand, and the maids immediately sprang into action. They placed the brazier in the center of the dungeon and lit the charcoal inside.

Soon, the eerie blue flames shot up with a "whoosh," turning the charcoal red-hot and crackling, raising the temperature in the entire dungeon.

A maid carrying a tray containing medicinal wine and a small knife approached Bao Butong.

Another maid took a pair of iron tongs and dipped the silver knife into the brazier until the blade was glowing red-hot before taking it out.

The scorching dagger, radiating a wave of heat, was handed to the maid who was responsible for cleaning the wound.

Even in his unconscious state, Bao Butong seemed to sense the dangerous heat and shifted his body uneasily.

The maidservant, expressionless, held the medicinal wine in one hand and the red-hot knife in the other, aiming precisely at the festering wound on Bao Butong's shoulder blade.

There, flesh and iron hooks were already stuck together, and the surrounding skin and flesh had turned an ominous bluish-black.

The cleanup has begun.

Without hesitation, the maid took the scalding hot knife and scraped it hard!