Chapter 184: Chapter 184 – Tianlong needs a hand

Yu Xiang remained seated on the cold stone floor, her back pressed against the ornate bedframe where Ying Jia—now radiating an aura of Peak Soul Formation—sat cross-legged, stabilizing her breakthrough.

The air in the chamber hung heavy with residual spiritual energy, thick and humid like the aftermath of a storm, carrying faint traces of jasmine incense and something more primal, more intimate.

Yu Xiang’s hands still tingled from where she’d channeled qi into the silver-haired woman’s meridians, helping guide the explosive surge of power that had elevated her from a mere Foundation Establishment cultivator to a force that now eclipsed Yu Xiang’s own Peak Core Formation by realms.

It was impossible. Utterly, maddeningly impossible. Yet here it was, undeniable, mocking her ambitions.

“Are you kidding me?” Yu Xiang murmured again, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with disbelief and a hint of bitter awe.

She slowly rose to her feet, her elegant purple robes whispering against the floor as she stood, brushing off invisible dust from her sleeves in a futile attempt to regain composure.

Her violet eyes flicked toward Ying Jia, who was still catching her breath, silver hair cascading like liquid moonlight over her shoulders, her divine form now glowing with an luminescence that made the room’s candlelight seem dim by comparison.

Yu Xiang’s mind raced—how? How had this woman, who moments ago had been entangled in the Emperor’s naked form, ascended so far, so fast? It had to be… him. That vulgar act. Sex cultivation? But this wasn’t cultivation; this was sorcery.

Ying Jia opened her silver eyes, meeting Yu Xiang’s gaze with a calm that bordered on otherworldly serenity.

The breakthrough had left her skin flushed, her full breasts rising and falling steadily beneath her rumpled red silk dress, the fabric clinging to sweat-dampened curves that hinted at the raw passion that had fueled her ascent.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Ying Jia said softly, her voice carrying a melodic resonance that hadn’t been there before, like distant chimes echoing in a sacred hall.

She shifted slightly, wincing as a subtle ache lingered in her core, a reminder of Tianlong’s rough claiming.

Yu Xiang forced a polite smile, though her lips twitched with barely concealed turmoil. “It was nothing. I’m glad I could help.”

She paused, curiosity overriding her caution—after all, this woman was now a key to understanding the Emperor’s impossible power.

“May I ask… how the emperor was able to—”

Her words were careful, probing, like a thief testing a lock.

Ying Jia’s expression remained neutral, but a flicker of something—wariness?—crossed her silver eyes. She adjusted her veil slightly, the gossamer red silk shifting over her perfect features.

“Before that, may I know who you are?” she inquired, her tone polite but edged with subtle caution, as if sizing up whether she should tell this woman or not.

After all, the emperor himself had left this woman to help her, and he had not seemed angry even when she saw them doing that.

It clearly showed his trust in her, but also a need to be cautious—to know how much he had said to this woman, Ying Jia needed to know her relation with him.

Yu Xiang straightened, composing herself with the grace of someone used to navigating treacherous social waters. “I’m Yu Xiang. A… friend of Zhao Chen.”

She said it casually, expecting perhaps recognition or warmth, given the familial ties. But the moment the name left her lips, the atmosphere in the room turned frigid, like winter frost creeping over glass.

Ying Jia’s silver eyes narrowed to slits, and a chill emanated from her form, making the air prickle against Yu Xiang’s skin.

The subtle glow around Ying Jia dimmed, replaced by an icy aura that spoke of deep-seated resentment.

Yu Xiang’s mouth twitched involuntarily, a subtle panic fluttering in her chest—had she miscalculated? The cold shift was palpable, like stepping into a blizzard, and she realized instantly: this woman, Zhao Chen’s own mother, harbored no affection for her son. The killing intent from earlier hadn’t been a fluke; it was rooted in something raw and unresolved.

“I… I mean no offense,” Yu Xiang added quickly, adapting with the fluidity of a river changing course. Her mind raced—pivot, redirect, turn this to advantage. “Actually, I’ve come to complain about him to the Emperor. He… he betrayed me.”

Ying Jia’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, surprise flashing like lightning across her ethereal features, before narrowing again into sharp, assessing slits. She leaned forward slightly, her full breasts shifting under the silk with the movement, the fabric whispering softly.

“So he betrayed you too, huh?” Her voice was low, laced with bitter confirmation, as if this revelation slotted perfectly into a puzzle she’d long been assembling. The words hung heavy, confirming Yu Xiang’s guess: the relationship between mother and son was fractured, poisoned by betrayal or abandonment.

Yu Xiang blinked, her mind racing. Too? That single word said more than an entire scroll of confessions. She didn’t know the details—nor did she need them. It was clear that Ying Jia carried old wounds, ones that bled into her every glance, her every breath.

But Yu Xiang was nothing if not adaptive. If Zhao Chen was a thorn in this woman’s heart, then aligning herself with that resentment might just save her.

“Yes,” Yu Xiang said quietly, tilting her chin down just enough to appear vulnerable, but not weak. “He used me. Lied to me. I only discovered his betrayal when it was too late. That’s why I came—to tell the Emperor the truth.”

The lie rolled off her tongue effortlessly, stitched together from fragments of truth and sharp instinct. She didn’t need to know the whole story; she only needed to fit the pieces together well enough to convince her audience.

Ying Jia’s cold aura lingered, but her eyes softened, just slightly, as though she’d glimpsed a fellow victim in Yu Xiang’s words. For a moment, silence reigned, thick with unspoken memories neither woman dared to voice.

Yu Xiang’s pulse slowed, steadied. She had shifted the tide.

Her gaze dropped briefly to Ying Jia’s lips, remembering how violently they had pressed against the Emperor’s earlier, raw and hungry. The thought made her throat tighten. Zhao Chen’s mother—behaving that way with Tianlong—it was confusing, almost incomprehensible. But if it meant Zhao Chen had lost his place, had been discarded, then perhaps the chaos held opportunity.

“Then I will take my leave,” Yu Xiang said finally, her tone smooth but laced with a faint weariness, as though the encounter had drained her more than she cared to admit. She turned gracefully, purple robes swaying, her movements deliberate.

“Oh… ok.” Ying Jia’s reply was soft, distracted, as if her mind was elsewhere.

The dismissal was polite but final, leaving Yu Xiang to turn toward the door, her steps measured, heart still thrumming with the adrenaline of the encounter.

But before she could reach the ornate handle, the door swung open on its own with a heavy creak.

Tianlong entered, fully clothed this time, his dark robes pristine as though the earlier debauchery had been nothing more than a passing breeze.

His presence filled the chamber instantly, sharp and commanding, though he intentionally let his body emit aphrodisiac energy, creating more heat within the room, as he observed his new harem-point-bearing machine about to leave.

“I seem to have interrupted a good conversation between you both… didn’t I?”

Both women froze.

Yu Xiang lowered her head in instinctive flashes of those memories, her heart pounding.

’N-no… s-stop…’

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