Shameless Immortal: Emperor of Ten Thousand Beauties

The woman who emerged fully into the moonlight was a vision of mature, ruinous opulence.

If the driver was a cold, forged blade, this woman was the velvet sheath, soft, expensive, and designed to swallow steel. She appeared to be in her early thirties, radiating the ripe, heavy allure of a peach at the very precipice of over-sweetness, soft to the eye, but threatening to burst at the slightest pressure.

Her skin was flawless porcelain, a luminous counterpoint to the driver’s sun-hardened bronze. However, a heavy, ruddy flush burned high on her cheekbones, and her hazel eyes held a glassy, unfocused haze. The sweet, cloying aroma of high-grade Spirit Wine clung to her breath, mixing intoxicatingly with her natural fragrance.

Her hair was a rare, arresting shade of deep emerald, pinned loosely with gold ornaments before cascading down her back like a waterfall of dark silk leaves.

But it was her figure that held the clearing hostage.

She was voluptuous in the most dangerous sense of the word, a woman built for the bedchamber, not the battlefield.

Her crimson robe was cinched unforgivingly tight at the waist with a gold sash, exaggerating the fertile flare of her hips and the heavy, proud swell of her bosom. Her chest rose and fell with a rhythm that was slightly too fast, too shallow, betraying an inner turmoil.

Shen Yu didn’t just see her. He inhaled her.

The Primordial Yin-Yang Scripture anchored in his soul didn’t just stir this time, it roared. The vibration rattled his very skull with a starving intensity.

It wasn’t just the surface scent of rare orchids and wine; it was the underlying reek of thick, potent, unrefined Yin Qi. But to his new, hunger-driven senses, there was a violent anomaly. Beneath the fragrance lay a chaotic, boiling heat, like a cauldron of supreme medicine that had been left on the fire far too long, bubbling dangerously close to spilling over.

’Yin Stagnation,’ Shen Yu realized, the diagnosis flowing instantly from the Scripture’s ancient instincts. ’She is drunk on Spirit Wine... trying to numb the ache of her empty meridians. She is suffering from a severe drought of Yang, and the alcohol is only loosening the seal on her desire.’

She wasn’t just restless; she was biologically starving and intoxicated enough to make a mistake.

She took a step toward him, the red dust settling around her expensive shoes.

"Young Master Tang?"

Her voice was sultry, like warm honey poured over gravel, but it was clipped with the imperious tone of a woman used to being obeyed without question. "It is rare to see the nephew of Hall Master Tang wandering the wilds alone. Does your Aunt not provide you with guards?"

Shen Yu’s mind raced behind his lowered eyelids. ’She knows Aunt Yilan.’

His Aunt, Mei Yilan, currently using the alias Tang Yilan to hide from the Liu Clan, was a Late-Stage Golden Core expert and the owner of the Jade Spring Herb Hall. Even in this city, she was a figure of immense status. As her "nephew," Shen Yu possessed a noble identity that offered protection even without personal strength.

Shen Yu straightened his spine. He didn’t cower like a peasant; he bowed with the practiced, fluid elegance of a noble junior.

"This Junior offers his greetings to the Senior," he said, his voice smooth, baritone, and respectful. "Please forgive my poor eyesight, but I do not recall having the honor of meeting you before. As for guards... I prefer the quiet."

"Hmph. Quiet is for the dead," she scoffed.

She stood with the perfect, unnatural stillness of a high-level cultivator, her spine a rod of steel. Even with the scent of high-grade Spirit Wine clinging to her breath, there was no slur in her words, no sway in her stance. A Golden Core master could incinerate the alcohol in their blood with a single thought; she was tipsy only because she chose to be, likely to numb the pain from yin stagnation.

And yet... as she finished speaking, she pressed a manicured hand to her chest. It wasn’t a stumble of intoxication, but a sudden, sharp gasp, as if the air around Shen Yu had suddenly become too thin to breathe.

"But... I suppose a scholar enjoys such things," she finished breathlessly, her fingers digging into the crimson silk as if to manually slow her heart.

She pulled a silk handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbing at a bead of perspiration that traced a path down her elegant, pale neck. Her brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing her eyes. She shouldn’t be sweating. The night was cool, and her cultivation was profound.

"I am Meng Yan, of the Jin Clan."

Shen Yu’s mind clicked instantly. The Jin Clan. One of the three titans ruling Thousand Waves City. And Meng Yan... she was the infamous ’Jade Widow.’

A dark, possessive heat spread through Shen Yu’s gut. ’A Golden Core Widow... desolate, lonely, wealthy... and unmistakably restless. Perfect.’

He maintained his facade flawlessly, lifting his head to show appropriate awe.

"Lady Meng," he said, bowing slightly deeper. "The ’Jade Goddess’ of the Jin Clan. Rumors described your beauty as peerless, but seeing you now... I fear the rumors were too modest."

It was bold flattery, bordering on flirtatious, but permissible for a handsome young man addressing a beautiful senior.

Meng Yan’s expression remained cool, her eyes narrowing slightly as if dissecting his intent.

"A glib tongue," she noted dryly, though the corner of her lip twitched upward.

She clearly enjoyed the compliment, but more than that, she seemed drawn to his presence against her will. She took a step closer, not because she meant to, but because her body seemed to lean toward him like a sunflower seeking the dawn.

The logic of her mind told her he was just a junior. But her blood... her blood was screaming that he was a spring.

She gestured toward the open carriage door with a casual wave, a command rather than an offer. "Since you are Tang Yilan’s nephew, I cannot leave you here to be eaten by wolves. Come. I will give you a ride back to the city."

Shen Yu hesitated, looking down at his mud-splattered robes with a grimace of shame.

"Senior is too kind," he said, his tone apologetic, taking a half-step back. "But I have been scavenging for herbs in the rain. I am filthy. I would not dare soil Lady Meng’s carriage with my presence."

"It is just dirt," she snapped, her voice sharp and authoritative. "Do not make me repeat myself. We are people of status; we do not squabble over laundry."

But as she stepped closer to enforce her will, she froze.

Her hazel eyes traveled slowly down his frame. The scolding died in her throat.

She didn’t see the dirt; she saw the way the wet, muddy fabric clung to him like a second skin. Her gaze traced the broad, powerful expanse of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, and the definition of muscles that hinted at a latent, masculine power his lack of cultivation shouldn’t have allowed.

The grit on his face didn’t make him look dirty; it made him look wild. It made him look like a fallen immortal rolling in the dust of the mortal world—a rough, unpolished gem that begged to be touched.

A faint, traitorous flush crept up her elegant neck, darkening the redness already high on her cheeks.

Suddenly, a wave of vertigo hit her, violent and inexplicable. It wasn’t the wine. She knew her limit, and she hadn’t reached it. No, this dizziness came from her Dantian, a frantic, parched signal shooting up her spine the moment she inhaled his scent. It was the feeling of a starving predator realizing meat was nearby.

She felt her mouth go dry, her heart skipping a violent beat against her ribs.

She moistened her crimson lips, the movement slow and unconscious, her pupils dilating as she fought to keep her expression impassive. Her voice dropped, losing its commanding edge and turning into a husky whisper, heavy with an implication she barely understood herself.

"However... you are right. The mud is unsightly."

She swayed slightly closer to him, her formidable cultivation doing nothing to stop the magnetic pull.

"There is a pristine creek a few miles ahead. We can stop, and you can... wash yourself."

She turned back toward the carriage before he could answer, her hand trembling slightly as she gripped the doorframe, her knuckles turning white from the effort to maintain her dignity. She took a sharp, stabilizing breath, trying to cool the sudden, unbearable fire in her veins.

’What is wrong with me?’ she wondered, pressing a hand against her racing heart, feeling the vibrations of her own pulse rattle her ribcage. ’I have drunk a thousand cups of Spirit Wine and never felt this heat. Why... why does looking at him make me feel so thirsty?’