Chapter 1: Golden Deception - The Wrong Savior
Consciousness returned like a spike driven through his temple.
Lu Yuan gasped, his back arching off something cold and leather. His vision swam, chandeliers and mirrored ceilings blurring into a nauseating kaleidoscope of gold and refracted light. A thumping bassline vibrated through the floor, a distant, irrelevant heartbeat. Every nerve in his body was on fire, singing a single, desperate tune.
He was naked. Cool air whispered over his damp skin. His thighs were wet, slick with a slimy film that smelled clinical and sweet. His ass felt open, empty, clenching around nothing with a frantic, rhythmical pulse that originated from deep in his gut. A deep, throbbing ache radiated from his hole, a raw need that screamed for pressure, for filling, for something to grind against until this fire went out.
Where… what…?
Memories that weren’t his slithered behind his eyes. A bitter face in a mirror, applying lip gloss. A handful of pills, dry-swallowed with expensive vodka. A phone call, a wheedling voice: “Zhang Wei, I’m too dizzy, you have to come get me… the private room at the Golden Phoenix…” A triumphant, spiteful smile. Then, nothing. Then, this.
This wasn’t his body. The hands he lifted, trembling, were slender, pale, smooth. No calluses from handling tools, no subtle green-tinged qi circulating in his meridians. Just a hollow, electric hunger. The spiritual energy here was abysmally thin, a stale gasp compared to the lush, verdant currents of his old world. But his new body… it was a live wire of a different kind, a physical craving so intense it vaporized thought.
He whimpered, hips jerking involuntarily, seeking friction against the cold leather. Pre-cum beaded and dripped onto his stomach from his flushed, hard cock.
“Fucking pathetic.”
The voice was low, gravelly, and utterly devoid of warmth. Lu Yuan’s head lolled to the side. A man stood beside the wide velvet couch, watching him with an indifference that felt more brutal than any anger.
He was tall, built solidly with muscle that strained against a simple black t-shirt. His face was all hard lines and sharp angles, handsome in a way that suggested violence. His hair was cropped short. He wasn’t Zhang Wei. This was someone else, something else—a stillness that felt like a gathering storm. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his dark cargo pants, planted in heavy combat boots that seemed anchored to the floor.
“You called for a ride home, brat,” the man said, not moving. His eyes, dark and assessing, tracked the tremble in Lu Yuan’s thigh. “Zhang Wei’s cleaning up a mess downtown. Sent me instead.”
Zhou Feng. The name surfaced from the tangled, spite-filled memories. Zhang Wei’s shadow. His ally.
A fresh wave of need crested, burning away the flicker of recognition. Lu Yuan sobbed, his spine bowing. “P-please…” The word was a ragged tear, stripped of pride, of any intent the original owner had. This was pure, animal desperation. He rutted against the air, his hand moving toward his cock.
Zhou Feng moved.
It wasn’t fast; it was deliberate. He took his hands from his pockets and in one fluid motion, hooked his fingers under Lu Yuan’s knees, shoving his legs up and apart. The exposure was brutal, the cool air hitting his wet, twitching hole. Lu Yuan cried out, a sound of shame and raw want.
“Looks like this wrecked little cunt of yours needs something before being ready to leave.”
No preamble. No spit, no courtesy. Zhou Feng’s thumb, broad and rough, smeared through the mess of lube and pre-cum soaking Lu Yuan’s perineum, then pressed directly against his fluttering entrance. Lu Yuan shrieked, his hips bucking. The touch was electric, a circuit completing, promising relief and destruction in equal measure.
The thumb pushed in, just to the first knuckle, a ruthless, stretching burn. Lu Yuan’s head slammed back against the armrest, his vision whiting out for a second. Before he could adjust, before he could even breathe, Zhou Feng withdrew and shoved three fingers in together.
The stretch was exquisite, brutal agony. Lu Yuan screamed, his body seizing. Zhou Feng’s fingers were thick, unyielding, scraping inside him with a dry, rough drag that was just this side of painful. He scissored them, a clinical, efficient stretching that tore choked gasps from Lu Yuan’s throat.
“So eager,” Zhou Feng muttered, his voice a bored growl. He crooked his fingers, pumping them in and out with a relentless, punishing rhythm. “All this planning, all these pills, and you’re just a needy hole begging for it. Zhang Wei wouldn’t have touched you. You know that, right?”
The words meant nothing. Only the movement mattered. The rough pads of Zhou Feng’s fingers grazed a spot deep inside that made Lu Yuan see stars. His cock leaked steadily, a continuous stream now, his balls drawn up tight. He was babbling, sounds not words, pleas and curses lost in the haze. He fucked himself down on those invading fingers, chasing the sensation, the pressure, the promise of release.
Zhou Feng watched his face, his own expression unmoved. He added a fourth finger, the stretch becoming a burning, glorious tear. Lu Yuan sobbed, his body convulsing. The coil in his gut wound tighter, tighter, pulled to its breaking point by the rough, unfeeling pistoning of Zhou Feng’s hand.
“Come on, then,” Zhou Feng commanded, his thumb pressing hard on Lu Yuan’s perineum from the outside, massaging in time with his thrusting fingers. “Get it over with. Come all over yourself like the cheap slut you are.”
It was the pressure, the command, the final, ruthless brush against his prostate that did it. Lu Yuan’s orgasm ripped through him with no finesse, no grace. It was a seizure, a violent expulsion of the frantic energy that had possessed him. He screamed, back arched off the couch as his cock pulsed, stripes of cum shooting over his chest and stomach, some splattering Zhou Feng’s wrist.
Through the blinding, shattering pleasure, a new sensation bloomed. A trickle of warmth, of pure, vital energy, seeped from where Zhou Feng’s skin touched his—from the spent cum on his wrist contacting Lu Yuan’s thigh. It was a faint, foreign qi, metallic and hot, but his body, starved and instinctively clever, latched onto it. The energy was absorbed through his pores, a sip of power that soothed the ragged edges of his nerves and faintly, ever so faintly, vibrated in his empty dantian.
Zhou Feng pulled his fingers out with a wet, obscene sound. Lu Yuan collapsed, boneless, shuddering through the aftershocks. The desperate fire was banked, replaced by a hollow, well-used ache and a mind beginning to clear through the post-orgasmic fog.
He lay there, panting, coated in his own release, the reality of his situation dawning with cold, slow clarity. He was in a stranger’s body. In a strange, energy-poor world. He had just been fingered to a brutal orgasm by another stranger who looked at him with contempt.
Zhou Feng pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers clean with methodical disgust. He looked at Lu Yuan’s ruined, trembling form. “Get up,” he said, his voice flat. “Get dressed. Your father would have a coronary if he saw this, and Zhang Wei doesn’t need the headache.”
He turned and walked toward the door, his boots silent on the plush carpet. He didn’t look back.
Trembling, every muscle protesting, Lu Yuan pushed himself up. His clothes—expensive, tight, ridiculous—were folded neatly on a chair. A final, mocking touch from the original. As he dressed, the slick ache between his legs a constant reminder, his new mind began to work, pushing past the shame and the shock.
As he dressed, the slick ache between his legs a constant reminder, his new mind began to work, pushing past the shame and the shock.
The thin trickle of energy he’d absorbed from Zhou Feng’s skin—tainted with his own spent essence—was a clue. This world’s ambient qi was pathetic, a desiccated ghost of what he knew. But the vital energy contained in living flesh, in seed… that had potency. Dual cultivation, the shameful, whispered taboo of his old sect, seemed less a forbidden path here and more a stark necessity. A logical adaptation. His body, with its inexplicable hunger, seemed to agree. A pity the potential source currently walking ahead of him with such rigid disdain seemed wholly unwilling to explore the theory.
Lu Yuan followed Zhou Feng out of the private room, his steps unsteady on the plush carpet. The main club was a sensory avalanche. Strobing lights cut through smoke, painting screaming, laughing faces in flashes of neon. The music was a physical thing, a pounding wall of noise that vibrated in his teeth. The jumbled memories offered nothing but vague impressions—these sights, these sounds, they were entirely new. Overwhelming. Terrifying. Weirdly beautiful in their chaotic excess.
He wasn’t sad, not really. His old world had been trees, silence, and profound loneliness. Here, there was noise and color. And according to the memories, a father who cared, even if the original Lu Yuan had been too spiteful to see it. That was something. A base.
He slid into the passenger seat of a severe-looking black vehicle, the leather cool through his thin pants. The silence inside was a relief, thick and heavy. Zhou Feng drove with a focused aggression, his large hands tight on the wheel.
The plan formed with pragmatic clarity. Apologize to Zhang Wei. Sincerely. The original’ toxic obsession was a problem to be solved. A peaceful life required fixing the mess he’d inherited. Stability first. Then, perhaps, understanding this new form of cultivation.
The thought of fixing things made him glance at Zhou Feng’s profile, sharp in the passing streetlights. The man had… helped. In a brutal, unforgiving way, he had provided a service. Lu Yuan, raised with the formality of a cultivator, even a disgraced one, felt obligated to acknowledge it. Manners were manners.
He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the quiet car. “Thank you,” he said, his voice still a bit rough. “For your help. At the club. With the… the orgasm. I needed it. The situation was… untenable.”
Zhou Feng’s fingers twitched on the wheel. His head turned just slightly, a slow, predatory movement. His mouth curled, not in a smile, but in a sneer of pure disbelief. “What the fuck are you playing at?”
“No play,” Lu Yuan said, turning to look out the window at the streaking lights, genuinely fascinated by the speed. “It is a statement of fact. Thank you.”
Zhou Feng said nothing else. The rest of the drive passed in a tension so dense Lu Yuan felt he could lean against it. The vehicle finally slid through a towering gate and up a winding drive to a mansion that spoke of severe, guarded wealth.
The front door opened before they reached it. A man in his late fifties, hair steel-gray, face lined with concern, stood silhouetted in the warm light. General Lu. The memories supplied the title, but the feeling that slammed into Lu Yuan’s chest was new. It was a wave of anxious, genuine care, so foreign and so solid it stole his breath.
This was safety. This was an anchor.
Without thinking, bypassing all awkwardness and the scowling presence of Zhou Feng behind him, Lu Yuan crossed the threshold and simply threw himself into the man’s arms. He buried his face in the crisp cotton of his father’s shirt. The arms that came around him were strong, shocked for a moment, then tightening fiercely.
“A-Yuan,” the General murmured, voice thick. “You’re home. You’re safe.”
Lu Yuan held on, letting the solid warmth seep into his bones. It felt nice. In this strange, dangerous, energy-starved world, for the first time, he felt something like ground beneath his feet.