It was truly too humiliating — he wished he could just kill himself…
Being a slave wasn't the end of the world. A real man could swallow even the shame of crawling between someone's legs. Besides, after that golden-circlet barbarian woman — the one who called herself the mistress of White Snow Mountain — had returned the clothes and trousers to Lorist, he was pleasantly surprised to find that the healing potions and medicinal salves hidden in the lining of his outer robe hadn't been searched out. Moreover, two very useful tools concealed inside the robe had gone undetected as well.
He couldn't blame the barbarians for being careless. His outer robe was styled somewhat like a cloak, only with two wide sleeves added, and the two outer pockets were plainly visible — whether or not they held anything could be seen at a glance. Furthermore, to improve defensive capability, it was common practice for robes like these to have thick leather plates and metal scales sewn into the shoulders and other vital areas, which gave the garment a certain heft. The barbarians had only felt around the two outer pockets and hadn't conducted a thorough search.
Lorist's original plan had been to play along as a slave for a while, wait for a moment when no one was watching, use his hidden supplies to treat the internal and external wounds on his body, then circulate his energy to restore his internal force. After that, the sky would be wide enough for birds to soar and the sea vast enough for fish to leap — a barbarian band of several hundred would never be able to block his road home…
Although he was a slave, two factors worked in his favor. First, he had only just recovered from a serious illness. Second, as the first plains-dweller slave of any status belonging to the golden-circlet barbarian woman — the mistress of White Snow Mountain — the fearsome barbarians hadn't done anything to him. They had simply fastened the dog chain on his neck-collar to a wooden stake outside the large tent. Incidentally, that same stake was also tethering two large wolfhounds…
The two wolfhounds took a peculiar interest in Lorist, frequently licking him and sniffing him. This was not a show of friendliness — Lorist noticed that the way the wolfhounds looked at him was identical to the way they stared at a few blood-soaked meat bones that a barbarian had brought them at midday. Only then did Lorist truly grasp the meaning of the old saying: when a tiger is stranded on flat ground, even dogs will bully it.
As evening fell, the thick-lipped barbarian woman came over. She led Lorist to the stream, tossed him a piece of coarse linen, and gestured for him to wash himself. Having been licked by the two wolfhounds all day, Lorist couldn't care less about the thick-lipped barbarian woman standing nearby watching. In a few quick motions he stripped off his clothes and trousers, leapt naked into the stream, and scrubbed himself thoroughly clean.
After the bath, the thick-lipped barbarian woman brought Lorist to a small tent. She set down a large basin of roasted meat, three flatbreads, and a big bowl of meat broth. Once Lorist had finished eating and the dishes were cleared away, she led him back outside the tent and made him crouch by the entrance.
That evening, the mountain barbarians held a bonfire celebration. The main attraction was the barbarian with the wild nest of long hair, who alone circled the fire performing some kind of shamanic dance for nearly half an hour, muttering unintelligible words the entire time. This forced Lorist, squatting at the tent entrance watching the spectacle, to grudgingly admire the man's stamina. Finally, this charlatan barbarian tossed a handful of glittering powder into the fire. The flames surged dramatically, sparks showered in all directions, and the reverent-looking barbarians surrounding the bonfire immediately erupted in loud cheers, breaking into song and dance as they milled around the flames.
It was only then that Lorist noticed the party of several hundred mountain barbarians seemed to have far more women than men — the female barbarians outnumbered the males by at least two to one. Every male barbarian dancing near the bonfire had one or two females dancing alongside him, and frequently, mid-dance, a pair would simply vanish, followed by the unmistakable sounds of flesh slapping together from the nearby bushes...
As the figures around the bonfire dwindled, the thick-lipped barbarian woman returned. She led Lorist back inside the tent, pointed at a pile of grass spread on the ground, and curtly uttered two words: "Sleep." Then she left.
Finally alone at last — Lorist was overjoyed. Just one night of channeling his energy would restore some of his inner force. Then a couple of drops of second-tier healing potion, and the day of freedom would not be far off...
He endured. He endured some more. Finally, when the sounds outside had died down completely, Lorist sat up. He crossed his legs, settled into position, and was just about to begin circulating his qi through the Grand Meridian when the tent flap was thrown open. By the distant glow of the bonfire, he saw the thick-lipped barbarian woman ducking inside. In a flash, she stripped herself completely bare and walked toward Lorist.
Lorist was terrified. "What are you—"
The thick-lipped barbarian woman bluntly declared two words: "Screw you." Then she pounced.
Lorist fought back with all his might, but the thick-lipped barbarian woman turned out to possess
Grasping his erection and aiming, the thick-lipped barbarian woman lowered herself onto it, letting out a pleasured moan.
Lorist was drowning in shame and fury — what an unspeakable humiliation! But he was utterly powerless to stop the thick-lipped barbarian woman from riding him relentlessly. In the end, Lorist passed out in a haze of humiliation and rage...
When Lorist woke the next morning, the thick-lipped barbarian woman tossed him a palm-sized flatbread. It was only then that he noticed the barbarians were all breaking camp, preparing to depart.
That they had groped him openly in front of the entire group was, perversely, something of a relief.
They marched for three days straight. Each day, Lorist received two meals — a large flatbread in the morning, and in the evening whatever roasted meat or broth the thick-lipped barbarian woman brought him, along with a single gourd of clean water. By the time a fourth blister had burst open on his feet, the barbarians finally began erecting tents to make a proper camp. From their conversations, it sounded like they intended to rest here for a few days before returning to their settlement.
That evening, the thick-lipped barbarian woman led Lorist off to bathe once more. The smirk playing at the corner of her lips filled him with quiet dread. Sure enough, before the night's bonfire festivities had even concluded, she seized his chain and hauled him into a small tent. Lorist fought back with every ounce of strength he could muster, but it was futile — the thick-lipped barbarian woman had her way with him yet again…
The next day, while locked up in camp, Lorist used every unguarded moment to secretly circulate his qi through a minor cycle and swallowed two drops of second-grade healing potion. By evening, tears welled in his eyes as he discovered that his long-empty dantian finally held a thin wisp of internal force. Had it not been for the severity of his injuries combined with the jumble of dubious concoctions the barbarians had forced down him, his internal force would have recovered on its own — but now he was no different from an ordinary person who had never practiced martial arts.
The thick-lipped barbarian woman came for him again that night. Though he now possessed a sliver of internal force, it was nowhere near enough to resist her black iron Combat Force. On the contrary, thanks to the second-grade healing potion, his body had recovered nicely. And so the thick-lipped barbarian woman demanded Lorist three times over the course of the night…
During the day, Lorist sat in a daze around the camp, covertly circulating his qi. By dusk, his dantian finally held three strands of internal force. He had already worked out the plan: when the thick-lipped barbarian woman came for him again that night, three strands should be enough to knock her out with a surprise strike. Then he could cultivate in peace for an entire night. By dawn, he would have recovered perhaps a quarter or a third of his total internal force — enough to make his escape.
The thick-lipped barbarian woman led Lorist to bathe as usual, and when they returned, a large basin of meat broth awaited him as always. Only this time the broth tasted strange — slightly bitter with a medicinal tang, and the meat had been cut into round slices that carried a rank, gamey smell.
At first Lorist assumed the barbarians simply didn't know how to properly prepare their ingredients. After all, he was a slave — having food at all was something to be grateful for. It was only when he was nearly finished that it dawned on him. Damn it — those round slices were some kind of magical beast's organ. And the medicinal taste… there were clearly several aphrodisiac herbs mixed in. He was an apothecary himself — how had he not noticed? The entire basin of meat broth was an aphrodisiac tonic…
He looked up at the thick-lipped barbarian woman. A salacious grin spread across her face, as though she could hardly wait for nightfall to arrive. Lorist silently gritted his teeth. Fine. Let this aphrodisiac broth be nourishment for him. When the bonfire festivities rolled around, he would seize every second, scramble to gather whatever additional internal force he could, and when the time came, he would make this wretched woman pay dearly…
The bonfire festivities proceeded as usual, and near the end, that thick-lipped barbarian woman came for him again.
Lorist had already prepared himself — once inside the tent, he knew exactly what to do without raising her suspicion, and how to catch her off guard and knock her unconscious. By tomorrow morning, he would be free. Like a bird set free from its cage, soaring toward the vast open sky…
Only, the thick-lipped barbarian woman didn't enter the small tent. Instead, she led Lorist to a considerably larger beast-hide tent, lifted the flap, and shoved him inside…
Lorist was horrified to discover that three green-eyed barbarian women were waiting for him in the tent. Two of them were as broad and burly as any man…
He had to admit that the barbarian tribe's virility broth was astonishingly potent — his manhood had not softened even once throughout the entire night. Lorist lost count of how many times he performed; all he knew was that when he finally lost consciousness, the burly barbarian woman sitting atop him was still riding up and down without pause…
When Lorist was dragged out of the tent that morning, he was as limp as a pile of mud. The most wretched part was that he found his dantian empty once again — the three wisps of internal force he had painstakingly gathered yesterday through cultivation seemed to have been wrung completely dry. He couldn't even move now if he wanted to…
That evening brought yet another enormous basin of virility broth. Lorist clamped his mouth shut and refused to eat. So four barbarian women arrived — two of whom were the same burly ones who had spent the entire previous night working him over. The four of them pinned Lorist down, pried open his mouth, and one of them fished out the meat strips, chewed them to pulp, and spat them into Lorist's mouth before pouring the virility broth down his throat. The scene was too wretched to watch…
That night, it was five barbarian women…
This life was no longer livable. Lorist was contemplating suicide…
He had never imagined he would be humiliated like a breeding stud. Well, fine — that wasn't quite right. A breeding stud didn't feel humiliated; it copulated with sows in perfect bliss. But Lorist was no breeding stud. He simply hadn't expected that, after being captured by the barbarian tribe, he would live like one. If anyone was to blame, it was himself — for why in the world did he have to be so well-endowed…
Tossed into the camp to bake in the sun, Lorist thought of the Lotus Scripture and the Evil-Warding Sword Manual. Should he castrate himself to earn a way out, or be ridden every night by those barbarian women until they drained him dry and he died from sheer exhaustion? It was an agonizing choice.
Maybe he should just kill himself outright. He had never dreamed he would end up like this. Lorist was mortified beyond words — being sexually assaulted by those monster-like hill barbarian women night after night was the most humiliating thing imaginable, and the worst part was that he had no power to resist at all…
A searing pain lashed across his back with a sharp crack as something struck him in the sun. A vicious voice snarled: "Damned pig, get up…"
Just go ahead and beat me to death, thought Lorist. He said nothing, remaining silent and motionless, playing dead on the ground.
The Golden-Crowned barbarian woman — that strange-voiced Snow Summit Mistress — spoke up: "What's wrong with him?"
After a bout of whispered chatter, the figures surrounding Lorist drifted away.
Evening came. The bath. The virility soup. The familiar routine. Lorist was very familiar with being stripped naked again, and once he lay down on the familiar pile of straw, a barbarian woman began using her mouth to stimulate his little brother with practiced ease. Lorist lay on the straw heap in resigned surrender, letting them do as they pleased. Just before he closed his eyes, his peripheral vision swept across the tent — it seemed there were two more barbarian women now. Tonight was shaping up to be another sleepless night…
The virility soup took effect, and his little brother rose once more. The barbarian woman beneath him caressed the massive thing in her hands with undisguised delight, then prepared to mount Lorist…
The tent flap was thrown open. The Golden-Crowned barbarian woman strode in with four attendants, each carrying a black leather whip. In an instant, the sound of cracking whips, wails, pleas for mercy, and harsh shouts erupted into a cacophony…
Lorist opened his eyes in surprise to see the Golden-Crowned barbarian woman ordering her four attendants to viciously whip six or seven barbarian women kneeling on the ground. Those women begged and sobbed ceaselessly but remained prostrate, not daring to flee. After the attendants had flogged them for a good while, the Golden-Crowned barbarian woman finally told them to get lost. She then came over and looked at Lorist sprawled on the straw heap, curiously glanced at his still-erect little brother, and ordered her attendants to carry Lorist to her tent…
Done for — he had barely escaped the wolf's jaws only to land in the tiger's den. But what Lorist hadn't expected was that the two attendants carried him to a corner of the great tent partitioned off with animal hides, tossed him onto a pile of straw on the ground, threw his outer robe, trousers, and a large animal skin on top of him, and then left.
Lorist finally got a good, undisturbed night's sleep.
Early the next morning, a male attendant of the Golden-Crowned barbarian woman came over and kicked Lorist awake, led him outside the great tent, gave him a flatbread, and tied him to a wooden stake — though this time he wasn't left with the two large wolfhounds. Come evening, the same male attendant gave Lorist another flatbread and a gourd of clean water, then brought him back to the corner of the great tent where he had slept the night before and left him there.
After two days, Lorist finally felt his strength returning. The previous few days had been utterly draining — those barbarian women had wrung him dry, and he had felt hollow inside. He secretly took another two drops of the second-tier healing potion, planning to circulate his qi and restore his internal energy once his body recovered a bit more, so he could escape. But the very next day, he discovered that the barbarians had struck camp and were setting out again. This time they wouldn't be stopping to camp until they reached their homeland…
…(To be continued.)