When the Moment Comes

There's a realm of readiness where everything falls into place, a moment when all preparation has been made, and all that remains… is to release the floodgate.

Suppressing the flow when the spring is already surging, stifling what comes naturally—that would be against heaven's order. A grave mistake. One that must be corrected swiftly, or the damage might be irreparable.

Qin Ren, known by those close to him as the Third Young Master, was never the kind of man to commit such a mistake. Especially not on this moonlit night, with a girl curled shyly in his arms, dropping hint after heated hint.

Had he been the type to wait for her to strip naked, lie across the bed in a perfect star shape and invite him with fanfare—he'd have no right to be called a master of romance. A man unskilled in reading a woman's heart could never hope to wear that title.

No, real men act when it's time to act.

And the women who throw themselves completely into a man's arms, who initiate, who lead—those often carry secrets too deep to name. But a girl from a proper family? Even if she's desperately in love, even if she yearns for intimacy, the most she'll offer are hints—seductive, coy, and dignified.

Qin Ren knew this well.

He had his idols—楚香帅 and 陆小凤—legends who could, with a glance, make women wet and willing. That was the level of mastery he aspired to. But for now, he wasn't there yet. His journey had just begun.

Still, his skill wasn't lacking. When he whispered that perfectly-timed, utterly shameless line that made Du Xiaoyan laugh and blush at the same time, the night unfolded as naturally as water flowing downhill.

It was a night of first blossoms.

Her soft cries were half-pained, half-ecstatic, making the moon blush behind the clouds. Blood bloomed red on the sheets, a symbol of youth surrendered. Her body, at first hesitant, slowly learned to move with his, until passion took full control.

True mastery in bed isn't measured in hours of performance. It lies in precision—knowing exactly when and how to guide your partner to the peak, reaching ecstasy in sync. It's the difference between a thousand sloppy sword strikes… and one perfect killing blow.

Like A-Fei's single sword. Like Li Xunhuan's flying dagger. Like Qin Ren's one perfect palm strike.

And in that same spirit, Qin Ren's cultivation—"Fire of Desire" qi and the arcane art of "Cloud and Rain"—was designed not just to please but to synchronize with his partner's pulse, to bring both to the edge, together.

At the final moment, when his essence poured into her, he timed it precisely with her climax—heightening her pleasure, deepening the connection. That was art. That was control.

He couldn't help but scoff at those so-called erotic novelists of his past life—men who wrote of marathon sex scenes without a shred of understanding. All thrust, no finesse. Farmers in the bedroom. Or worse—oxen.

What madness it was, slogging through four hours of sweat and grunting, just for a ten-second release, leaving both parties exhausted. It was nothing but mutual destruction—like practicing the "Seven Wounds Fist" of old: harming the enemy, but yourself even more.

Meanwhile, outside in the garden, by the artificial mountain, the head guard Tu Hong was on watch. Hearing the faint, unmistakable sounds drifting from the residence, he sighed and looked up at the moon.

"So… the young lady's grown up at last," he murmured, a sorrowful smile tugging at his weathered face. Like a father watching his daughter leave for marriage, bittersweet and aching.

※ ※ ※

Elsewhere, across the street from the Tianping Manor, in an upscale inn, Jo Wei drank alone.

Moonlight bathed the room, and Jo's usually sniveling face—so often seen groveling before the Third Young Master—was now solemn, even dignified.

"Ten years," he muttered, downing another cup. "I walked away from the chaos of the jianghu. I only wanted a quiet life, maybe find a decent family to serve, fade into obscurity. Why won't you just leave me be?"

At that moment, a cold, eerie laughter echoed from the street below. Shadows moved. Three black-robed figures emerged from nowhere, as if the darkness itself had birthed them.

Clad in pitch-black from head to toe, their faces hidden behind dark scarves, only their eyes gleamed—sharp and dangerous.

From the window above, Jo Wei stared down at them. The distance between them was no more than thirty feet.

"The Shadow-Stepping Technique… So, it really was the Demon Sect," he said with a sigh. "How did you find me?"

The center figure spoke, his tone light, almost amused. "Elder Qiao, your disguise is impressive. Who would believe that the once-giant Qiao Qitian—the eight-foot-tall, eight-foot-round, four-hundred-and-fifty-pound terror of the Demon Sect—would become this lean, sharp-faced innkeeper?"

"But you forgot one thing: no matter how well you disguise your face, the scent of your body never lies."

He grinned. "One of our men—a petty bandit, you tipped him recently—recognized your scent. A gift of his, really. His nose is better than any wolfhound's."

Jo Wei chuckled bitterly. "So, that's how."

He wasn't surprised. He was older than he looked—well past sixty. How else could he speak with such insight, guide the Third Young Master with such worldly wisdom? A mere cart driver wouldn't know half what he knew.

"I'm no longer Qiao Qitian," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I am Jo Wei. A servant of Qin Ren. Your Demon Sect matters don't concern me anymore."

"You don't get to walk away, Elder," the man snapped. "Our Lord has summoned you. You will come."

Jo's voice sharpened. "Your master wishes to use Qin Ren to weaken the Xiaoyao Villa and Ironblood Alliance, yes? Foolish. I owe that boy a debt—he treats me well, better than most. I repay loyalty tenfold, and revenge a hundredfold. That's my rule."

He remembered that day—Qin Ren facing down the ambush of elite assassins from the Blizzard Hall, killing his way through to save Jo Wei.

That was when Jo saw it—those eyes. Eyes of a demon.

The Demon Eyes of Shura.

He knew then. This boy, this Third Young Master, was destined to reshape the martial world. Better to follow a rising storm than resist it.

He sneered. "Go tell your 'Supreme Lord'—the so-called Ximen Wudi—that he's dreaming. He may have learned the 'Heaven-Destroying Mind Scripture' and the 'Immortal-Slaying Codex', but he's no real god. I watched him grow up. I know what he's not."

The black-robed figures stiffened.

"Watch your mouth!" one shouted. "Blaspheming the Demon God—"

"Demon God?" Jo laughed scornfully. "If he truly was a god, I wouldn't have left."

He drank deeply, eyes cold. "Leave me be. Or I'll bury you all myself."

"So you've chosen death," the lead shadow hissed. "Fine. We've long wanted to see whether the legendary 'Time Spares No Man' Qiao Qitian still has his edge."

The three moved in unison, black shapes rising like vultures. Their palms struck out, white force slicing the air with a shrill whistle.

Jo Wei set his cup down.

A glint flashed in his eyes.

"You fools," he muttered, rising slowly. "You already know who I am. And still… you come to die?"