The study smelled wrong
Castor stood in the doorway, staring at the cramped room where he'd spent his first life's youth failing the provincial examination six times.
Same cracked desk.
Same water-stained wall scrolls with badly rendered landscapes. Same stack of books he'd memorized decades ago in another timeline.
But his hands were young again. Twenty years old, smooth skin, no liver spots.
"Nephew?" Aunt Mei Ling's voice drifted from the kitchen, worried. "You've been standing there for an hour. The rice is getting cold."
An hour. He'd been cataloguing the differences between memory and reality for an hour. Seventy years of life as Li Fan, Grand Preceptor of Great Xuan—and now he was back in this shithole village with nothing but memories and the Return to Truth ability burning in his mind.
I died in Xuanjing. Watched my empire burn. And woke up here. For the second time again.
He touched the desk. Solid. Real. His cock stirred as fragmented memories surfaced—the prince's daughters on silk sheets, the Empress in the cold palace, Minister Zhao's wife bent over her husband's own desk.
All of it waiting to be replayed. Better this time. Faster.
But first, the immediate problem.
Castor walked into the kitchen where Mei Ling was serving rice into cracked bowls. Forty-three years old, still beautiful in the way village women could be before hard labor wore them down. Her hanfu was faded but clean, graying hair pulled into a traditional bun. She'd raised him after his parents died of plague.
Fed him. Clothed him. Loved him like the son she'd never had.
In his first life here, he'd repaid that kindness with mediocrity and failure.
This time would be different.
"You've been acting so strange since the fever broke," she said, setting a bowl before him. Her hand touched his forehead—maternal instinct. "No more heat, but your eyes... You look at everything like you've never seen it before."
Because I haven't. Not in fifty years.
"I'm fine, Auntie." The lie came easily. Seventy years of political maneuvering had made lying effortless. "Just tired."
"Old Widow Zhang says the fever might have let spirits in." Mei Ling wrung her hands, jade bracelet clicking against itself. "She has a potion. Exorcism herbs blessed by the temple monks. Maybe we should—"
"No." Too sharp. He modulated his tone, smiled reassuringly. "No potions. I promise I'm myself."
More myself than I've ever been.
She relaxed slightly, sitting across from him. "Wang Er came by yesterday while you were sleeping. He wants an answer about the land."
Castor's smile didn't waver, but something cold settled in his chest. Wang Er. In his first life, he'd sold the ancestral plot to that bastard for half its value, desperate for exam fees. The man had made a fortune subdividing it.
Not this time.
"What did you tell him?"
"That you needed time to think." She stirred her rice absently. "He wasn't happy. Said... said sometimes accidents happen to families who don't have men to protect them."
A threat. Veiled, but clear.
Perfect.
***
Wang Er arrived three days later, boots tracking mud across the threshold without apology.
He was a large man, forty-eight years old, with the thick shoulders of someone who'd worked fields before buying other men to do it for him. His silk robe was expensive but poorly fitted, new money trying to wear old money's clothes. A jade pendant hung from his belt—ostentation disguised as refinement.
Behind him, Liu Yiniang carried a ceramic tea pot. Wang Er's wife was thirty-four, face pale from indoor life, figure still trim despite fifteen years of marriage. No children. Village gossip blamed her womb, but Castor knew better—Wang Er's seed was weak, another inadequacy the man compensated for with aggression.
She set the tea pot on the table with practiced grace, eyes downcast. But Castor caught the flicker of intelligence behind that submissive mask. *Interesting.*
"Scholar Castor." Wang Er didn't bow, didn't observe basic courtesy. "Still thinking about my generous offer?"
Mei Ling hovered near the kitchen entrance, wringing her hands. Castor remained seated, forcing Wang Er to stand—a small dominance play the man wouldn't consciously register but would feel.
"I'm considering several options," Castor said mildly. "The land has been in my family for three generations. It deserves careful thought."
Wang Er's jaw tightened. "Careful thought. From a failed scholar who can't pass provincial examination." He leaned forward, palms flat on the table. "Let me help you think clearly. That land borders my property. I'm expanding my operations. You can sell to me at fair price, or—"
"Or?" Castor's voice remained pleasant.
"Or the magistrate might discover your father owed taxes before he died. Unpaid debts. Could result in land seizure." Wang Er smiled, showing teeth. "Of course, that would leave you and your dear aunt with nothing. And accidents happen to desperate people. Fires. Floods. Bandits on the road."
Liu Yiniang's hands trembled slightly as she poured tea. She'd heard this speech before, Castor realized. Wang Er used the same tactics on everyone—bribery, then threats, then violence if necessary.
Castor accepted the tea cup from Liu Yiniang. Their fingers brushed. She flinched, but met his eyes for one brief second. He saw fear there, and something else. Resignation. The look of a woman who'd learned to survive by becoming invisible.
*Two birds,* Castor thought, sipping the tea. *One stone.*
"You make compelling arguments," he said finally. "But I need time to consult with family elders. These decisions shouldn't be rushed."
Wang Er's face reddened. "Two weeks. Then I go to the magistrate regardless." He turned to leave, stopped at the door. "Yiniang. We're leaving."
She bowed quickly to Mei Ling, followed her husband out. But Castor noticed how she glanced back once, expression unreadable.
Mei Ling closed the door, leaning against it. "He'll do it. He'll destroy us."
"No." Castor stood, already calculating dosages. "He won't."
***
The apothecary was an old man with cataracts and poor memory—perfect for Castor's purposes.
"Arsenic?" The old man squinted at him. "For rats?"
"Aggressive ones." Castor placed silver on the counter. "They've been getting into our grain stores. Aunt is worried about contamination."
The old man wrapped a small paper bundle. "Use sparingly. Dangerous stuff."
Castor smiled. "I'll be careful."
***
The first dose went into Wang Er's tea a week later.
Castor visited under pretense of continued land negotiations. Wang Er received him in his study—larger than Castor's entire house, filled with books the man couldn't read and artwork he didn't understand. Status symbols purchased to mask inadequacy.
Liu Yiniang served tea. This time Castor watched her more carefully. The way she moved, economical and precise. The way she kept her eyes lowered but missed nothing. The bruise on her left wrist, fading yellow-green, exactly the size of a man's grip.
Wang Er complained about weather, about lazy workers, about incompetent magistrates. Castor nodded and made sympathetic sounds while mentally calculating how the arsenic would manifest. Stomach upset first. Vomiting. Weakness. If administered correctly over weeks, it would look like natural disease.
Wang Er drained his tea in one gulp, too busy talking to taste the faint bitterness.
"My wife will see you out," he said dismissively, already turning to his account books.
Liu Yiniang walked Castor to the gate. The evening air was cooling, cicadas beginning their nightly song.
"Your husband seems tired," Castor observed.
"He's been working hard." Her voice was neutral, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the gate post.
"If he falls ill, please let me know. My aunt knows many herbal remedies." He touched her hand briefly, professionally. "We're neighbors. We should help each other."
She pulled her hand back, but not quickly. "Thank you, Scholar Castor."
He walked away feeling her eyes on his back.
***
Three days later, Mei Ling returned from market with news: Wang Er had been violently sick. Vomiting for hours. The village doctor diagnosed bad fish.
Castor expressed appropriate concern and sent Mei Ling with "medicinal soup"—containing the second dose.
A week after that, he visited Wang Er personally. The man was bedridden now, face gray, sweating through his expensive silk sheets. The room stank of illness and fear.
"Scholar Castor." Wang Er's voice was weak. "Kind of you to visit."
"We may have our disagreements about land, but you're still my neighbor." Castor set down a bundle. "Special herbs from the mountains. My late father swore by them for stomach ailments."
Liu Yiniang took the bundle with trembling hands. Up close, Castor saw the exhaustion in her face, the purple shadows under her eyes. She'd been nursing her husband day and night, watching him deteriorate, not understanding why.
"I'll prepare them immediately," she whispered.
Castor caught her wrist gently. "Let me help. These herbs require specific preparation."
In the kitchen, away from Wang Er's bedchamber, Castor boiled water and measured portions with theatrical care. Liu Yiniang watched, memorizing the process.
"How long has he been sick?" Castor asked.
"Two weeks. The doctor says it's lung fever now. But the medicine doesn't help." Her voice cracked. "He's dying, isn't he?"
Castor turned to face her. She was close enough to smell—light jasmine soap, sweat, the metallic tang of fear. "Probably. I'm sorry."
"Don't be." The words escaped before she could stop them. Her hand flew to her mouth, horrified at her own honesty.
"It's alright." Castor stepped closer. "Marriages aren't always happy. I understand."
"You don't understand anything." But she didn't move away. "When he dies, his family will take everything. His brothers already circling like vultures. I'll be thrown out with nothing."
"Not if someone protected you."
She looked up at him, and Castor saw the exact moment understanding dawned. Hope and horror mixed on her face.
"What are you suggesting?"
He cupped her face with one hand. She was shaking. "I'm suggesting that widows need protection. That I could provide it. If you were... appropriately grateful."
"He's dying in the next room." But her voice lacked conviction.
"Which means you're running out of time to secure your future." His thumb traced her lower lip. "I can make sure his family doesn't take the house. Can ensure you're not destitute. All you have to do is be mine."
"I'm his wife."
"For another few days." Castor leaned closer, breath hot against her ear. "Then you'll be a widow. Unless you choose to be something better. Something safer."
Her breathing was rapid, pupils dilated. Fear or arousal—at this point it didn't matter. Both produced the same physical response, the same weakening of resistance.
"I can't. Not while he's—"
Castor kissed her. She stiffened, tried to pull away, but his hand tangled in her hair, holding her in place. After a moment, she stopped fighting. Her mouth opened. She kissed him back with the desperation of someone drowning.
When he pulled away, she looked shattered.
"Tomorrow night," Castor said. "I'll bring more medicine. Be ready."
***
Wang Er was worse the next evening. The third dose had accelerated his decline—Castor had been generous with the arsenic this time. The man could barely lift his head, speech slurred, skin gray as ashes.
Liu Yiniang met Castor at the door. She'd bathed and changed into clean cotton, hair loose around her shoulders. The message was clear even if unspoken.
"He's sleeping," she whispered. "The medicine you brought yesterday... it made him sleep deeply."
"Good." Castor closed the door behind him. "We shouldn't wake him."
She led him to the kitchen, hands shaking as she poured wine neither of them would drink. The room was warm from the banked cooking fire, shadows dancing across walls.
"I've been thinking," she started. "Maybe there's another way—"
Castor grabbed her waist, pulling her against him. She gasped as she felt his cock hard against her stomach. Twenty inches of thick meat pressing through his robe.
"There's only one way." He walked her backward until she hit the kitchen table. "And you knew that before I arrived. That's why you bathed. Why you wore your best cotton. Why your husband is drugged into unconsciousness."
"Please," she whispered. "I've never—I've only been with him—"
"And he failed to give you children in fifteen years." Castor lifted her onto the table, pushing her thighs apart. "Let's see if I'm more successful."
She tried to close her legs. He pried them open, patient but inexorable. Her cotton robe rode up, exposing pale thighs, the dark triangle of hair between them. She'd never shaved—village custom kept women natural. The scent of her was clean soap and fearful arousal.
"He's ten feet away," Liu Yiniang breathed. "My husband is dying in the next room and you want to—"
"Yes." Castor freed his cock. It sprang up, obscenely large, veins thick along the shaft. Her eyes widened.
"That won't fit. You'll tear me—"
"You'll stretch." He rubbed the head against her entrance. She was barely wet, just the faintest moisture from fear and unwanted anticipation. "And if it hurts, you'll endure it. Because the alternative is being thrown into the street when he dies."
She opened her mouth to protest. He thrust forward, burying the first four inches. Her protest became a choked scream she barely managed to muffle against her own hand. Her body clamped down around him, virgin-tight despite fifteen years of marriage. Wang Er must have had a small cock, or rarely used it.
Castor's was neither small nor gentle.
He pushed deeper, watching her face contort. Pain, shame, the beginning of unwilling pleasure as her body responded despite her mind's horror. She was hot inside, silken walls gripping his cock like a vice.
"That's it," he murmured, sliding more in. "Take it like a good wife. Except you're taking cock from the man who's killing your husband. How does that feel?"
"I hate you," she sobbed. But her hips rolled forward, trying to accommodate his length.
He grabbed her hair, yanking her head back so he could see her throat, her heaving breasts beneath the cotton. "You'll hate me every time I fuck you. And you'll still spread your legs when I call. Because I'm all that stands between you and destitution."
From the bedroom, Wang Er's labored breathing continued. Oblivious. Dying. While his wife was split open on another man's cock ten feet away.
Castor bottomed out, all twenty inches buried to the hilt. Liu Yiniang's stomach bulged slightly from his size. She looked down in horror at where they joined, at the obscene stretch of her body around him.
"Please," she whispered. "Just finish. Please just—"
He started fucking her properly. Long, brutal strokes that made the table creak, made her bite her hand to stay quiet, made her breasts bounce and her eyes roll back. She was crying and moaning simultaneously, body betraying her mind, getting wetter with each thrust.
"You're going to cum on my cock while your husband dies," Castor growled, increasing his pace. "And tomorrow you'll serve him soup and clean his shit and pretend you're a devoted wife. But we'll both know. We'll both know you're just my whore."
Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. She was close, body tensing, walls fluttering around his length. When she came, she bit down on her own arm to muffle the scream, blood speckling her teeth, body convulsing in shameful ecstasy.
Castor didn't stop. He fucked her through it, chasing his own release, using her body without mercy. When he finally came, he buried himself as deep as possible, flooding her womb with thick ropes of seed. Far more than Wang Er had ever produced.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them breathing hard. Then he pulled out slowly. His cum immediately began leaking from her stretched pussy, dripping onto the kitchen table where she prepared her husband's meals.
"Clean yourself," he ordered. "And give your husband this." He handed her a small vial. The fourth dose—the final one. "Tell him it's medicine from the monks. Make sure he drinks all of it."
Liu Yiniang took the vial with shaking hands. Her face was streaked with tears, legs still trembling, his seed still leaking from between her thighs. She looked destroyed.
"Tomorrow you'll be a widow," Castor said, adjusting his robes. "The day after, you'll come to my house and thank Aunt Mei Ling for my 'help' during this difficult time. Understood?"
She nodded mutely.
He left through the back gate, satisfied. One problem nearly solved.
***
Wang Er died two days later, convulsing in agony while three village doctors watched helplessly. Arsenic poisoning looked like so many natural diseases that none suspected murder.
The funeral was well-attended—Wang Er had been wealthy enough to command respect if not love. Castor stood with other villagers, appropriately solemn, watching the burial.
Liu Yiniang wore mourning white, face properly grief-stricken. But when their eyes met across the cemetery, he saw only fear and shame. And resignation. She would come to his house. She would spread her legs whenever he commanded. Because survival trumped dignity.
Castor's gaze drifted to where Mei Ling stood, watching both him and Liu Yiniang with narrowed eyes. His aunt was intelligent. She'd seen Liu Yiniang's reaction to him, seen something in Castor's manner that didn't fit.
She suspected. Not the full truth—not yet. But enough to be dangerous.
Another problem, he thought. But also an opportunity.
***
Mei Ling confronted him three nights later.
Castor was in his study, reviewing examination materials he'd already memorized fifty years ago. The door opened without knocking—improper, which meant she was agitated.
"We need to talk." Her voice was tight.
He set down his brush. "About?"
"Wang Er. His death. The... timing." She entered, closing the door behind her. Her hands twisted together nervously. "I've been thinking about the medicine you brought him. The special herbs. How he got worse after each visit."
Castor's expression remained neutral. "Illness progresses. That's natural."
"Is it?" She stepped closer. "You knew exactly how much—" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "How much arsenic to use, didn't you?"
The silence stretched between them. Outside, night birds called. Inside, Castor calculated options.
Deny? She wouldn't believe him.
Kill her? Possible, but wasteful.
Threaten? That might work. Or...
"Yes," he said simply.
She recoiled as if struck. "You admit it? You murdered him?"
"I solved a problem." Castor stood, moving around the desk. "He threatened us. Threatened you specifically. Was I supposed to let him destroy our family?"
"There were other ways! Legal ways!" But her voice wavered.
"Were there?" He advanced. She retreated until her back hit the wall. "Would the magistrate have helped a failed scholar against a wealthy landowner? Would village elders have intervened? Or would we have lost everything while they watched?"
"You still didn't have to—" She stopped, eyes widening. "His wife. That day at the funeral. The way she looked at you. What did you do?"
Castor smiled. No point in hiding it now. "I fucked her. On her kitchen table. While Wang Er was dying in the next room."
Mei Ling's hand flew to her mouth. "How could you? She's a respectable woman, you're—"
"I'm practical. She needed protection. I needed her complicity. We made a transaction." He reached out, touching Mei Ling's face. She flinched. "Just like you and I are about to make one."
"What are you talking about?"
"You know about Wang Er's death. Which makes you an accessory. You brought him the 'medicinal soup' with the second dose. Remember?" His thumb traced her jawline.
"We're accomplices now, Aunt. Partners in murder. If I hang, you hang beside me."
Horror dawned on her face. "I didn't know what was in the soup! You said it was medicine—"
"Who would believe that? A poor scholar murders the wealthy landowner threatening to seize his property. His aunt, the only witness, claims ignorance." He leaned closer, smelling the jasmine soap she always used.
"They'd hang us both. Unless..."
"Unless?" Her voice barely audible.
"Unless you give me a reason to protect you." His hand slid down to cup her breast through the hanfu.
She gasped.
"A very good reason."
"I'm your aunt. I raised you. Your mother trusted me to—"
"My mother is dead." His hand squeezed, feeling her nipple harden involuntarily.
"My father is dead. You're just a woman who knows too much. And women who know too much need to be controlled."
She tried to push him away. "Stop this. You're not yourself. That fever changed you—""No fever." He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand down to his cock. It was already hard, twenty inches tenting his robe.
"Just me. The real me. And you're going to service this cock. Tonight. Tomorrow. Every night I want. Because the alternative is confessing to the magistrate and dying together."
Tears streamed down her face. "Please. Don't do this. I'm family—"
"You were family." He started unwrapping her hanfu, layer by layer. She resisted, pushing at his hands, but he was stronger. Young muscles against aging woman's strength. "Now you're just mine."
When her hanfu finally fell away, she stood shivering in her underclothes. Forty-three years old but still beautiful. Full breasts, wider hips than youth, the slight softness of middle age.
Nothing like the concubines he'd had in his second life, but available.
Convenient.
His.
"Please," she whispered one last time.Castor didn't answer. He lifted her—she weighed almost nothing—and carried her to the kitchen.
Same room where she'd cooked for him all his life.
Same table where she'd taught him to read.
Same floor where she'd tended his childhood fevers.
He bent her over that table."No! Not here, not—" Her protest cut off as he tore away her underclothes. She was bare beneath, already naturally lubricated from the body's involuntary response to fear and arousal.
He spread her ass cheeks, exposing her completely.
"Forty-three years old," he observed. "Has anyone fucked you since Uncle died? Or have you been celibate, playing the virtuous widow?"
She didn't answer, just sobbed against the table.Castor positioned himself at her entrance. His cock was obscene against her—too large, too thick.
She'd never taken anything close to this size."This is going to hurt," he informed her.
"A lot. But you'll take every inch. Because you have no choice."
He thrust forward.
Mei Ling screamed—actual scream this time, no hand to muffle it. The sound echoed through the house.
No one would hear.
Their nearest neighbor was half a li away.
Castor pushed deeper.
Her body resisted, too tight, unprepared. He didn't care. He forced another few inches in, feeling her walls stretch and tear slightly.
Blood mixed with her reluctant wetness.
"Stop! Please stop, it's too much, you're splitting me—"
He grabbed her graying hair, yanking her head back. "You raised me. Fed me. Loved me. And now you're getting fucked like a common whore because you couldn't mind your own business. How does that feel, Auntie?"
He bottomed out finally, all twenty inches buried in her middle-aged pussy. She was a mess—crying, drooling, body shaking with sobs. But her walls gripped him beautifully, tight and hot and utterly his.
Castor started fucking her properly. No gentleness, no consideration. Just brutal thrusts that made her scream with each one, that made the table scrape across the floor, that reduced her to an object.
"You're mine now," he growled. "My aunt. My property. My cock sleeve. Say it."
"N-no—"
He slapped her ass hard, leaving a red handprint. "Say it!"
"I'm yours!" she sobbed. "I'm your property! Please just stop—"
But he didn't stop. He fucked her until she stopped screaming and just whimpered.
Until her body went limp, accepting the violation because fighting was useless.
Until she started getting wet properly, body's survival mechanism engaged, trying to ease the assault.
When he finally came, he pulled out and spun her around. She collapsed to her knees on the cold kitchen floor. He grabbed her head and shoved his cock into her mouth—still coated with her blood and juices and his cum.
"Suck," he ordered. "Clean every inch."She gagged but obeyed, tears and snot streaming down her face, hands braced against his thighs.
He forced himself deeper until she choked, then pulled back just enough for her to breathe before pushing in again.
When he was satisfied, he pulled out and pissed on her face.
She closed her eyes, mouth clamped shut, enduring it.
Hot urine splashed across her face, into her hair, down her naked chest. The ultimate degradation. The final destruction of her dignity.
When he finished, she knelt there in a puddle of his piss, cum dripping from her pussy, blood on her thighs, looking utterly destroyed.
"Tomorrow you'll serve me breakfast like always," Castor said, adjusting his robes.
"You'll smile and be pleasant. And tomorrow night you'll crawl to my bed and spread your legs. Every night. Whenever I want. For as long as I want. Understood?"
She nodded silently.
"And when Liu Yiniang visits, you'll be polite to her. You'll serve her tea. You'll pretend you don't know I'm fucking her too." He crouched down, grabbing her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"Because you're complicit now. In murder. In everything. You keep my secrets, and I let you live. Simple trade."
"I understand," she whispered.He left her there on the kitchen floor, covered in his fluids, broken in every way that mattered.
In his study, Castor smiled. Two women conquered. One enemy dead. The ancestral land secured.
And the provincial examination was still six months away.
This life is already better than the last, he thought, hearing Mei Ling's quiet sobs through the wall.
And I've barely started.
***
CHAPTER END