Hunting milfs in cultivation world
Chapter 56: Life And Death 1

Chapter 56: Life And Death 1

Meng Hao’s expression remained calm on the surface, but deep within, his thoughts churned like storm-tossed seas. As he sat silently across from the woman in green robes, her faint, mysterious smile unnerved him more than a blade held to his throat.

She hadn’t spoken yet, hadn’t made a single threatening gesture—but her presence alone twisted the atmosphere in the carriage like a vice around his heart.

Who is she? he thought, eyes narrowed in subtle scrutiny. Why has she come here... and why me?

From the moment she had entered the carriage, he had sensed something was wrong. Her movements were too fluid, her gaze too calm. Someone to whom life and death were trivial games. Meng Hao tried to peer into her cultivation realm, but it was like staring into a vast, bottomless abyss. No fluctuations of spiritual energy, no outward pressure—just the unnerving stillness of power that needed no announcement.

Meng Hao’s thoughts began to spin in panic beneath his controlled exterior.

Is she here because of lust? Could it be that, like the others, she’s drawn to me by some charm-related reaction? Or is there something more dangerous at play—something deeper, more sinister?

Whatever it is, he concluded grimly, this situation is bad. Very bad.

His instincts—those not shaped through spiritual trials or combat, but sharpened by the cold cunning of a transmigrated soul seasoned in the unpredictable chaos of two lifetimes—screamed at him with a primal urgency. It wasn’t the warning of a cultivator sensing hostile intent in the air. No, this was deeper... more ancient.

Meng Hao felt like a lamb seated before a predator too refined to salivate. A predator who wouldn’t lunge immediately—but instead might gaze for a while, watching, considering, perhaps even admiring the beauty of its prey before deciding whether to devour it or simply toy with it for sport.

Inside the confined space of the carriage, silence reigned. But it wasn’t the tranquil kind. It was thick—suffocating. An invisible pressure curled around his body like chains of air, tightening with every passing moment. It was as if the very atmosphere had taken on weight, settling onto his chest, squeezing his lungs, making each breath a conscious, labored effort.

A faint sheen of sweat formed on his brow.

Breathe. Slowly.

He commanded his body to obey, drawing in a quiet breath, suppressing the trembling in his limbs.

No, he thought, locking his jaw. I have to stay calm. If I panic now, I’m dead for sure.

He steadied his gaze, not daring to meet the woman’s eyes directly, but allowing himself enough of a glance to gauge her posture—elegant, unmoved, serene.

This was unlike anything he had experienced before. Yes, he had faced death in other forms—ambushes from jealous disciples, surprise attacks from rival sects, He had felt killing intent pointed at him like a blade at his throat. But this... this was different.

There was no overt hostility here.

No flaring spiritual pressure.

No drawn weapon.

No raised voice.

Just a woman—still, composed, and smiling ever so faintly.

A smile like frost clinging to spring flowers—beautiful, delicate... and deadly.

She sat across from him with the grace of a queen, the patience of a saint, and the cold indifference of someone who had watched countless lives flicker out before her without so much as blinking.

And worst of all, her eyes carried that terrifying expression that said: I haven’t yet decided if I will let you live.

Meng Hao swallowed hard and composed himself.

Respect, he thought. Deference. I must show no arrogance, no hint of insolence. If I irritate her even slightly, it could be the end for me. The only path that might lead to survival is complete, humble submission.

His predecessor may have faced a few life-and-death moments, but Meng Hao himself—modern, cunning, but ultimately still a stranger to true mortal peril—had never felt this level of dread. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum, each beat echoing with fear and pressure. Cold sweat began to dampen the back of his neck, and a creeping chill ran down his spine. The air inside the carriage seemed to thicken with every passing second, heavy with unspoken danger.

So this is what real fear feels like...

Every instinct told him that his life was dangling on a fragile thread, and that this mysterious woman could sever it with the smallest motion.

And yet, he knew better than to betray that fear. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Meng Hao bowed his head slightly and spoke with utmost reverence, voice calm though his heart was racing.

"Your Highness," he said respectfully, eyes lowered, "I truly do not know how I might have offended you. If I have, even by accident, I humbly beg your forgiveness."

As he spoke, he forced a polite, almost fake smile to appear on his face—one that masked the pounding terror within him. His tone was careful, deferential, not too submissive to seem like groveling, but certainly far from disrespectful.

The woman across from him didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she gazed at him with an expression of quiet amusement, her lips curving just slightly upward, like an older sister watching a child struggle to act innocent.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"Boy," she said in a smooth, unhurried tone, "stop these petty tricks of yours."

Her voice was like a slow-flowing river—soft, melodic, yet edged with something cold and sharp beneath the surface.

"I’m not some naïve little girl, like the one driving your carriage outside," she continued, voice growing slightly more disdainful. "I won’t fall for your charm... or that pretty face of yours."

Meng Hao’s heart sank, but his expression didn’t falter. Inwardly, he cursed. His charm, which had caused even powerful cultivators to become infatuated with him, had no effect on this woman. Whatever cultivation realm she had reached, it was clearly high enough to be completely immune.

He gave a small, self-deprecating smile and lowered his gaze once more.

"My bad, Your Highness..." he said softly, his tone filled with humble acknowledgment. "I overstepped."

There was no room to argue. No room for pride. Since charm wouldn’t work, his only path forward was to be as harmless as possible—to become insignificant in her eyes, like an ant she wouldn’t bother to crush.

The woman tilted her head slightly, her gaze unreadable. She watched him for a moment longer, as if weighing his response, before speaking again.

"That’s a good boy," she said with faint mockery in her voice, like she was praising a pet who had finally stopped misbehaving.

"But still..." she continued, her eyes narrowing, "you’re just a bug. If you hadn’t crossed paths with me, maybe... maybe you could’ve grown stronger in time."

Her tone carried a note of strange nostalgia—like she was regretting having to destroy something fragile and promising.

Before Meng Hao could make sense of her words, she moved.

No warning. No sound.

One moment she was seated gracefully across from him, the next—gone.

Vanished, as if the air itself had swallowed her.

For a heartbeat, Meng Hao sat frozen.

And then—she reappeared.

Right before his eyes, not more than an arm’s length away.

His entire body tensed in a reflexive panic. Before he could even think to move, her hand was already upon him—slender, pale, and impossibly fast.

Her fingers wrapped around his throat like an iron clamp, and with terrifying ease, she lifted him off the floor of the carriage.

He gasped, feet dangling in the air, his hands instinctively reaching up to pry her off—but her grip didn’t budge.

The woman’s earlier grace, her refined presence, had vanished.

Now her expression was cold. Not angry. Not murderous.

Just indifferent.

As though she were plucking a weed from her garden.

To Meng Hao, she no longer looked like a woman. She looked like a demon.

His body thrashed instinctively, legs kicking in the air, hands clawing at hers, but nothing helped. Her grip only tightened. His throat burned with pressure, his lungs crying for air.

Then came the foam.

It began to form at the corners of his mouth, his mind growing hazy as darkness began to edge in from the corners of his vision.

She watched him struggle, unmoved.

"But your bad luck..." she said quietly, almost regretfully, "is that you met me."

"Well," she added with a small shrug, "that’s none of my concern."

Her fingers clenched tighter.

Pain exploded in his neck, radiating through his skull like a wave of needles. His body convulsed. He felt his spiritual energy start to slip, like sand falling through his fingers.

The strength drained from his limbs, his resistance growing weaker with each passing second.

So this... is the cultivation world? he thought, as the last remnants of oxygen were forced from his lungs.

Where life and death are decided in an instant... where you can die without cause, without warning...

Where a single misstep can bring your end—no matter who you are or what you’ve done...

He felt regret creep into his chest—not for his actions, but for the way he had lowered his guard.

Being surrounded by women fawning over me... made me complacent. I forgot where I truly am. This world... it doesn’t forgive weakness.

As his consciousness began to fade completely, he let out a final internal sigh.

So this is it... my end...

The last thing he saw before the darkness fully took him was the woman’s eyes—calm, unchanging, without a trace of emotion.

And then—blackness.

Total and absolute.