The orphanage was always quiet after dusk. With the distant chirping of nocturnal beasts and the rustle of wind across bamboo leaves, the mountain valley would fall into a hush so profound it felt sacred.
Aman sat at the edge of the pond behind the orphanage, legs folded beneath his round, cushiony hips. His reflection shimmered on the water's surface — long lashes, soft lips, delicate cheekbones, and shoulder-length dark hair fluttering in the breeze. His C-cup breasts pressed gently against the thin fabric of his robe, which clung to his curves like silk to flame. His tiny bulge — barely noticeable under the hem — made the image feel more surreal than real.
Yet Aman's gaze wasn't on his own reflection.
It was on the glowing tome before him.
The Empty Tome, his secret golden finger, hovered in midair, pages flipping silently. Its ink shimmered in moonlight, yet remained unreadable to any but him. And tonight, something stirred within it.
> "Technique identified: Jade Ripple Movement – Incomplete."
His eyes widened. That was a movement technique used by elite female cultivators in the Cloudveil Sect, a sect known for speed and elegance. He'd only seen a visiting disciple use it once, years ago — her steps light as a feather, body gliding across the pond like a spirit.
> "Absorbing…
Analyzing…
Adapting…"
The tome flipped pages rapidly, before glowing brighter.
> "Technique reconstructed: Velvet Glide — personalized adaptation complete."
Aman's heart thumped.
He stood slowly, tightening the sash of his robe. The cool night air tickled his exposed thighs. With a deep breath, he stepped forward.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
"C-come on…" he whispered, cheeks flushed.
Then—on the third attempt—his foot skimmed over the pond's surface. He didn't sink. He… glided. Just slightly. Like a breeze had kissed the soles of his feet.
He landed back on the grass, nearly stumbling. His breasts bounced gently from the momentum, and his robe threatened to slide off one shoulder. Aman gasped and quickly tugged it back, his cheeks bright red.
"I did it…"
The tome closed, satisfied. Aman gently dismissed it with a thought — it vanished into his soul, unseen, unfelt by any other being. No one knew his secret.
But someone… was watching.
---
High up in the trees, eyes hidden behind a bamboo veil, a woman stared silently.
"His movements… so graceful. Yet… untrained." Her voice was barely audible. "What an enchanting creature…"
She swallowed hard, unable to look away from the androgynous boy below — his wide hips swaying slightly with each movement, the way his robe fluttered, hugging and releasing his plush curves. His every breath made his chest jiggle softly. There was innocence in his movements, but temptation in his form.
"...He's not from any known sect. And he… has no Martial Spirit." She frowned. "Yet he just recreated a peak-rank movement technique? Impossible…"
Her gaze lingered.
She didn't move.
She couldn't.
---
That night, Aman lay in bed, his small form curled tightly beneath the thin blanket. His heart still raced from the Velvet Glide success. His body was hot. Not from fever, but from… pressure. Tension. A tension he hadn't acknowledged in days.
He let out a soft sigh, and the blanket slipped, exposing his pale, smooth shoulders. His pink nipples peeked slightly through the open robe.
His thighs rubbed together unconsciously.
He whimpered.
"…Just once…" he whispered.
Slowly, shyly, his fingers trailed down his chest, over the soft curve of his breast — his breath hitching — and down to his flat stomach. Every slight movement of his fingers made his body respond, trembling under his own touch.
When his fingers brushed past his tiny member — barely over an inch in length — a small moan escaped his lips. It wasn't even the touch that drove him wild… it was the vulnerability. The helplessness. The sheer wrongness of feeling this good while being so small, so delicate, so… feminine.
His thighs quivered as his breathing deepened.
"Nnngh…~" he bit his lip. His fingers moved rhythmically, teasing, circling, not for climax… but for the sensation. The build-up. The soft waves.
Each bounce of his chest made the blanket shift. Each squirm caused his plush butt to press into the thin mattress, rising slightly with every breath. His cocklet twitched, useless yet sensitive.
Then—snap.
A twig cracked outside the window.
He froze.
Eyes wide.
Heart racing.
Was someone there?
Aman grabbed his robe, fumbling to cover himself. His cheeks burned with shame and fear. But… no one entered. No voice called. Just the night wind.
"…I'm… still alone," he whispered, voice trembling.
---
Days passed.
Aman continued to train. The Velvet Glide was just the beginning. The Empty Tome absorbed techniques like a silent predator — only when Aman observed them firsthand. It had no power of its own. No quests. No guidance. Just this eerie, incomprehensible intelligence that served only him.
One afternoon, near the forest cliffs, Aman watched a bandit fight a wandering rogue cultivator. The rogue used a flame-based finger art — a technique Aman didn't recognize. The moment it was used, the tome stirred again.
> "Technique absorbed: Scorching Vein – Fragment."
Aman ducked into the shadows, heart thumping, robe clinging to his damp back.
> "Technique incomplete. Reconstructing…"
He would practice it later. Alone. In the back glade. Where no one would see the glowing flames curl around his delicate, trembling fingers.
---
That night, he tried it.
The heat danced up his arm, burning away part of his sleeve. His smooth shoulder was exposed, skin flushed from effort.
But it worked.
The power responded to him.
His robe began slipping again as sweat beaded along his body — between his breasts, along his lower back, and dripping from his soft pink thighs.
He tried not to let the feeling take over.
But the heat…
The way the fire tickled his palm and crept across his chest like hot kisses…
The way his nipples reacted — stiff and aching through the thin robe…
He collapsed to his knees, panting.
And as he leaned forward, his plush butt perked up behind him, robe riding high and exposing the rounded softness that trembled with every breath.
Then—
A breeze.
And a presence.
"Practicing fire arts at night… quite bold."
Aman yelped.
He turned, eyes wide — face pale.
Behind him stood the woman from the tree, now fully revealed. She wore a long cloak, her face covered with a half-mask. Her cultivation was deep — far beyond anything Aman could sense.
"…W-who are you?" he stammered.
She walked closer, eyes scanning him. She didn't answer. Instead, her gaze settled on his robe — now barely hanging off his shoulders — and the tiny twitching bulge beneath his sash.
"…Interesting."
Aman's hands shot to cover himself. "P-please don't hurt me…"
She chuckled softly. "I wouldn't dream of it, little flower."
Aman trembled, unsure if her words were threat or affection.
"…You have no Martial Spirit. Yet I saw you recreate two high-grade techniques in less than a week."
Aman shook his head quickly. "I-I don't know what you're talking about!"
Her eyes narrowed.
But then she crouched beside him, her gloved hand brushing a lock of hair from his cheek.
"…You're a fragile little thing. Like a porcelain doll."
Aman froze.
She leaned closer. Her breath brushed his ear. "If you want to survive… learn faster. Train harder. And never show that soft body to strangers. Some… wouldn't be as kind as me."
Then, like a shadow, she vanished.
Aman collapsed, heart pounding.
He didn't sleep that night. But he didn't stop training either.
---
The next day, he began rewriting the Scorching Vein technique into something safer, more elegant. His robe clung to his damp body as he trained under the sun, and passersby occasionally paused, mouths dry, unable to look away from the bouncing curves of the mysterious orphan boy.
They didn't know who he was.
They didn't know his power.
They only knew… he was beautiful.
But none of them knew about The Empty Tome.
None of them knew he was absorbing everything.
Learning. Rewriting. Growing.
And soon…
They would all find out what happened when the softest flower becomes a blade.