The sun dipped below the horizon, drenching the orphanage courtyard in hues of violet and gold. The air grew cooler, shadows stretched longer, and the laughter of children faded into the night. Aman sat alone by the stone well, the hem of his thin cotton robe fluttering gently in the evening breeze. His delicate fingers clutched the tattered cover of a worn cultivation primer he'd long since memorized—his real focus lay inward, toward the mysterious grimoire nestled in his soul.
The Empty Tome.
It didn't glow or hum like the heavenly treasures described in legends. Instead, it was silent… watchful. Waiting.
Aman closed his eyes.
> [The Empty Tome is listening...]
You have encountered a technique.
Name: Flowing Leaf Palm (Low-Grade Yellow)
Compatibility: Moderate
Rewrite? Absorb? Copy?
Aman blinked. One of the older boys, Lei Wu, had shown off this technique earlier—swaggering around as spiritual energy flowed through his arms like water. Aman had quietly watched from behind a pillar, memorizing the movements.
He selected:
> [Rewrite]
The grimoire shimmered in his soul, pages unfurling like silk.
> Rewriting technique... modifiers applied.
Created: Veilwind Touch (Low-Grade Yellow)
Effect: Amplifies speed with illusionary afterimages. May daze weaker opponents.
Aman's lips parted slightly.
"I didn't even move…" he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his cheek. His feminine face flushed under the soft moonlight, small, rosy lips trembling with quiet excitement.
---
That night, as the dormitory quieted and breaths evened out in slumber, Aman remained restless. The thin cotton robe he wore clung to his soft body, the fabric so old it had turned slightly translucent under the moon's gaze.
His cheeks flushed as he shifted in his bunk. The bedsheet clung to his perky chest, revealing the slight bounce of his C-cup breasts with every breath. His flat stomach tensed as his legs rubbed together instinctively—his tiny, almost comical member barely twitching from beneath the folds of his underrobe.
He bit his lip, feeling heat pooling in his belly.
"No… not now," he whispered to himself, even as his thighs pressed together. But the pressure was building—both from the strange tingling energy circulating through his meridians... and from his own confusing desires.
He rolled over, burying his face in his pillow, trying not to make a sound. But the friction of fabric, the tightness of the robe on his soft curves, the jiggle of his breasts with every suppressed gasp—it was too much.
His breath hitched.
His fingers slid slowly down beneath his waistband, brushing against his tiny shaft. It barely peeked past the soft mound of his pelvis, completely dwarfed by the plush roundness of his rear. His cheeks reddened even further as he touched himself, moaning softly into the pillow.
Aman didn't understand why his body was like this. Feminine. Supple. Soft in all the wrong—or perhaps all the right—ways.
He could feel his tight entrance clenching instinctively with need, even though he'd never used it. The sensation sent a shiver up his spine. He arched slightly, his breasts flattening against the bed, back curving as he rubbed in slow, shameful circles.
When the pleasure finally crested in a quiet, twitching climax, he lay there for minutes, breathless. A small wet spot darkened his sheets, no larger than a coin. His thighs glistened slightly, his ass cheeks sticking together before he shifted again.
"…Pervert," he mumbled to himself, face buried in embarrassment. "I'm a pervert…"
And yet… the Empty Tome remained silent. Watching. Never judging.
---
Morning came.
The courtyard was filled with activity. A traveling cultivator had arrived, claiming to be a scout for the distant Cloudshear Sect—a minor sect known for recruiting from the outer cities.
The orphans were gathered and lined up, each eager to be noticed. Martial Spirits flared one by one as the recruiter passed.
Blazing Talon. Frostwing Cat. Verdant Serpent.
Then came Aman.
He bowed low, modestly. The recruiter—a woman in her thirties with sharp eyes and a sword at her hip—cocked her head.
"And you? What is your Martial Spirit?"
"I… I don't have one," Aman whispered, looking down, eyes glistening.
The woman's brow furrowed. "Then why are you here?"
Aman hesitated. He felt the Empty Tome hum faintly.
A sudden wind swept through the courtyard.
Aman's robe fluttered dramatically—though almost scandalously so, the thin material pressing tight against his bouncing chest and wide hips. His silvery-blue hair shimmered as he stepped forward and bowed again.
"I don't have a Martial Spirit," he said softly, "but I have a technique I've created myself."
"Oh?" The woman raised a brow. "Show me."
Aman took a breath. His body moved like flowing water—graceful, gentle, elegant. With a single step, he split into three illusionary afterimages, each shifting and blurring like mist. The woman blinked, her spiritual perception momentarily deceived.
> [Veilwind Touch activated]
She gasped, hand going to her sword.
"You…" she muttered. "You're not entirely ordinary."
He stood, breathing hard, the motion causing his robe to rise slightly. A tiny trail of sweat trickled between his soft breasts.
"Who taught you that?" she asked, voice firmer now.
Aman smiled shyly. "No one."
She stared at him.
"…Come with me."
---
Later that night, Aman bathed in a stone tub behind the main hall of the orphanage, preparing for his journey. He sank into the hot water, letting it seep into his soft skin. His breasts floated slightly, nipples perking from the heat. His slim waist and plump thighs shimmered beneath the surface. His tiny cock remained limp, barely poking above the waterline.
The moon hung above, full and bright.
Suddenly, the bamboo door creaked.
"Aman?"
It was Elder Sister Xinya—an older orphan who had helped raise the others.
"Elder Sis—!" he gasped, trying to hide his chest with his arms.
She blinked. Her eyes trailed over his wet, exposed body for a second longer than necessary. Then, with a soft smile, she stepped inside, holding a fresh towel.
"I came to say goodbye," she said. "And to tell you… you're more beautiful than you know."
Aman's face turned crimson.
"But I—I'm a—"
She placed a finger on his lips. "It doesn't matter."
She leaned down. Their lips met—soft, slow, warm.
The towel fell to the floor.
That night, beneath the moonlight and warm water, Aman experienced pleasure not from shame or confusion—but from warmth. Acceptance. Desire that felt natural.
Her hands roamed over his breasts. His tiny cock twitched shyly. Her fingers teased his thighs, massaging his thick, plush ass until he squirmed with whimpering need.
And later… when she finally touched him down there, coaxing a soft, gasping release, Aman moaned into her neck and felt safe.