The Immortal Flower Pavilion: Trained by the Gentle Gardener into an Immortal Whore Flower that Lactates from Orgasm

First, she checked her weapons. A collapsible phase dagger, no bigger than a lipstick when compressed, concealable in any seam of her clothing. Decompressed, it was a short blade about forty centimeters long, forged from phase crystal, capable of slicing through most known magical barriers and physical materials. The exhibits – the women – looked entirely different in the night than they did in the day. During the day, Shen Ruolan’s first instinct was to notice their restraints, the intricate cages woven from latex, leather, and vines. But the low light of night concealed these details, leaving only the silhouettes of their bodies illuminated by the faint fluorescence. The curves, encased in various colors of latex, reflected a subdued, matte sheen in the dimness, like a row of porcelain dolls placed at the edge of an abyss. Each one was so still, so close to eternal, that only the slow, deliberate rise and fall of their chests reminded the observer that they were, indeed, alive. The Gardener stopped before a particular display. Shen Ruolan followed, and then recognized the exhibit – this was the “flower” that had first caught her eye during the day. During the day, she had been too shocked by the sight to examine it closely. Now, in the low light of night, she could see it more clearly. It was a woman kneeling in a massive crystal flowerpot, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six years old, around her own age. Her entire body was encased in a seamless, deep red latex suit, sealed from head to toe, with only two tiny, circular openings left for her nostrils. The red latex fit without a single wrinkle at every joint – neck, armpits, hips, and knees – suggesting the suit was either custom-made or somehow directly molded onto her body. Her arms were bound behind her back, not with simple ropes, but with a multi-stage restraint system composed of at least four leather straps. These were fastened at her wrists, elbows, and shoulders, connected by metal rods between each strap, fixing her entire arm into an unmovable, unalterable arc. Her legs, from the knees down, were encased in a matching deep red latex mermaid tail bag. The tail bag was smooth and seamless, gradually Shen Ruolan wanted to pull her foot away, but the medicinal effects of the flower tea and incense, accumulated throughout the day, were now in full force. Her legs felt as if they were filled with lead, and below her knees, they were almost unresponsive. She could only watch helplessly as the two tendrils wrapped around her ankles, one loop, two loops, three loops. Each loop fit snugly against the curve of her skin, not too tight, not too loose, just enough for her to feel the restraint without digging into her flesh. Then, a second pair of tendrils crossed over the first, looping twice more, binding her ankles together. Her legs, clad in black stockings, were firmly secured at the ankles, unable to separate, unable to lift. She could only stand there, straight and still, feeling the viscous fluid secreted by the vines slowly seeping into the silk fibers. "This is the Spirit-Binding Vine," the Gardener's voice came from in front of her, his tone as calm as if he were explaining the care of a potted plant. "A variety cultivated in the flower pavilion. It has a very interesting characteristic – the mucus it secretes doesn't harm the skin, it merely temporarily obstructs the flow of magic. At the same time, it increases tactile sensitivity by about three times." "...Let me go!" Shen Ruolan finally broke the calm composure she had maintained since entering. These three words were not a calm command, not a tactical delay – they were anger, shame, and a realization of her own deep-seated unwillingness only after the sound had escaped her throat. Her voice bounced off the mirrors in the empty guest room, louder than she had expected, sounding not like an order, but like a small animal thrashing its legs after its neck had been grasped. The Gardener simply watched her. There was no cruel delight in his light green eyes, no mockery of a hunter watching its prey struggle, only pure admiration – as if he were observing a piece of art being meticulously wrapped. The vines continued to creep upwards. Starting from her calves, two thicker tendrils wrapped around her knees, two loops above and two below. It wasn't a painful tightening – the Spirit-Binding Vine's method of coiling was peculiar. It didn't constrict like a rope until flesh deformed. It would first coil around the target, then secrete a thin layer of mucus. Upon contact with the skin, the mucus would rapidly form a thin, elastic gel film, distributing the pressure evenly between the vine and the skin, preventing any single point from bearing excessive force. So, it wasn't constricting – it was enveloping. Each loop of vine clung to the texture of her skin, dividing her perfectly shaped legs, encased in black stockings, into sections. Under the restraint, her muscles bulged slightly upwards, and the smooth curve of her calves was outlined by circles of faint purple luminescence, creating a more erotic, more voluptuous silhouette. Then came her arms. A thicker tendril snaked from behind her back, first coiling around her right wrist, one loop, two loops. Then, a thin offshoot branched out, wrapping around her left wrist, bringing her hands together behind her back, one loop, two loops, three loops – tightening. Her arms formed a fixed, crossed arc behind her back, forcing her shoulder blades inward. This posture involuntarily pushed her chest forward. The two already precarious clasps on her tight combat suit's chest finally gave way under the dual pull of her leaning back and her chest thrusting forward. The button pinged off the mirror with a faint, crisp sound. Shen Ruolan looked down at her chest. The collar of her black combat suit had opened about three to four centimeters after the button popped, revealing a small patch of fair skin below her collarbone and the edge of her black lace bra. Her cheeks flushed to the roots of her ears. Not because of what was exposed – the area of skin was perhaps only half the size of her palm, far less than what she exposed when wearing a training vest on the headquarters' training grounds – but because the exposure itself had been imposed upon her. It wasn't her choice how much to reveal, but the restraint had positioned her body in a posture that necessitated exposure. Then came the vine that wound around her neck. The sensation changed from the cool slipperiness of her ankles and forearms. The vine around her neck was warm. Not the warmth of human body temperature, but closer to the temperature of river water warmed by the sun, just slightly warmer than her skin's surface. It circled from the side of her neck, first tracing the hollow above her collarbone, then splitting into two strands. One strand slid down along the curve of her collarbone, disappearing into the open neckline of her combat suit. The other strand crept down along her spine, past the base of her tied-back ponytail, past the indentation created by her bound hands between her shoulder blades, and continued downwards. The moment the slick, warm sensation touched her waist, Shen Ruolan couldn't hold back. A short, muffled groan escaped from the depths of her throat – "Mmm—". It was a sound between a gasp and a moan, indistinct, soft, the tail end rising slightly before abruptly cutting off – because she bit her lower lip, forcibly stifling the rest of the sound. But that single syllable was enough to push her shame and indignation to their peak. She had never made such a sound in front of any living person. She had broken bones on the training grounds, suffered cracked ribs, endured electric torture from anti-magic forces – and hadn't uttered a sound. Yet now, a vine had merely brushed against her waist, and her body had involuntarily emitted a completely uncontrolled, soft, misleading moan. "The Spirit-Binding Vine's mucus increases tactile sensitivity by about three times," the Gardener said, walking closer. He gently stroked the vine coiled around her shoulder with his finger. His fingertip, through the vine, felt the subtle tremor of her body, a rhythm of tension and shame. Even through the three layers of fabric – the tight combat suit, the stockings, and the vine – it felt as if he were touching her through a veil. The vine's ability to transmit sensation, combined with her tripled skin sensitivity, turned every minuscule touch into a suffocating signal. "And your body seems to react particularly well to the Spirit-Binding Vine, Miss Ruolan." The Gardener lowered his head, leaning close to her ear, his warm breath caressing her earlobe, his voice as light as a petal falling onto water. "You see, it likes you very much." Shen Ruolan bit down harder on her lower lip. The pain from her lip transmitted to her brain, momentarily overriding the全身酥麻 brought on by the vine's mucus. She needed pain. Pain reminded her who she was – Shen Ruolan, Silver Orchid, Special Investigator. She would not yield, would not beg, would not become one of those women with vacant eyes in the flowerpots. This is nothing – she repeated to herself incessantly – this is merely the body's physical response to restraint, a physiological reaction amplified by the flower tea and mucus. She couldn't control this, but it didn't affect her will. Her will was still her own; no one could take it away, no one. The Gardener seemed to read her thoughts. He smiled slightly, not refuting, not further humiliating, but withdrawing his hand from the vine. Then, he took something out from the inner pocket of his robe. Shen Ruolan saw the outline of the object – a butterfly-shaped gag, with black leather as the base, inlaid with a not-too-thick but sufficiently deep pink silicone rod in the center. The rod's surface had a few small raised bumps, and on either side were straps for securing it behind the head. The leather surface of the gag was also embossed with a small butterfly pattern. The craftsmanship was so exquisite it didn't look like a torture device, but more like a limited edition item displayed in the innermost showcase of a high-end custom adult novelty shop. Her eyes widened. "Don't—" Halfway through her refusal, the Gardener's finger gently cupped her chin. Not pinching, not squeezing, but cupping – his thumb resting on her chin, his index finger on either side of her jaw, as if holding a small bird. Then, he pushed the silicone rod into her mouth. As the rod slid across her tongue, she tasted a faint sweetness – not the sweetness of flower tea, but a subtle sweetness inherent to the silicone itself, like that of a baby's pacifier, after some special treatment. This gag had been specially treated before being put on her. Her lips were stretched into an unclosable O. The strap went around the back of her head, passing beneath her high ponytail—the Gardener's fingers flickered through her thick hair, swiftly and lightly, tucking away a few stray strands clinging to the collar with sweat—then tightened and snapped shut. She desperately tried to push the silicone gag out with her tongue, to dislodge it from her mouth, but the design of the gag ensured that the harder she pushed, the tighter the rod wedged itself between her palate and her tongue. Saliva nearly immediately seeped through the edges of the gag. It wasn't that she wanted to drool—her stretched lips couldn't close, her He withdrew his fingers and took something from the wall she hadn't seen before—a silicone tube, shorter than a training rod but thicker at the end, with a circle of fine bristles embedded in its wall, already coated with clear lubricating gel, glistening wetly under the light. "First, a thorough oral cleaning, then we'll switch to the new display gag. Guests like to see the blossoms on the display rack with their lips parted, no need for an extra plug." Shen Ruolan didn't resist. She had been fitted with the gag for so many days that her jaw muscles had atrophied to the point where she could no longer close her mouth tightly even without it. She knelt there, letting the cleaning brush rod slide in through her parted lips, the bristles scraping along the curve of her palate all the way to the root of her tongue and back again, several times. When the bristles swept over the sensitive mucosal line behind her soft palate, her throat still contracted involuntarily, but she no longer gagged—her pharyngeal muscles had been trained like repeatedly pounded meat; the sensitivity was still there, but the trigger point had been raised significantly. After cleaning, the gardener removed the new gag. It was different from the previous functional one—a perfectly round stainless steel ring, about four centimeters in inner diameter, with a ring of translucent medical silicone padding around the outer edge. When inserted into her mouth, the silicone padding fit snugly between her gums and lips, stretching her mouth into a perfect O-shape. The steel ring in the middle allowed a clear view into her oral cavity from the front—the deep red palate, the flattened tongue, and the pharyngeal opening behind the tongue that pulsed with each breath. "Display ring. More comfortable than a speculum, but visually—" He didn't finish, turning the training room mirror to face her. Shen Ruolan saw herself in the mirror. She hadn't looked directly at her own face in a long time. The last time she had cried so fiercely after the full-face latex mask was removed, her eyes were so swollen she couldn't see clearly. Since then, one oral modification and deep taming session after another, each time she caught a glimpse in the mirror, it was of her in a state of disarray, her mouth stuffed with various things, her chin dripping with saliva, her gaze automatically averting. But this time, the gardener had deliberately angled the mirror towards her, his hand resting behind her collar, preventing her from turning her neck. She saw clearly. Deep purple latex wrapped her from neck to ankles. Long-term crawling had lowered her waistline slightly, and the curve of her buttocks was more pronounced than when she first entered the flower house. Her breasts had grown a size larger under the constant suction of the milking machine; her nipples had changed from pale pink to deep red, like two repeatedly massaged berries embedded in transparent suction cups. The dog-ear headband was askew on her head, and the copper bell on her collar swayed gently with each breath. The transparent collection bags on either side of her thighs—the left containing pale yellow fluid, the right containing clear lubricant and flushing return fluid—shimmered faintly in the light. And then there was the perfectly round display ring on her face, stretching her mouth into a perpetually open maw. She no longer looked like Shen Ruolan. Not even like G-07. She looked like a product, pre-packaged before being placed on the display shelf. "Mmm..." Another sound escaped. A slight puff of air, unintentionally released through the center of the display ring. The gardener removed the dog-tail butt plug from behind her, screwed a short, translucent silicone plug into the now-empty posterior interface, and patted the back of her neck behind her collar. "Ten o'clock display. Head to the exhibition hall now." The exhibition hall door was narrower than all the doors in the flower house, so narrow that the gardener had to push Shen Ruolan, crawling, almost along the doorframe to get her through. The door closed silently behind her. The familiar wall lamps in the corridor, whose positions she knew by heart, and the row of equipment on the wall shelves, which she could have touched blindfolded, were all left outside. The air inside was a degree cooler than in the corridor, mixed with the dry, dusty scent of velvet drapes and the woody,焦香 of high-grade cigars—she had smelled this scent on the day of the pollination ceremony. The floor had changed from tiles to a dark gray short-pile carpet. Kneeling on it with her knees wrapped in latex, she could feel the small granular texture of the carpet pile pressing into the latex surface. In the center of the exhibition hall From the first day she stepped into this flower house, every approach he made towards her was accompanied by a degree of violation. Not a crude violation – she could resist crudeness, fight back with anger. It was something gentler, more insidious. Dressing her in floral attire, making her climax with a vibrator, displaying her legs spread in an M-stance for strangers to ogle, guiding her through humiliating poses in the training room with a riding crop until she wanted to bite off her tongue in shame. Every action he took was a step further into deeper humiliation, yet every word he spoke was as if he were simply chatting with her. Not a threat, not a taunt, not any interrogation tactic she had learned to counter in training. He was simply, quietly, gently, unyieldingly transforming her from a top-tier investigator into a flower blooming silently in the center of the exhibition hall. If he had always been brutal, if he had always been cold, she could have hated him. Hatred would have been the sturdiest wall in her psychological defenses, behind which she could hide, fueled by resentment, to survive in this place. But he didn't give her that fuel. After every torment, he offered a touch of gentleness – wiping away her nectar after an orgasm, kissing her forehead after posture training, bringing fruit to her lips after kneeling timed sessions. Like a gardener applying a protective balm to a wound after pruning – not out of guilt, but because it was a necessary step for the flower to grow better. She knew this – her rational mind was perfectly clear. But it didn't stop her body from reacting to every touch. Then he helped her up from the bed, letting her sit. Tears still welled in her eyes, not yet wiped away. He should have seen them – he was crouched before her, less than half a meter away, and the light was bright enough. But he didn't ask, didn't react with any "Why are you crying?" Instead, he reached behind her and unlatched the metal clasp of the restraints on her wrists. *Click.* The left cuff loosened. As the leather slid from her wrist, it carried away the faint sweat that had been trapped there all day, leaving behind a patch of unevenly distributed red marks – not abrasions, but the more tender layer of the dermis revealed as the stratum corneum was flattened by prolonged, uniform pressure. Then the right hand. *Click.* The right cuff also loosened. He placed both cuffs on the bedside table, the metal chain making a faint, delicate clinking sound as it dangled over the edge of the wood grain, and then silence fell. This was the first time since entering the flower house that her hands were completely unrestrained. Not briefly unbound only to be re-secured – but completely, freely. She looked down at her hands, fingers spread, trembling slightly in the light – not from weakness, but because her body was unaccustomed to not being bound. The faint red marks from the cuffs on her wrists were still there, their edges already beginning to fade from red to pale white, likely to disappear completely within half an hour. But she stared at the marks for a long time, as if noticing she had hands for the first time. She clenched her fist, opened it, clenched it again, opened it again. Each extension of her fingers brought a subtle stinging sensation – a normal reaction as blood rushed back into the long-compressed capillaries. But she registered this feeling, savoring it repeatedly, because it proved her hands were still hers. Then the gardener pushed a small dining cart into the room. The cart was silver, with two tiers. The upper tier held a round, white porcelain plate covered by a silver cloche. Beside it was a glass of red wine – no, two glasses. Two glasses. And a bottle of opened red wine, its label bearing script she didn't recognize. She smelled food – not the pale purple tea with its sweet, slightly fishy scent, not the faint sweetness of silicone lubricant from the training room, but real food, the scent of which she hadn't encountered in so long she couldn't recall: the savory char of pan-seared steak, the sharp bite of black pepper, the caramelized sweetness of roasted vegetables mingled with honey and olive oil. Her stomach clenched violently at the scent, emitting the loudest growl it had made in twenty-four hours. The gardener pushed the cart to the bedside, lifted the silver cloche. On the plate was an exquisite steak – about medium-rare, with perfect diamond-shaped grill marks on the surface. Its cross-section revealed pinkish muscle fibers and glistening juices. It was accompanied by roasted asparagus, baby carrots, and a small dollop of mashed potatoes, drizzled with pale yellow butter that was slowly melting, trickling down the curves of the mashed potato mound. He placed the plate on the low table beside the bed, then took another identical plate from the lower tier of the cart and placed it opposite her on the table – his own dinner. He then sat down opposite her, picked up his knife and fork, and began to cut into his steak. Shen Ruolan didn't reach for her food. Not because she didn't want to eat – her stomach had sent hunger signals to every active region of her cerebral cortex – but because she didn't know if she was allowed to. She had been in this flower house for too long, in this room where she was repeatedly instructed from morning to night on what poses to strike and what attire to wear. She had become accustomed to waiting for instructions for everything – could she stand up? Could she sit? Could she eat? The plate of fruit had been within her reach while she was timing herself in front of the mirror, but she hadn't reached for it at all because no one had told her she could. The three layers of latex clothing were completely dried and molded. She looked down at herself. A deep purple, mirror-like sheen flowed from her shoulders to her toes, reflecting a continuous, unbroken band of highlight under the direct glare of the workshop spotlights. She tried to move her right index finger – as the joint bent, three extremely fine, shallow horizontal creases appeared in the latex. Each crease was only about as thick as a strand of hair, deepest when she bent to the second knuckle, then smoothed out simultaneously as she slowly straightened her finger. The slight vacuum seal on the inside of the latex, clinging to her skin, made a barely audible sound of separation, audible only in complete silence. The sound reminded her of some kind of mollusk being peeled from its shell – not painful, but as if she had grown a layer of elastic skin that would envelop every movement, and each simple joint motion was recorded by the latex as a subtle mechanical event. She bent each finger in turn, observing the different crease patterns formed as each knuckle flexed. The skin creases on her index and middle fingers were concentrated at the proximal interphalangeal joints, the two fingers that bent the most; the latex on the inside of her ring finger formed a single, extremely fine, shallow line; the latex on her little finger had almost no creases – her finger was too slender, the latex wrapped too tightly, leaving almost no extra space for skin creases to form. The entire process took about two minutes. She silently recorded this data in her mind, using the habit of an investigator to convert the position and depth of each crease into geometric information – not because the information was useful, but because she needed to do something to stop her brain from thinking about something else: what she saw when she looked down was no longer her own hands. They were a pair of prosthetic limbs, completely encased in a seamless, deep purple shell, looking as if they had been injection-molded from some industrial mold. She could see the outline of her fingers, the shape of her fingernails floating on the surface of the latex, the extremely faint warm tones showing through the latex where blood pooled during joint flexion. But she couldn't see skin, couldn't see pores, couldn't see the small scars she had inadvertently made with the tip of her dagger during countless combat training sessions. Her hands were flattened, every inch of them. From fingertips to wrists to elbows to shoulders, all covered in the same color, as if a person had been peeled from their one and only skin and stuffed into another, belonging to no one, yet precisely replicating every contour of the original. "The stem is molded," the Gardener's voice came from above her. He placed the heat gun back into the storage compartment beneath the workbench, and the metal pin at the bottom of the machine made a faint, crisp clink as it dropped into its slot. Then he walked towards a gray metal box in the corner of the workshop – the box had been hidden behind the latex raw material barrels, and you wouldn't notice it unless you specifically walked over to look. The label on the box was yellowed and curled at the edges, but the handwritten text was still clear: "Respiratory Control System • Wisteria Exclusive • Generation IV." He opened the lid of the box slowly and deliberately, took out the gag, and then rummaged inside the box for the matching tubing and reservoir interface, arranging each accessory neatly on the workbench. Shen Ruolan's pupils contracted sharply when she saw the object. It She drew a gentle breath every four to five seconds. Not three shallow, one deep, not variable frequency induction, but the simplest, mildest, most uniform light suction. The suction seemed so small—so small that Elena's breasts showed almost no visible undulation within the transparent crystal suction cup. Only by carefully observing the flow rate of the golden fluid in the soft tube could one confirm the vacuum pump was working. But this rhythm never faltered. Shen Ruolan counted—kneeling there with nothing else to do, she counted silently She was helped onto the display stand. Compared to the one Elena had seen on screen, this stand was silver-white – a color specially formulated by the Gardener for Wisteria – with a wide base and fixation rings positioned a few centimeters lower than Elena's, clearly adjusted for her height. The attendants pressed her onto the seat – not a sitting position, but a transitional pose between sitting and kneeling – and began to lock her in. *Click.* Her left ankle was secured in a metal ring locked into a slot on the left side of the base. *Click.* Her right ankle. *Click.* Her left knee – after the ring tightened, her knee was pressed into a semicircular groove on the base, the same "snapped in" sensation as on the milking rack in the training room. Except this time, fifty-two pairs of eyes were watching from below. *Click.* Her right knee. *Click.* Her left thigh – a wider metal band than usual locked around the base of her thigh, connected to a telescopic strut on the side of the base. An attendant pulled a lever on the strut, and her left leg was slowly pushed outward, splitting into a wider angle than the portable system had ever achieved, with both her thigh and knee fixed. *Click.* The same movement for her right thigh. Now her legs could no longer be brought together – split into an M-shaped spread, the latex on the inner thighs stretched tighter than ever. She could feel the seam of the deep purple latex suit at the crotch positioned precisely around her private parts, and that area was now facing fifty-two pairs of eyes. Even through the latex, even with three layers of material sealing it, she involuntarily wanted to clamp her legs together – but the metal band at her thighs turned that faint struggle into a minuscule creak between the metal ring and the base, unnervingly clear in the now-silent exhibition hall. Then came her wrists. The attendants brought her arms behind her back – not bound at the waist, but folded behind her spine, her wrists fitted into a double-layered leather cuff. A rectangular metal brace was then attached to the outside of the cuff, its ends clipped into two slots on the inner sides of the display stand's uprights, positioned at the same height as her elbows. Once she was secured, her upper body was forced into a forward-leaning posture, her chest pushed out – the waist cincher, at this angle, squeezed her waist into an arc, while the two display-specific crystal suction cups on her chest, illuminated by the purple light, looked like two transparent crystal vessels pressed against her breasts. Finally, the collar. An attendant looped the short chain at the back of her collar around her neck, and the other end was hooked into a lock hanging from the top of the display stand. The chain tightened – not to choke her, but to shorten until her head could no longer droop. She was forced to lift her head, her gaze rising from the floor to the audience, meeting the single-lens telescope of the old gentleman in the front row. The old gentleman raised his scope, aiming it at her chest. Then the lights changed. The main lights in the central hall shifted from gold to purple – not a dull purple, but a bluish, dreamlike violet with a soft-focus filter effect, perfectly matching the deep purple of her latex suit, the crystal suction cups, and the faint traces of milk visible in the semi-transparent soft tubes on her chest. The purple light shone down from above the stand, bathing her entire being as if she were immersed in a pool of diluted wisteria juice. The Gardener walked onto the stage from the side. He held a small remote control connected to a control box on a cart behind him, and stood between the display stand and the audience. "Good afternoon, everyone," he began. More than fifty pairs of eyes turned to him simultaneously. "Our second exhibit this afternoon – Wisteria Hall • Wisteria, a first-generation lactating specimen newly acquired this year. Seventh day since acquisition, fifth day of prolactin induction. Daily yield has stably exceeded 150 milliliters, quality assessment –" He glanced down at a card in his hand, "– sweetness is above average, with a distinct bitter-sweet aftertaste, a characteristic astringent finish unique to wisteria, fine texture, pure milky white with a pale yellow hue, medium-high transparency, no impurities." He flipped the card over. "Wisteria's nectar quality ranks first among the immortal flowers acquired in this batch. According to the museum's quality control system, her colostrum quality has reached the standard for public display and tasting. Today's exhibition project is – the first public nectar collection from Wisteria Hall, and –" He paused, then looked up at the audience, "– a live auction for the right to taste the first batch of nectar." A low murmur rippled through the audience. Shen Ruolan heard her codename mentioned at least four times – the name "Wisteria" spoken by different mouths in different tones, like a word simultaneously translated into several languages she didn't understand. Some flipped through their notebooks. Some adjusted their seating positions. "Then – let's begin." The Gardener pressed a button on the remote. The vacuum pump connected to the display stand behind her activated – its hum was much louder than the portable one, but diluted into a kind of low-frequency background noise in the exhibition hall. Then, the two crystal suction cups on her chest simultaneously adhered to her nipples. She didn't know what else could possibly break her, now that she'd been placed in the same exhibition hall. "Come." The Gardener stood up and helped her from the bedside. The metal support of her stilts scraped against the edge of the bed, emitting a sharp, short sound. He unfastened the thin chain from her collar that was attached to the headboard, a chain she'd hooked to the anchor point herself before falling asleep last night. Then, with one hand on her lower back—the palm-sized flat area between the upper edge of her corset and her shoulder blades—he gently guided her a step towards the cart. Shen Ruolan didn't resist. It wasn't out of fear, but rather... her name was already engraved on the cart's nameplate. Even the decorative border of the font matched the "Wisteria" on her collar. These nameplates weren't made this morning. Perhaps on the same day they custom-made her deep purple latex suit, perhaps when she was first secured on the milking rack, perhaps even earlier—so early that she herself didn't know she would become Wisteria, this plate had already been engraved. She stepped onto the cart's metal pedal. The soles of her stilts had no heels, and her feet were pressed into the hollow metal grid, leaving behind fine diamond-shaped indentations. Once she was on, the Gardener had her sit down— The exhibition hall's lights were dimmed to a deep crimson in night mode—not pitch black, but a thick, almost palpable crimson glow emanating from the few unextinguished deep red crystal beads hanging from the dome chandelier. Both vacuum pumps were running at low power—the rose pump, cycling every four-point-five seconds, and the wisteria pump, activating once every two hours, both reduced to their minimum settings in night mode. Shen Ruolan was not asleep. Her portable pump had just completed an automatic collection, adding about sixty milliliters of pale white milk to the collection bottle at her waist. The faint, aching sensation in her breasts after emptying still lingered deep within her mammary glands, leaving her in a semi-conscious, hazy state, abnormally sensitive to the internal sensations of her body. Then she heard it. Not a hum, not a tap, not the sound of latex rubbing against crystal walls, not the intake of the vacuum pump. It was a sound she had never heard from Elena—faint. Irregular. A minuscule vibration, muffled by layers of latex and the gag from the deepest part of the full crimson latex mask, yet still leaking out ever so slightly. A sob. Elena was crying. Not loudly—she couldn't possibly cry loudly. Her lips were sealed, her mouth filled, and a portion of her throat occupied by the nutrient fluid tube. The only passage left for her to make sound was the small nasopharyngeal cavity behind her nose. As air squeezed through, it brushed against the accumulated moisture and debris within her nasal cavity—thickened by prolonged intubation and accumulated saliva she couldn't swallow. The sudden acceleration of her breathing dislodged these particles, creating an extremely faint, intermittent sound, like a broken bubble being pressed and released and pressed again. It wasn't a cry. It was the sound of mucus in her nasal passages being churned into dense bubbles by the continuous airflow, then bursting, then new bubbles forming. The sound was so small, so tiny, that any one of the vacuum pump's four-point-five-second intake cycles could completely drown it out. If it weren't for the night mode reducing the pump's power to its minimum, if Shen Ruolan hadn't been straining her ears intently in the crimson light, she would never have noticed. But she did. At first, she just felt Elena's breathing rate was a bit off—more than double what it was before sleep. Then she listened closely—at the end of each exhale, there was an extremely faint, continuous series of tiny bubbling sounds. It wasn't accidental. It happened with every exhale. The rhythm of the tiny bubbles was in bursts—seven or eight continuous, fine bubbles, then a pause, then another seven or eight, then another pause. That rhythm corresponded to—sobbing. A deep inhale, then holding, then exhaling the held breath in seven or eight small bursts, each exhale causing the liquid in her nasal cavity to bubble. Then inhaling again, holding, and exhaling in seven or eight bursts. She had endured for a long time. Perhaps since morning. Perhaps longer—days, weeks, months. Perhaps for the past three years, every time she needed to cry, she had held it until night, until the pump's power was reduced, until those who might hear her during the day were gone, and then allowed herself to force out the mucus. Not allowed—that word was too active. She couldn't help it. She had held it for a very, very long time, so long that she herself didn't know why she couldn't hold it in this time. Shen Ruolan's eyes snapped wide open in the crimson light. Her collar was fixed at a slightly upward angle by a chain, so she couldn't see herself, but she could see the faint outline of the crimson figure opposite her. Exactly as usual—kneeling motionless, posture impeccable, the latex surface as silent as an abyss. If not for those bubbling sounds, no one would believe anything was happening within that silhouette. Anyone would only think it was a crimson wax figure, placed in a crystal planter as decoration. A short, muffled sound came from Shen Ruolan's throat, behind the gag—"Mmm!" She was afraid Elena wouldn't hear. She hummed twice more—Mmm-mmm! Then she desperately scraped her fingernails against the crystal wall behind her. Squeak— Then she scraped again. Squeak— Then she desperately banged the chain on her collar—it was the only part of her body she could use to create sound with her body weight. The metal ring on her collar struck the metal clasp of the crystal pillar, producing a faint, crisp jingle. She didn't know what Elena needed, why Elena was crying, whether it was for a specific reason or because all the accumulated emotions of three years had just crossed a threshold tonight. She could do nothing—her hands were locked behind her in a W shape, her legs were secured to the base of the crystal planter by three metal bands, and her waist was fixed to the pillar by a short corset chain. She couldn't even reach out to touch Elena's planter. They were separated by two meters, a distance that now seemed longer than any interdimensional portal. But she could let her know someone was listening. Mmm—Mmm—Mmm—. She emitted three low hums in succession. Not the ordered code from before, but a low hum, each one heavier and deeper than the last, like someone punching the ceiling from below. She didn't stop. She tapped and hummed, hummed and tapped. The collar chain jingled incessantly against the pillar. Her fingernails scraped the crystal wall with varying frequencies. She used every muscle she could move—her throat, her wrists, her neck, her fingertips—turning every sound she could make into a single message: Cry. Cry. I'm listening. I'm right here, listening. I won't tell anyone. I won't make a louder sound than you. I won't make you feel like you're crying at a flower. You're crying at a living person. That living person is locked in a planter two meters opposite you, unable to do anything, but she is listening to you cry. Then Elena's sobs stopped. Not stopped—halted. Like someone crying, then suddenly realizing someone was in the room watching them, and instinctively swallowing the cry back. The bubbling sound disappeared. Her breathing returned to a stiff, forced, even rhythm. Shen Ruolan's heart sank—she was afraid she had scared her. She was afraid Elena didn't want anyone to hear her crying. She was afraid the sound of her desperate banging on the collar had knocked back the fragile defense Elena had finally relaxed. Then she heard Elena's neck lower. The face in the mirror was much paler than when she first entered the pleasure house—not a sickly pallor, but the kind that comes from prolonged confinement in the airtight microenvironment of a latex hood and mask, where the skin, deprived of fresh air, loses its natural pigmentation. Around her lips was a faint, almost invisible ring of discoloration, a pressure mark left by the repeated friction of the silicone post of the pacifier gag. The gag had been in her mouth constantly during her "puppy training," only removed briefly for freeze-dried fruit and water. The marks extended inward from the corners of her mouth, forming a subtle, curved line along the seam of her closed lips. Her jawline seemed narrower than when she first arrived—not from weight loss, but from the slight atrophy of her masseter muscles due to the constant presence of the gag, which kept them in a state of disuse. Back at headquarters, she could have used a dagger to shave off half a compressed nutrient biscuit with her jaw, but now, even a single piece of freeze-dried fruit would cause her masseter muscles to ache after the first chew. The Gardener allowed her a brief respite—only temporarily unfastening her paw gloves so she could use her five-fingered hands to cup a mug of warm honey water and drink it slowly. He then used a clean white towel, dampened with warm water, to wipe her face. As the towel brushed over her cheekbones and forehead, she closed her eyes, feeling the warmth and moisture of the wet cloth seep through the latex hood to the surface of her skin. The sensation was so alien that she involuntarily tilted her face a fraction of an inch towards the towel. It wasn't compliance; her body was simply seeking the warmth. Then, the Gardener folded the towel and set it aside. He reached into the top drawer of the trolley, which had been newly brought in when he returned, and took out a gag. Externally, this gag looked very similar to the previous pacifier-shaped respiration control gag—a silicone nipple at the front, a leather ring in the middle for the strap, and a connector

Then Shen Ruolan heard a mechanical sound she was very familiar with – the wrench tightening a bolt. The sound was crisp, with two distinct clicks of metal engaging each time a bolt was tightened. It was the same wrench sound from when she was secured into her alcove. She was lifted from the cushion and moved into the alcove, workers tightening bolts behind her, click, click, click, click, each sound like a nail being driven into a coffin. Now it was Lanlan's turn. But the construction day wasn't over. The installation of an alcove took two days – the first day for chiseling the wall, fitting the frame, and running the conduits, and the second day for placing the living furniture for final securing and system integration. Shen Ruolan knew this process too well, as it was how she herself had been installed. So, on the first night, she barely entered hibernation. The system had switched her to a shallow sleep mode precisely at midnight, suppressing her brainwaves to a low frequency, but her consciousness struggled several times in the gray haze. Each time she fought her way back, she listened to the adjacent room – it was quiet, only the faint sounds of metal expanding and contracting from the newly laid pipes within the walls. Lanlan hadn't been moved in yet. Lanlan was probably in her own room, with restraints on her wrists and ankles, residual red marks from the training with the spreader bar still on her inner thighs, waiting to be moved into the alcove tomorrow and become F-04. Early the next morning, construction resumed. The noise this time was much less than the first day. No cutting machines or jackhammers, only lighter tapping sounds and the whirring of wrenches. Shen Ruolan woke up after her automatic milking session just before dawn – the moment the suction cups on her nipples stopped, the milk in the tubes began to flow towards Lanlan's room's feeding port. She paused for a moment before remembering that Lanlan was no longer in her own room. Lanlan was probably being moved by the workers from her room to the exhibition hall, pushed into the newly installed F-04 alcove frame. There was no one to drink the milk from the feeding port anymore. This thought made her chest feel heavy. Once milk was extracted, it was no longer hers. It didn't matter if it flowed into a collection bottle or down the drain. What weighed on her was that Lanlan hadn't drunk her warm milk this morning. Lanlan's mouth was probably already fitted with a gag, and a tube inserted down her throat. If the F-04 configuration was the same as hers, Lanlan's receiving port would be different. The gardener had said the F-04's receiving port was moved to the posterior, and a pneumatic vocalizer was added to the front of the throat tube. But the throat tube still needed to be inserted, the milk delivery tube connected, and the main cable for the microcurrent control system implanted from the back of the neck. All these implantations and connections would be completed after Lanlan was secured in the alcove frame. A little after nine in the morning, Shen Ruolan heard a faint metallic collision from the next room – the sound of a buckle on a strap closing. A waist strap. It was the same sound when her own waist strap was locked. Then a second sound – the buckle of the knee support brace. Then a third and fourth – the wrist restraints and ankle restraints. Each buckle closure was spaced about half a minute apart, interspersed with the muffled voices of workers in low conversation and the crisp sound of wrenches tightening bolts. Finally, there was a faint electronic prompt – a minimalist ding. System integration complete, F-04 officially online. There was about ten seconds of silence. Then Shen Ruolan heard a sound she would never mistake in her life. A very light, very thin, low tremor emanating from the depths of her throat. It passed through the hollow channel of the gag, mixed with the exhaled airflow, and gently echoed in the confined space within the closed alcove. Her throat was blocked by the tube, unable to form complete words, not even a single syllable. But the tremor had its own shape: it started very low, rose slightly, then fell, with a faint vibration trailing at the end. Elven vocal cords are longer than human ones, their vibration frequency softer. As exhaled air passed through the throat tube, it carried a unique resonance – like the finest wind chimes swaying in the gentlest breeze. Lanlan. Shen Ruolan's heart pounded in her chest. Heavily. So heavily that the small bell on her collar vibrated with a hum. Beneath her noise-canceling earcups, she activated all her auditory nerves. Her ear pressed against the sound-permeable membrane, capturing every faint sound wave that penetrated from the other side of the wall. After Lanlan exhaled her first breath, there was a few seconds of silence. Perhaps she was adjusting to the foreign sensation of the gag in her mouth, the depth of the throat tube, the aching stretch of the ligaments on her inner thighs from the M-spread position, the sensation of her arms being bent backward and locked. Shen Ruolan knew it all – the extreme tightness between her jaw and cheekbones when the gag was first inserted, the involuntary spasms of her esophageal wall for a while when swallowing with the throat tube, the initial ache from the M-spread position that turned into a throbbing pain in the muscles of her inner thighs after the first night. Lanlan was experiencing everything she had gone through. And she couldn't even cry out in pain. After a few seconds, a second tremor came from the other side of the wall. This one was a little longer – Lanlan was exhaling, a slow, deep breath. As the air passed through the throat tube, it rubbed against the inner wall, creating a series of very subtle fluctuations. At the end of the exhalation, her voice trembled slightly. Shen Ruolan recognized it – it was pain. Lanlan was in pain, but couldn't cry out. The slight vibration in her throat couldn't be suppressed at the end of her breath and trembled. Her own fingers dug into her palm behind her back, drawing blood. Real blood – her fingernails had broken through the already thin skin of an old mark on her palm, and blood beads seeped from the wound, absorbed by the inside of her latex gloves. She didn't care. Now, a problem lay before her. Could Lanlan hear her? The bell was still on her collar. She could shake it – ding, ding, ding. Lanlan was less than two meters away. The noise-canceling earcups could block out sounds from further away in the exhibition hall, but they couldn't block out the crisp sound of the bell in the adjacent alcove. But Lanlan couldn't tap on the wall in response – Lanlan's arms were also bent backward and locked onto the frame, her hands wrapped in latex gloves and curled behind her. She couldn't tap. There was a wall between F-04 and F-03, no direct sound channel, only the wall itself and the air layer between the inner walls of the two alcoves. The two living furniture pieces were sealed in their respective alcoves, largely isolated from external sounds by their noise-canceling earcups, neither able to clearly hear what the other was saying. But Shen Ruolan decided to try. Within the range of her spine's slight movement – the short chain of her collar allowed about two to three millimeters of movement space for her neck – she swayed her collar. The bell made a short ding.

"Esteemed guests, tonight's living cutlery – Wisteria Series One, producing one thousand milliliters daily, with a floral aroma. All the dipping sauces on the table will be freshly sourced from her. Please, help yourselves." Living cutlery. It was then that Shen Ruolan understood the meaning of those four words. She wasn't placed on the table for display – she was placed beneath it for use. She was a set of cutlery, a living set that secreted dipping sauces. The exquisite pastries, fruits, and roasted meats on the table, whenever a dipping sauce was needed, would be taken from her body. Her breasts were the soy sauce dishes, her saliva the jam, the nectar flowing from between her legs the dipping sauce – alive, warm, and trembling. She suddenly recalled the terms she'd learned at the Flower Pavilion – flesh receptacle, milk cow, living furniture. She now understood how concrete those terms were in actual use. Each was a specific action: squeezed, dipped, taken. Her body was divided into compartments – her breasts a compartment, her mouth a compartment, the space between her legs a compartment – each with a designated purpose, each available for individual use. She lowered her head, looking at her chin resting on the edge of the table. Saliva continued to drip, drop by drop, like water melting from eaves. She tried to close her lips – she couldn't. The golden gag held them apart. She tried to swallow – she couldn't. Her tongue was pressed down. She could only let the clear liquid flow from the corners of her mouth, onto the tablecloth. She realized, with a jolt, how much saliva she had secreted since the gag was placed in her mouth that afternoon. She had once thought being gagged was the ultimate humiliation, but now she discovered that being unable to control even the fluids flowing from her own body was a deeper shame. She couldn't even wipe it away – her hands were bound behind her back, and she couldn't even lift a hand to wipe her mouth. A male guest stood up first. He walked around the table to Shen Ruolan, bent down, and examined her breasts, which were reddened by the ropes. He picked up a small dish and placed it beneath her chest, then reached out, cupped her latex-clad breast, and squeezed hard. Warm, pale purple milk spurted from her nipple, landing in the dish, filling it to a shallow layer. The guest took the dish back to his seat, placed it next to the fruit platter, picked up a piece of melon with his fork, dipped it into the milk, and put it in his mouth. "Not bad," he said. "With a floral note." The second guest approached – a female guest. She was more creative. She picked up a grape, walked over to Shen Ruolan, leaned down, and brought the grape to Shen Ruolan's mouth, which was stretched open by the golden gag, letting the grape dip into the saliva flowing from her lips. Then she straightened up, put the grape in her mouth, and chewed it nonchalantly. "With wisteria fragrance," she announced to the other guests. "You should try it." And so, the third, fourth, and fifth guests followed – guests took turns coming over, dipping their pastries in her milk, their fruits in her saliva, and their roasted meats in the nectar flowing from between her legs. Some squeezed her left breast, the milk spraying into a dish, eliciting a whimper from her. Some used their fingers to scoop nectar from her inner thighs, drawing another whimper. Some stuffed an entire strawberry into her mouth, letting her hold it until it was coated with saliva before taking it out to eat, eliciting yet another whimper. Her whimpers never ceased, small, muffled sounds from within the gag, like a broken music box playing the same off-key tune repeatedly. A young male guest crouched down and peered between her legs. The inner part of her thighs glistened in the candlelight – nectar slowly seeped along the lines of the red rope, gathering into a stream at her knees, dripping onto the carpet beneath the table. The man extended a finger, tracing the stream of liquid from his knee all the way up to her inner thigh, coating his fingertip. He then brought his finger to his mouth and licked it. "Sweet," he said, his voice filled with surprise. "And with a hint of floral scent, tastes just like the milk." He stood up and called out to the other guests, "You all should try this, it's much fresher than the honey on the table." And so, more guests approached, crouched down, dipped their fingers into the nectar between her legs, tasted it, or spread it directly onto the roasted meat. Shen Ruolan's inner thighs were touched again and again by those fingers, and her flower bud contracted uncontrollably with each touch, releasing a fresh surge of nectar with every caress. She had lost count of how many people had dipped into her, or how many times. Her body seemed to have become a spring, the more it was drawn from, the more it gushed forth. The carpet beneath the table was already stained by the nectar dripping from her legs, the deep red velvet turning a dark purple, glistening wetly in the candlelight. Halfway through the dinner, Madam Huo suddenly spoke, "Wisteria, pour wine for our esteemed guests." Shen Ruolan froze for a moment. Pour wine? Her hands were bound behind her back, and she had a gag in her mouth. How was she supposed to pour wine? But Madam Huo wasn't finished speaking – "With your mouth." A low murmur of laughter rippled around the table. A guest handed his wine glass to Shen Ruolan's mouth, the glass filled with amber liquid. Under that gaze, Shen Ruolan slowly lowered her head, brought her lips to the rim of the glass, and took a mouthful of wine. The liquor was potent, burning her tongue. She held the wine in her mouth, her throat moving, unable to swallow or spit. Madam Huo watched her, propping her chin on her hand, and said slowly, "Feed it to the gentleman across the table." Shen Ruolan's ears burned red beneath the latex mask. She knelt beneath the table, her upper body secured by chains, a mouthful of wine in her mouth, frozen. The gentleman opposite had put down his cutlery and was watching her with leisurely amusement, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. The candlelight flickered between them. She hesitated for a few seconds – only a few – then, slowly, extremely slowly, she extended her upper body from beneath the table, over the tabletop, and leaned towards the gentleman. As her lips touched his, she felt his hand press down on the back of her head, preventing her from pulling away. She transferred the wine, a faint whimper escaping her throat. The liquid leaked from between their lips, flowing down her chin, dripping onto the tablecloth. "Good," Madam Huo said, leading a light round of applause. "She has been well-trained." Shen Ruolan retreated beneath the table, burying her face against the inner edge of the tabletop, her ears burning so hot they could have lit a candle. But her body – she hated her body – her flower bud had released another surge of heat from that moment. She lowered her head, looking at the new wet mark between her legs, feeling as though she was sinking, bit by bit, into something very, very deep. The taste of the wine still lingered on her tongue, spicy and burning, mixed with the sensation of the gentleman's lips. She tried desperately not to think about that sensation – but her body was more honest than her mind, and her flower bud contracted again. She remembered a long time ago – at the headquarters of the Void Watchers – she had drunk wine at a celebration banquet. Back then, she stood in the crowd with a wine glass in her hand, full of pride, and no one dared to touch her. Now, she knelt beneath someone's table, using her mouth to transfer wine to others, her body trembling with excitement at the touch of strangers. The proud Shen Ruolan of the past seemed to have died somewhere she didn't know. The remaining Wisteria, kneeling beneath the table, dripping with saliva and flowing with nectar, was merely a living cutlery that secreted dipping sauces.

When those two words fell into Shen Ruolan's ears, her shoulders—shoulders held ramrod straight in her kneeling position—visibly dropped a fraction. It wasn't a collapse, but something deeper pressing down on her spine. She remembered the name. On her first night in the Flower House, when the Gardener took her on a night tour of the central exhibition hall, she had seen something deep crimson at the far end of a row of illuminated display cases. She hadn't known who it was then, only that it was a red humanoid figure, encased in full latex, its face obscured, quietly displayed in a case. Later, the Gardener told her—Elena of the Rose Hall, who had been here for three years. Later, she saw Elena on the screen in the preparation room before a display, kneeling on a rack—knees automatically adjusting their angle for easier locking by the staff, wrists extending backward to accommodate restraints, not even her eyelashes fluttering when the auction hammer fell. Shen Ruolan had thought it was numbness then. Three years of domestication had stripped the soul from the body, leaving behind a deep crimson latex shell that automatically complied. She didn't know what more could break her once she was placed in the same exhibition hall. "Come." The Gardener stood up and helped her up from the bedside. The metal support rods of her heelless shoes scraped against the edge of the bed as she rose, emitting a sharp, short sound. He unclasped the thin chain from her collar that was attached to the headboard—a chain she had herself hooked to the anchor point on the headboard before falling asleep last night. Then, with one hand on her lower back—the palm-sized flat area between the upper edge of her corset and her shoulder blades—he gently guided her a step towards the cart. Shen Ruolan offered no resistance. Not out of fear, but because—her name was already engraved on the cart's nameplate. Even the decorative border of the font matched the "Wisteria" on her collar. These nameplates weren't made this morning. Perhaps on the same day they custom-made her deep purple latex suit, perhaps when she was first fixed to the milking rack, perhaps even earlier—so early that she herself didn't know she would become Wisteria, this plate had already been engraved. She stepped onto the cart's metal pedal. The sole of her heelless shoes had no heel, and her feet were pressed onto the hollow metal mesh, leaving behind fine diamond-shaped imprints. After she stood up, the Gardener told her to sit down—not sit, but kneel. There was a soft cushion groove on the cart's platform, similar to a flowerpot, perfectly accommodating her knees. She placed her knees into it—the moment her kneecaps pressed into the groove, all the muscle memory from the past week lit up simultaneously. No need to adjust the angle, no need for the Gardener's manual guidance. Her thighs automatically spread to shoulder-width. Her buttocks automatically hovered above her heels. Her lumbar spine automatically straightened. Her shoulder blades automatically retracted. Her hands automatically clasped behind her back. Then, the locks clicked shut, one by one. *Click.* Ankles—hidden clasps on the cart's pedal flipped up from both sides, passing through the metal rings at the back of her heelless shoes, securing her ankles in the pedal's groove. *Click.* Knees—metal hoops on either side of the support pillars closed, perfectly fitting the angle of her bent knees and calves in her kneeling posture. The soft leather padding on the metal lining pressed against the indentations on either side of her kneecaps—exactly the same position as where she had been locked in the crystal flowerpot, even the slight depressions on the soft leather padding were the size of her kneecaps after a week of pressure. *Click.* Waist—a short chain was attached to the metal ring at the back of the corset, its other end connected to the middle of the support pillar, its length just enough for her to lean forward slightly but not backward. The corset was already tight, and with an additional pulling point at the back, her waist was fixed in an unchangeable curve—chest out, abdomen in, her dimples slightly caved forward, the waistline wrapped in deep purple latex pushed to a visual effect that she herself found a little exaggerated. *Click.* Collar—a semicircular ring at the top of the support pillar flipped down and locked into the metal ring reserved at the back of her collar, then lifted upward, tilting her entire head back about fifteen degrees. Her gaze was fixed about a meter and a half ahead—exactly at the chest level of a standing person. The entire process took less than three minutes. Three minutes ago, she was kneeling by the bedside, in her own room, with no restraints on her wrists, able to stand up and touch the doorknob at any moment. Three minutes later, she had become an exhibit on the cart—knees locked, ankles locked, waist locked, collar locked. The range of motion for each joint had been precisely calculated to maintain an aesthetically pleasing display posture while rendering her completely immobile. She tried to move her fingers—her fingers could move, but only her fingers. All joints from her wrists upward were fixed at predetermined angles by their respective locks; the maximum range of motion she had was to curl all ten fingers simultaneously within the latex gloves and then extend them simultaneously. "We'll pass by the photo corridor on the way," the Gardener said, walking to the back of the cart and gripping its handles. His voice came from behind her head, with an extra muffled echo—because the cart's metal support pillar was directly between her head and the Gardener. "You haven't seen your growth record in the Flower House yet. Today is a good day for it." The cart moved. The wheels rolled over the wooden strip beneath the guest room doorframe, jolting slightly. Shen Ruolan's body swayed slightly within the locks due to the cart's vibration—not by her own volition, but the cart's vibration transmitted to all her fixed joints. In her fifteen-degree upward gaze, she saw the living room ceiling gradually recede, then the doorframe slid past her on both sides, and then she saw the corridor. The corridor. She saw the corridor from this angle for the first time. When she first entered the Flower House on the first day, she had been led in with a collar and a leash, her eye level at 1.7 meters—she stood at 1.7 meters, and 1.72 meters in flat combat boots. Now, locked on the cart, kneeling, her eye level was less than 1.2 meters. The walls on either side of the corridor appeared much taller from her current perspective than she remembered—the wall lamps were near the ceiling, casting warm yellow light diagonally from above, stretching a long, crooked shadow of her deep purple latex-wrapped body across the cart's platform. The solid wood wheels rumbled low on the marble floor, clicking with each grout line they crossed. She could hear her own breathing—the pacifier hadn't been removed yet, and each inhale carried the faint sweet scent of plastic and rubber. She could hear the collection bottle on her waist swaying gently with the cart's rhythm—the bottle was empty, and the sound of the empty plastic bottle hitting the metal slot was crisper and more hollow than when it was full. The corridor was long. Much longer than she remembered. Seven days ago, when she was led in, she had only stared at her feet, afraid to look at the sides—she had repeatedly reminded herself then that she was Investigator Silver Orchid. Now, fixed on the cart, her head tilted up fifteen degrees, unable to even look down, she could only stare straight ahead as the corridor slowly receded behind her. Then she saw the wall.

The contract was resealed within the crystal pillar. The Gardener turned to her, reaching out to undo the hidden clasp on the inside of the petal-shaped collar around her neck. This clasp connected to a delicate micro-gag device, designed to protect her vocal cords from excessive aphrodisiac stimulation before the ceremony. As the clasp loosened, Shen Ruolan felt an invisible band around her throat release. She swallowed instinctively, clearly feeling the path of saliva as it slid down her throat. She hadn't spoken with her mouth for so long. For months in the Flower Hall, she had mostly had various types of gags in her mouth—from the initial butterfly-shaped muzzle to the later golden open-ring, and finally to the symbiotic permanent breath-control gag. The only time she had spoken in public was when she was forced to utter a few syllables in response to a question at Mrs. Huo's banquet. But now, the Gardener had completely freed her mouth. He stepped back, leaving her enough independent space to speak in front of everyone. "The third step," his voice was exceptionally clear in the quiet hall, "the oath. Wisteria, with your own voice, speak your vow of submission to all the witnesses present. There is no fixed text—speak what you believe to be true." Shen Ruolan stood in the center of the ceremonial platform, a thick layer of wisteria petals rustling softly under her feet. She could feel the moonlight refracting from the dome landing on her shoulders and the crown of her head. She could feel the brand on her chest still pulsing with a faint warmth. She could feel every branch of the vine back chain gently trembling with her heartbeat. She could feel Lily-of-the-Valley's emerald green eyes fixed on her from the front row. She opened her mouth. Her lips were dry—she instinctively licked them with the tip of her tongue, only to realize she hadn't done this in months. A person with a permanent gag in their mouth didn't need to lick their lips—saliva would just flow out, no need to mind it. But now her lips were free, she could lick them, she could purse them, she could use them to say what she truly wanted to say. She licked her lips again, feeling the slight dampness as her tongue traced the lines of her lips—a small action that would have been so mundane months ago she wouldn't have noticed it, but now she found it incredibly precious. She thought: So this is what free lips taste like. So this is how luxurious it is to be able to speak when you want to. She remembered the seventh day in the iron cage—she had repeatedly recited the Gardener's name in the darkness, her lips opening and closing through the latex mask, yet not a single sound could escape. Now she could speak. She stood before everyone, bathed in moonlight, watched by Lily-of-the-Valley, she could say anything she wanted. She suddenly felt that the Gardener had arranged this step last, probably to make her understand this—what has been taken away, you only know its weight when you get it back. "I—" she began. The first word was like a rusty iron shard being forcibly pulled from the depths of her throat—hoarse, dry, almost inaudible. Her vocal cords, after months of gag pressure and voicelessness, were no longer accustomed to producing clear human speech. She paused, swallowed, and tried again. "I..." This time it was better—at least the syllables were complete, though the end was still a bit dry. She heard her voice echo in the circular hall and fall back into her own ears—that voice was hoarse and rough, a far cry from the resonant voice she remembered from her mission reports. She suddenly found it a little amusing: When did Investigator Silver Lily's voice become like this? She told herself inwardly: It's okay, a hoarse voice can be nursed back slowly, as long as I can still speak. She took a deep breath, feeling her entire chest cavity fill with the fragrance of wisteria petals, and then—an energy she had suppressed for too long surged from some corner of her body—she spoke. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough for everyone in the circular hall to hear every word: "I—was Shen Ruolan. I was Investigator Silver Lily of the Void Monitor. I once thought my life would continue like that—executing missions, receiving medals, getting promoted, then retiring." She paused. These words were not in the Gardener's stipulations, not in any oath template. These were her own words. When she said the name "Shen Ruolan," her voice was steady, without pause or hesitation—the three words came out of her mouth as if she were saying the name of someone she knew a long time ago. She found that when she spoke that name, the brand on her chest pulsed gently, as if accepting the name on her behalf. "But those are all in the past. Now, I am Wisteria. The Chief Immortal Flower of the Flower Hall, designation LF-001. I stand here today, no one is forcing me, no one is coercing me, and no drugs are controlling me—" She raised her right hand, placing her palm on the still faintly glowing brand on her chest, "—I chose to stay. I had no right to choose to stay on the amusement park's equestrian machine, and I had no ability to choose to leave in the darkness of the iron cage. But now I do. I can refuse to speak, I can refuse—" She glanced at the Gardener, then turned her head to look at Lily-of-the-Valley below, her voice suddenly softening, "—but I choose to speak." As she finished that sentence, she saw Lily-of-the-Valley nodding vigorously in its pot, its small vine waving in the air like a wagging little tail. She turned back to face all the guests, lifted her chin, and raised her voice slightly. The following words had been carefully considered in her heart since the day she was released from the iron cage, each sentence tested by seven days of darkness, each word she was certain was her true heart's desire: "I—Wisteria—voluntarily give up all free will. This free will was not taken from me—I gave it up myself. I voluntarily dedicate my body, my nectar, my milk, my spasms during every orgasm, every flower on my vines—all to the Immortal Flower Hall, to my Master—the Gardener. From this day forward, I am no longer an independent human individual. I am an Immortal Flower. My sole meaning is to bloom forever under the crystal dome of the Flower Hall, in the flower pot, surrounded by my vines. This is my choice. This is my oath." As she finished the last sentence, her voice lingered slightly on the words "bloom forever"—like someone finally reaching the end of a road, looking back at the path taken, and then taking the final step forward. After she finished, the entire hall fell silent for a moment. The distinguished guests were probably expecting a captive forced to recite an oath, waiting for some trace of reluctance or humiliation to appear after she finished—but they didn't get it. She stood there, her lips slightly parted, her chest gently rising and falling, the moisture in her eyes shimmering in the moonlight, yet she stood steady, like a tree that had finally sunk its roots deep.