Nine inches.
That was all he'd given her at first.
Nine inches of a cock that had been deliberately — 'deliberately' — expanded to ten, because Tianlong was not a man who forgot debts, and the debt in question was the specific memory of waking up in this world with a hole in his chest the width of a tiger clan cultivator's hand, the edges of it cauterized by beast qi, the kind of wound that said 'you were not worth a proper fight, so I used two fingers.'
He remembered that.
He remembered it every time he looked at her silver hair and her haughty jaw and the particular angle of contempt she'd been deploying at him since the mountain.
So: ten inches.
Cultivation-hardened.
Qi-threaded through the shaft until it was less flesh than 'force' — not rigid in the biological sense but in the cultivation sense, the way a steel bar is rigid, the way a weapon is rigid, the kind of hardness that doesn't yield to pressure because it has fundamentally decided not to.
