Renegade Immortal Chapters 16-18: A Gourd of Deception and the Path of Cultivation

The air in Elder Sun’s presence was thick enough to choke on. Under that piercing gaze, Wang Lin felt utterly transparent, as if every secret, every hidden thought, was laid bare for the elder’s inspection. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of alarm, but years of hardship had taught him to keep his face a placid mask. The elder’s frown deepened, his Divine Sense having swept through Wang Lin and found nothing of obvious note.

“Wang Lin, when did you come back?” Elder Sun’s voice was a low rumble.

“This disciple came back late last night,” Wang Lin replied swiftly, the words practiced. “This morning, when I went to do my daily chores, brother Liu told me Elder was looking for me.”

Elder Sun’s face remained ominously gloomy. Without another word, his hand shot out, grasping Wang Lin’s shoulder. The world blurred into a violent rush of color and wind. Wang Lin’s breath caught in his throat, the sensation of flight turning to suffocation in the grip of the elder’s rainbow-colored cloud. The journey was mercifully short, ending abruptly as Wang Lin was tossed unceremoniously onto the hard-packed earth just outside his own humble room. Before he could right himself, Elder Sun’s Divine Sense was already scouring the interior, a silent, invisible tide searching for the source of the spiritual anomaly that had killed his precious herbs.

It didn’t take long. The elder moved to Wang Lin’s bed, his eyes locking onto the simple, unassuming gourd placed beside it. He picked it up, his fingers tracing its curve. “What’s this?”

Inside, Wang Lin’s mind raced, but his outward demeanor settled into one of confused innocence. “Elder, this gourd is filled with spring water from the mountain,” he explained, his tone earnest. “This spring water is really amazing. Every time I’m tired, all I have to do is drink some and I’ll immediately feel refreshed. When I was little, I read a book telling me that everything the immortals use are good. I didn’t expect even the spring water to be this amazing.” He gestured vaguely toward the supply house. “Elder, if you want this spring water, there are ten vats full of it in the supply house. Each of those vats are the size of a house. That water was all fetched by me.”

Elder Sun ignored the rambling, uncorking the gourd and bringing it to his nose. A sharp inhale, then his expression transformed—a flash of avaricious eagerness. “Who asked you about the spring water? Quickly, tell me where you found this gourd!”

Wang Lin allowed himself to look genuinely stunned. “Elder, what’s wrong with the gourd? I saw it floating down the river when I went to fetch water. I thought it looked pretty good, so I fished it out.”

Narrowing his eyes, Elder Sun gave Wang Lin a look that sought to peel back the layers of his story. The gourd thrummed with a dense concentration of spiritual energy in his perception. To a mortal, drinking from it would bring mere refreshment, the energy mostly wasted. But to an alchemist… this could be a priceless tool for refining pills. The death of the blue grass and purple night flower was likely connected. Perhaps they were natural enemies to such an artifact. He couldn’t be sure without tests, but the gourd’s value was undeniable.

His train of thought hit a sudden, suspicious snag. His fingers brushed the stem. His expression hardened into ice, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. “Wang Lin, you sure are bold. You dare to lie to an Elder? Looks like you don’t want to stay in the Heng Yue Sect anymore!”

Wang Lin feigned puzzlement, a masterclass in rustic bewilderment. “Elder, I’m not lying to you. There really are ten vats full of spring water in the supply house.”

“You’re still acting innocent with me?” Elder Sun’s laugh was short and angry. “I was asking you about the gourd. This gourd looks like it was just recently broken off its vine. Wang Lin, I’ll give you one last chance to tell me where you got this gourd, or I’ll kick you out of the Heng Yue Sect today!”

At this, Wang Lin let the mask slip, but not in the way the elder expected. Anger, raw and indignant, flooded his features. His body tensed with a defiant will. “So what if I’m kicked out?” he cried, the frustration of months boiling over. “Here at the Heng Yue Sect, all I have done is fetch water to fill those ten vats. Many times I stayed more than a week before I could eat. If it wasn’t for the sweet potatoes my mom gave me, I would have starved to death already. This isn’t cultivation, it’s just torture!” He pointed a shaking finger at the gourd. “I spent a lot of effort to fish that gourd out of the river. If you want it, just take it. Why say I am lying to you? What does the gourd still having its vine have to do with me? Maybe someone broke it off the vine and tossed it in the water. You question me, but who am I going to ask about it?”

The outburst gave Elder Sun pause. His eyes flicked to the small pile of dried sweet potatoes in the corner, then back to the gourd in his hand. The boy’s resentment had the ring of truth. Stealing from a lowly honorary disciple was one thing, but driving him out afterward for a treasure would be a disgraceful scandal. His reputation in the sect, tenuous as it was, couldn’t withstand it. Moreover, if others learned of this spiritual gourd, they would swoop in to claim it. No, a subtler approach was needed. This boy was hiding something—there had to be more gourds like this. A cache of them could elevate his alchemy to new heights.

The storm on Elder Sun’s face cleared, replaced by an expression of paternal concern. “You sure had it rough, kid,” he exclaimed, his voice softening. “I didn’t know that you didn’t get to eat for a whole week. Now that I know of this issue, I’ll deal with it. Even honorary disciples are still disciples of the Heng Yue Sect!” He watched Wang Lin, who still simmered with staged anger. Foolish, stubborn country boy, Sun Dazhu thought with a cold internal laugh. Outwardly, he maintained his kindly tone. “Wang Lin, I want this gourd, but I want to treat you properly. Do you want to be my helper?”

Wang Lin muttered, looking at the ground. “I don’t want to. Helper is the same as a servant. If my dad found out I that became a servant, he would beat me to death.”

Elder Sun felt his temper flare again. He had half a mind to do the beating himself. An offer to be an elder’s helper would cause a stampede among the honorary disciples! He swallowed the irritation, the effort visible. “Fine!” he yelled, as if making a great concession. “I’ll accept you as my disciple. I’m going to go tell the patriarch right now. You pack your things, then come wait for me at my garden.” Without another look, he strode out, mounted a cloud, and shot toward the patriarch’s residence, the precious gourd clutched tightly in his hand.

Alone, Wang Lin’s expression darkened into a sneer. “This old man has ulterior motives,” he whispered to the empty room. “On the surface, he accepted me as a disciple, but in reality, he just wants more gourds.” He pondered for a moment, then a chuckle escaped him. Let the elder want gourds. The mountains were full of them. All he needed was time with his stone bead and some water. And now, an opportunity had fallen into his lap—a chance to become a true inner disciple, to finally grasp the methods of proper cultivation. The thought sent a thrill through him, burning away the lingering fear. He packed his meager belongings, leaving a generous pile of sweet potatoes for his only friend, Zhang Hu. Then, with a heart full of new determination, he walked toward Elder Sun’s herb garden.

This time, he entered without announcement. The white-clothed youth who perpetually lounged in the tree merely watched him pass, a contemptuous smile playing on his lips. “A trash master accepted a trash disciple,” the youth murmured to the breeze. “This is very fitting.”

The Cage of a Disciple

Wang Lin did not wait long in the garden before Elder Sun returned. The elder’s face was a thundercloud, his earlier frustration now mingled with fresh humiliation. His visit to the patriarch had been met with ridicule from his apprentice-brothers. Let them laugh, he seethed internally. Wait until I have all the gourds and refine a pill that skyrockets my cultivation. We’ll see who laughs then.

Seeing Wang Lin, he huffed, the sound like a bellows. “Wang Lin, from today on, you are my, Sun Dazhu’s, disciple. You must cultivate properly to not disgrace your master’s name.” He tossed a small, gray pouch at Wang Lin’s feet. “This is the inner disciple’s identification. It also acts as a bag of holding. It can hold a lot of things. Your clothes and instructions to your cultivation method are stored inside. Check it out yourself.”

Wang Lin scooped up the pouch, his excitement palpable. In that moment, thoughts of his parents’ hopeful faces overwhelmed any caution. He bowed deeply, his voice sincere. “Thank you, Master!”

Sun Dazhu replied with a dismissive grunt. His eyes shifted toward the garden gate, a warning glinting in them. “From now on, you will live in the room in the back. You can’t leave without my permission.” To emphasize the point, he bent down, picked up a common pebble, and with a casual flick of his wrist, sent it flying toward the gate. There was a flash of violent purple light upon impact, and the pebble disintegrated into a fine, harmless powder that drifted to the ground.

Wang Lin’s pupils contracted. The display of power was a not-so-subtle threat. He clutched the bag of holding tighter, a cold understanding settling in his stomach. This discipleship was a gilded cage. He bowed again and hurried to the small room at the back. It was sparse, containing only a hard bed, but to Wang Lin, it was a palace compared to his old quarters. Sitting on the bed, he eagerly upended the gray pouch.

A set of red inner disciple robes and a thin, unassuming booklet tumbled out. Wang Lin’s hands trembled slightly as he picked up the booklet. This was it—the key. He opened it to the first page, and the characters seemed to glow: “Three Stages of Qi Condensation.”

By the flickering light of an oil lamp, he read deep into the night, absorbing every character. The booklet outlined the foundational stage of cultivation: absorbing the spiritual energy of heaven and earth to temper the body and build a foundation for the future. It was, as he learned, the ultimate test of natural talent. The gifted absorbed energy swiftly, their cultivation progressing like a flowing river. The average might struggle for a lifetime to reach the third stage, some never even breaching the first. The booklet contained methods only for the first three layers; access to further knowledge was a reward for reaching that third stage.

The “Three Stages of Qi Condensation” became his most treasured possession. He committed the breathing method to memory—one long, deep inhalation followed by three short, sharp breaths, each a third the length of a normal breath. This unnatural rhythm was said to draw spiritual energy into the body. The text promised that a first-time practitioner would feel a sensation like ants crawling under the skin, the sign of energy entering the meridians. He was to relax, to envision himself dissolving into nothingness, becoming one with the world.

Full of hope, Wang Lin sat cross-legged on the floor, closed his eyes, and began. He focused on the rhythm: one long, three short. Again and again. Time lost meaning. But instead of a crawling sensation, he felt only lightheadedness from the abnormal breathing. After what felt like hours, he opened his eyes, a wave of helpless frustration washing over him. He sighed. The booklet was written for the talented, the chosen. His own aptitude was mediocre, a fact the sect had long since stamped upon him.

Yet, discouragement was a luxury he could not afford. He took a few normal breaths to steady himself, gritted his teeth, and began the cycle again. The night wore on, stubborn and unyielding. Dawn found him dizzy and exhausted, having felt not a single wisp of spiritual energy. He rose, his body stiff, and opened his door to the garden.

The morning breeze carried the complex, earthy scent of medicinal herbs. He breathed deeply, but it did little to clear the fog of fatigue. He thought longingly of the spring water from his gourd, now in his master’s possession. A few mouthfuls would have banished this weariness. But now was not the time for rashness. His secret cache—the stone bead and the other gourds he had prepared—was well hidden in a secluded part of the mountain. He had scoured half the hillside to find that spot. Even if someone stumbled upon it, they would never find his treasures.

Seeking a better environment, he strolled into the herb garden itself until he found a flat rock nestled among the vibrant plants. He sat and resumed his cultivation. Here, the air felt different, richer. And then, after a short while, he felt it—a faint, almost imperceptible prickling under his skin, like the legs of a single ant. Elation surged within him.

It was shattered by a roar. “Wang Lin, what are you doing? Quickly come out of there. I’m telling you now; never cultivate in the herb garden!”

Wang Lin’s eyes snapped open to see Sun Dazhu glowering at him, face dark with anger. He silently rose and stepped out of the planted area.

Sun Dazhu coldly snorted. “You sure know how to find a good location. I’m growing my herbs here because it has the most spiritual energy in the garden, and you come and suck it away. If any of these herbs die because of this, even our lives couldn’t compensate for them.”

Wang Lin lowered his head, masking his resentment behind a veneer of respect. “Disciple didn’t know any better. Disciple will never cultivate here again.”

The elder’s expression smoothed over, and a calculating gleam entered his eye. “However,” he said, his tone shifting to one of false magnanimity, “if you can find me another gourd—a gourd like the one you had before, filled with spiritual energy—while I can’t let you cultivate in the herb garden, I can give you a low-grade spirit stone. With it, your Qi Condensation will be a lot easier.”

Wang Lin kept his head bowed. A flicker of ridicule passed through his mind. So the game begins. “Disciple can go check the spring in the mountains again,” he offered, his voice neutral. “If my luck is good, I might be able to find another one.”

Sun Dazhu pretended to ponder. “You go have a look. Remember, if you bring me back another gourd, I’ll reward you with a low-grade spirit stone.”

Wang Lin looked up, feigning hopeful curiosity. “Is what master is saying true? If I bring back a gourd, you will give me a spirit stone?”

“Yes,” Sun Dazhu said, a smile stretching his face that didn’t reach his eyes. “As long as I get a gourd, I’ll give you a low-grade spirit stone.”

You’ll get a gourd, Wang Lin thought, an internal sneer forming. But not the one you want. Outwardly, he nodded respectfully. Sun Dazhu made a series of hand seals, muttered an incantation, and the garden gate swung open. “Go ahead,” he said, stroking his beard. “Leave now and come back quickly.”

The Watcher in the Trees

Clad in his new red robes, Wang Lin left the garden and entered the main paths of the outer disciple sector. The crimson uniform acted like a beacon, drawing stares from every honorary disciple he passed. Their faces first showed pure, unadulterated envy. Then recognition dawned.

“So it turns out that the person who became an inner disciple was him!” one whispered, voice dripping with disbelief. “He became an honorary disciple by trying to commit suicide. What method could he have used this time?”

“Is there a need to ask?” another scoffed, not bothering to lower his voice. “I say he must have done some nasty things to gain the Elder’s favor. That type of person is completely shameless.”

“Yeah, just look at that stupid face,” a third joined in. “Even if he became an inner disciple, he’ll still be at the bottom. How could cultivation be so easy?”

The insults piled on, a chorus of bitterness and scorn. “That piece of trash. It doesn’t matter if he becomes an inner disciple, we shouldn’t care. Trash is trash, and no matter where they go, they will be looked down upon.”

“Damn it. I’ve been an honorary disciple for four years and haven’t seen someone as shameless as him. Why did the elder pick him? I’m better than him in every way!”

An older disciple, his face lined with years of resentment, spat on the ground. “You’ve only been here for four years? I’ve been here for 12 years, but relied on my own skill. Look at how arrogant he is! Hmph, inner disciples constantly fight with each other, so let’s wait and watch the show.”

Every word carved itself into Wang Lin’s mind. He didn’t react, didn’t alter his pace, but his eyes turned cold as winter stone as he scanned the crowd. He stored each face, each voice. He was not strong enough now, not by a long measure. But a vow solidified in his heart, hard and unyielding: he would remember this. He would get stronger. And he would have his reckoning.

He finally passed through the east gate and broke into a run along the familiar mountain path to the spring. The cold water was a shock to his system. He splashed his face, drank deeply, and let the relative solitude calm his simmering anger. Then he sat on his usual rock, not to wait for a floating gourd, but to think.

Unbeknownst to him, high in the branches of a nearby tree, Elder Sun Dazhu watched, his patience already fraying. This little bastard, he cursed silently. He said he was going to find a gourd. I can’t believe he’s really waiting here for a gourd to float by. He had tailed Wang Lin the moment he left, hoping to discover the source of the spiritual gourds. Instead, he found the boy sitting down and closing his eyes, slipping into the breathing pattern of Qi Condensation.

Wang Lin, for his part, focused on his cultivation. The spiritual energy here was denser than in his room, though it paled in comparison to the forbidden herb garden. His understanding crystallized: Qi Condensation was a simple, brutal arithmetic of accumulation. It was about how much spiritual energy one could gather and hold in the body. His current capacity was a mere thimble, but thimbles could be filled, drop by stubborn drop.

He cultivated until the sun reached its zenith, then stood and stretched. The “ant crawling” sensation had not returned. He glanced around the peaceful spring, and a shrewd thought occurred to him. Elder Sun had not let him out of the garden out of kindness. The man was undoubtedly watching. Wang Lin touched his stomach, feigning hunger, and casually began the walk back to the sect.

In the tree, Sun Dazhu nearly exploded. A whole morning wasted! His face flushed with anger. Bastard. This old man will play your game, he resolved, teeth gritted. If you won’t succeed in one day, then I’ll wait one month. If one month isn’t enough, I’ll just wait a year. I refuse to believe you don’t have another gourd. With a flash of movement, he departed, arriving back at his garden well before Wang Lin.

Wang Lin strolled in not long after. Sun Dazhu stroked his beard, the picture of a concerned master. “Disciple, did you find a gourd this morning?”

With a practiced sigh, Wang Lin shook his head. “Teacher, disciple waited the whole time at the spring, but didn’t find any gourd. I’ll go wait in the afternoon. I might get lucky then.”

You kept your eyes closed in meditation this whole morning. Even if a gourd had floated by, you wouldn’t have seen it, Sun Dazhu thought venomously. What he said was, “Very good. Wang Lin, you go eat first. Then, go check it out in the afternoon.”

Wang Lin acknowledged him and went to his room. To his surprise, a small table now held a feast: four dishes of meat and vegetables, and a pot of fragrant soup. He didn’t question its origin, simply devoured the meal with the gusto of someone who had known true hunger, draining the soup to the last drop. Fatigue from his sleepless night and morning cultivation weighed on him. He lay on his bed and slipped into a deep, hour-long nap.

As he slept, Sun Dazhu’s form materialized like a ghost in the room, his face a mask of dark satisfaction. This old man follows the sect rules, so I won’t poison your food, he mused, looking at the empty dishes. But I can put in drugs that will hinder your spiritual energy absorption. With your average ability and my drugs, you will never get past the third layer of Qi Condensation. You will be forever under my control.

Refreshed, Wang Lin woke, straightened his red robes, and returned to the spring. The afternoon was a repeat of the morning—sitting, cultivating, feeling nothing but his own determination. As dusk began to paint the sky, he stood up. This time, instead of heading back to the sect, he turned and walked into the dense mountain forest.

Sun Dazhu, perched silently in his arboreal vigil, immediately followed, his movements utterly soundless.

Wang Lin moved with deliberate slowness, taking winding paths, glancing left and right as if searching for landmarks. He led a meandering, pointless route deep into the woods. Then, at a seemingly random spot, his expression brightened with feigned delight. He had arrived at a wild vine, heavy with ordinary, non-spiritual gourds. He carefully selected a small, nicely shaped one, plucked it, and turned to hurry back the way he came.

From his hiding place, Sun Dazhu was utterly confused. He watched Wang Lin leave, then floated down to inspect the vine. He picked several gourds, examining them with his spiritual sense. They were utterly mundane, containing not a whisper of energy. Frustrated, he took a few anyway and vanished.

Wang Lin made his way back to the Heng Yue Sect, enduring another gauntlet of jealous stares and muttered insults. He carried the ordinary gourd like a trophy. Entering the herb garden, he found Sun Dazhu waiting, his face a thunderhead of suppressed rage.

Wang Lin approached and respectfully presented the gourd. “Teacher, my luck this afternoon was pretty good. Although I wasn’t able to find any in the spring, I walked around the mountain and found a lot of gourds. This one looked the most like the one I had before. Teacher, how is it?”

Sun Dazhu stared at the proffered gourd, his control snapping. He snatched it and tossed it aside with a contemptuous flick of his wrist, where it landed with a dull thud in the dirt. “The gourd I want,” he said, his voice low and trembling with anger, each word bitten off, “is the one that is filled with spiritual energy like before. Why would I want a random gourd?” The volume rose until he was nearly shouting, his façade of the benevolent master crumbling completely. “Why would I want a random gourd?!”

He had wasted an entire day, been led on a fool’s errand through the mountains, and had tested worthless vegetables, all while the secret of the true spiritual gourds remained maddeningly out of reach. The game was far from over, but the opening moves had made one thing clear: Wang Lin, the so-called trash disciple, was not going to be as easily manipulated as Sun Dazhu had hoped. The hunt, and the deception, had only just begun.