Renegade Immortal Chapters 25-27: Wang Lin's First Breakthrough and a Deadly Secret

The passage of time within the Heng Yue Sect had become a blur to Wang Lin, measured not by the sun's arc but by the relentless cycle of cultivation within the miraculous dream space of the stone bead. Two months had slipped by in the waking world, yet for Wang Lin, immersed in that ethereal realm three times daily, each session lasting fifty hours, it had been a full year of solitary, grinding practice. The initial novelty of cultivation had long since worn off, revealing its true nature: a profoundly tedious and dry endeavor. Were it not for the vivid memory of his parents’ hopeful faces that surfaced in his mind like a lifeline, a look of expectation that pierced through the monotony, he doubted his spirit could have endured the repetition. Each day, he performed the same breathing pattern—one long inhalation, three short exhalations—guiding the spiritual energy from the spring water into his body. The thought of Wang Zhuo reaching the first layer of Qi Condensation in a mere three months festered in his heart, a constant prick of dissatisfaction that fueled his dedication. He became a recluse, a ghost in his own room, pouring every ounce of his being into this single pursuit.

To the rest of the Heng Yue Sect, he remained a joke, a byword for hopelessness. The whispers and mockery had largely faded, not out of respect, but from sheer lack of interest. Even Sun Dazhu, the elder who had reluctantly accepted him, had nearly scrubbed him from his thoughts, each recollection bringing only annoyance. This universal disregard, combined with Wang Lin’s meticulous habit of concealing the stone bead within his robes before sleep, allowed the two months to pass in deceptive peace. His secret remained his own.

And he consumed the spiritual spring water without a second thought. Any time he felt a dip in the energy circulating within him, he would take the gourd and drink several deep gulps. Had any cultivator in the land of Zhao witnessed this profligate use of such a concentrated spiritual resource, their hearts would have ached with a mixture of fury and envy. Spiritual energy was the sacred currency of cultivation, to be carefully gathered from the environment. Using spring water of such purity for mere daily cultivation was an act of unimaginable luxury, the kind only afforded to ancient patriarchs who occupied entire spiritual mountain ranges. Wang Lin, in his ignorant diligence, was building his foundation upon a treasure that would have driven the cultivation world to madness.

This endless reservoir of energy bore fruit. The quantity of spiritual energy within Wang Lin’s body swelled steadily, a silent river growing in force. Then, during a cultivation session within the dream space, the change finally came. He felt it clearly: the spiritual energy moving along specific pathways, no longer a passive guest but an active force. As he breathed out, two faint streams of white vapor, like miniature dragons, escaped his nostrils. A sensation akin to a colony of ants marching beneath his skin arose, followed by a feeling of purifying water scouring every vessel and meridian. From his pores, a vile, black liquid seeped out, staining his clothes with its foul stench.

Wang Lin ignored the discomfort. He was suspended in a state of profound clarity. He could almost visualize the spring water’s energy coursing through him, the spiritual power methodically altering the very substance of his body. Time lost meaning. When he finally opened his eyes, they held a new light, a sharpness that had not been there before. His mind was a placid lake, undisturbed by wind. Memories of his entire life flowed past—his father’s patient smile as he learned to speak, his mother’s encouraging words during long nights of study, the proud yet anxious faces of his parents as he left for the sect, the mocking glances of relatives, the admiring whispers of villagers. He observed them all now with a detached calm, as if reviewing the life of a stranger.

A long, deep breath escaped him, carrying a trace of bitterness. This, he understood now, was the gate of the first layer of Qi Condensation. To step through it was to begin severing one’s ties to the mundane world. Every cultivator faced this moment of detachment. He did not know how others managed it, but for Wang Lin, one bond was unbreakable, one thread he would never cut: the love for his parents. That was a part of his foundation, as vital as the spiritual energy itself.

Rising from his seated position, he felt the grime on his skin and remembered the teachings from the Three Stages of Qi Condensation. The expulsion of bodily filth was a necessary purification. He left his room and hurried to a downstream section of the river. Scrubbing the greasy, black residue from his skin took time, but the cool water was refreshing. Afterwards, lying on a sun-warmed rock, his thoughts turned to the practical fruits of his breakthrough. The Three Stages manuscript described three basic techniques accessible at the first layer: the Attraction Force Technique, the Fireball Technique, and the Earth Splitting Technique. The Attraction Force was fundamental, the very basis for controlling objects and, eventually, flying swords.

Eagerness sparked within him. Focusing on the Fireball Technique first, he carefully formed the required hand seal. Nothing. Not a wisp of smoke, not a flicker of heat. He tried again and again, his brow furrowing in concentration. After numerous attempts, he managed to produce a single, pathetic spark that died instantly. A bitter laugh escaped him. "Talent… it always comes back to talent," he muttered to the empty air. Turning his attention to the Earth Splitting Technique, he aimed at a nearby rock. The result was marginally better—a crack snaked across the stone, but it was no wider than his little finger. It was a parlor trick, useless in any real conflict.

Finally, he practiced the Attraction Force Technique. The results were underwhelming but showed more promise than the others. The principle was simple: use spiritual energy to manipulate an object from a distance. He practiced until the daylight began to wane, then started back toward his dwelling, his senses now acutely aware of the world around him. The colors seemed brighter, sounds more distinct.

As he passed by the chore house near the east gate, raised voices, familiar and strained, cut through the evening quiet. He paused, listening.

"Brother Liu, when you first gave me the firewood task, you said one hundred pounds was enough! Why has it become one thousand now? I, Zhang Hu, have been here for years. I’ve done plenty for you. Do you really want to force me out?" It was Zhang Hu’s voice, thick with frustration and a hint of fear.

The reply was cold and slick. "Zhang Hu, don’t make this sound like my fault. It’s nearly the year's end, and times are hard for everyone. But you? Instead of working, you come to cry to me. I took your wood to the pill house and was scolded for its poor quality. I checked it myself—out of a hundred pounds, thirty were water weight! You think you’re clever?"

"That’s a lie!" Zhang Hu shouted, his anger breaking through. "You’re falsely accusing me! This isn’t about the wood! It’s because a few days ago, I saw Zhao FuGui give you an immortal talisman so you’d give him lighter work! Everyone knows how you operate! You want to force me out? Fine! But I’m not going quietly. I’ll take this to the elders!"

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Brother Liu’s voice dropped, laced with a venomous chill. "Zhang Hu, you’ve forced my hand. If you want to blame anyone, blame your own bad luck for seeing what you shouldn’t have. Stay right there. If the elders hear of this, do you think it will stop with you? Your entire family back in the village could share your fate."

A sharp, terrified scream from Zhang Hu ripped through the air. Wang Lin’s body moved before his mind fully processed the threat. He kicked the door open.

The scene inside was one of stark violence. The youth named Liu, his face twisted with malice, was thrusting a dagger toward Zhang Hu, who was pinned against the wall, eyes wide with terror. Wang Lin saw he couldn’t reach them in time. Instinct took over. He focused his will and cast the Attraction Force Technique. To his relief, it worked. An invisible force clamped down on Liu’s arm, halting the dagger’s descent. But the blade had already bitten into Zhang Hu’s chest, and a dark stain of blood began to spread across his shirt.

Liu’s eyes bulged with shock. He felt an inexplicable power restraining him, paralyzing his murderous intent. Zhang Hu, pale and sweating, scrambled away from the wall as the pressure lessened.

Wang Lin’s forehead beaded with sweat. Maintaining the technique on a struggling person was far more difficult than moving a gourd. Liu thrashed against the invisible bonds, and Wang Lin felt his control slipping, his spiritual energy draining rapidly. His body trembled with the strain. Seeing Zhang Hu was out of immediate danger, his focus wavered for a split second, and the Attraction Force loosened.

In that moment, Zhang Hu’s expression changed. The fear melted away, replaced by a grim, desperate resolve. He looked from Wang Lin’s struggling form to the slowly-freed Liu. His eyes fell on a wood-cutting axe leaning against the wall. A ruthless light flashed in his eyes.

"To not be a man is to be without venom," Zhang Hu muttered, as if convincing himself. "Brother Liu, you brought this on yourself. You threatened my family."

"Zhang Hu, what are you doing?!" Wang Lin cried out, the shock causing his technique to collapse entirely.

Liu, feeling the restraint vanish, started to move, a snarl forming on his lips. It was too late. Zhang Hu, gripping the axe with both hands, brought it down in a heavy, brutal arc. The sound was sickening, a wet, final crunch. Liu’s body jerked violently, then lay still on the floor.

The axe slipped from Zhang Hu’s fingers, clattering on the stone. He stared at the corpse, his face a canvas of conflicting emotions—horror, relief, and a hardening certainty.

Wang Lin stood frozen, the metallic scent of blood filling his nostrils. This was his first encounter with violent death, and it left him cold and hollow. "Zhang Hu, you…" he began, his voice barely a whisper.

Zhang Hu looked up, his expression grim and defiant. "Wang Lin, you saw it all. I didn’t want this. If you hadn’t come, I’d be dead. He left me no choice. He forced me!" The words were spoken with a desperate, pleading intensity, as if he needed Wang Lin to believe them.

Wang Lin could say nothing. The peaceful world of cultivation had just shown him its brutal, mortal underbelly.

Taking a shuddering breath, Zhang Hu’s demeanor shifted into one of grim practicality. He knelt beside the corpse and searched it, retrieving a bag of holding. Inside were hundreds of the standard talismans used by honorary disciples for home visits, as well as a thread-bound booklet, which Zhang Hu glanced at and stuffed into his own robes. He then ransacked the room, finally finding a hidden compartment under the bed. From it, he pulled out a single piece of yellow paper.

He turned to Wang Lin, his expression complex. "Wang Lin, you saved my life today. I, Zhang Hu, will remember that debt. But I can’t stay in the Heng Yue Sect now. Once they find his body, the investigation will lead to me." He held out the yellow paper. "I’m taking these. This talisman… it must be valuable. Why else would he kill for it? It’s a disaster-causing thing. You take it."

Wang Lin recoiled slightly. "You… why did it have to come to this? If you hadn’t killed him…"

"Enough!" Zhang Hu interrupted, a frown deepening on his face. "Wang Lin, don’t be naive. I’ve suffered enough here. If you still consider me a friend, take this talisman. Consider it… thanks, or a parting gift." His tone brooked no argument.

With a heavy heart and a bitter taste in his mouth, Wang Lin accepted the yellow paper. He felt its slight weight, a weight that seemed to carry the gravity of the life just ended.

"Good," Zhang Hu said, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I’m leaving now. This has nothing to do with you. The sect will only look for me. The country of Zhao is vast. I won’t be an honorary disciple forever." With one last, unreadable look at Wang Lin and the corpse, Zhang Hu turned and slipped out into the gathering dusk, disappearing from Wang Lin’s life as abruptly as he had entered it.

Wang Lin stood alone in the silent, blood-stained room for a long time, staring at the spot where his only friend had vanished. A deep sigh finally escaped him. In his hand, the yellow talisman felt strangely potent. Examining it closely, he saw the difference. While it resembled the common home-visit talismans in shape, the material was finer, the ink strokes more profound, and it thrummed with a dense, dangerous concentration of spiritual energy that the others lacked. It radiated a subtle aura of peril. This was no trivial token; it was a treasure, and it had indeed been the seed of disaster.

Hesitating only briefly, Wang Lin stored the talisman away. His immediate problem was the corpse. If it were discovered now, Zhang Hu would never escape. Acting quickly, he used the bag of holding to store the body, meticulously cleaned the room of blood, and under the cover of darkness, ventured into the mountains to dispose of the remains. The act felt surreal, a dark secret buried beneath the serene peaks of the Heng Yue Sect.

Returning to his room, the weight of the night’s events pressed on him. He pushed thoughts of Zhang Hu’s fate aside; that path was now closed. Instead, he focused on the tangible mystery in his possession: the talisman. He studied it again but could not decipher its use. The memory of nearly dying from the stone bead’s dew made him exceedingly cautious. The talisman’s characters seemed to pulse with a warning. Deciding it required more study at a later time, he stored it safely away.

Seeking solace in routine, he took out the stone bead and entered the dream space. This time, cultivation was not his sole focus. The effectiveness—and his imperfect control—of the Attraction Force Technique during the crisis had been a stark lesson. He dedicated himself to mastering it. Using his gourd as a target, he practiced relentlessly, casting the technique, pulling the gourd an inch, releasing it, and starting over. His logic was simple and relentless: a technique was only useful if it was reliable. If he attempted it ten times, it must succeed ten times. His current success rate of three or four out of ten was unacceptable.

Time in the dream space flowed, dedicated to this single-minded practice. When he returned to reality, he immediately drank spring water to replenish his energy and resumed cultivating, cycling the spiritual energy through his body. Now that he was solidly in the first layer, the next goal was clear: the second layer of Qi Condensation. According to the Three Stages, the core of advancement lay in specific chants. The first layer was a gate one opened alone, but for each subsequent layer, a corresponding chant was required to guide the spiritual energy into a new, more complex pattern. One could accumulate all the energy in the world, but without successfully executing the chant for the next layer, one would remain stuck.

Wang Lin recited the chant for the second layer in his mind. Immediately, the spiritual energy in his body stirred. It began to churn and heat up, feeling like boiling water in his veins. But quickly, the energy proved insufficient. It surged and sputtered, creating sensations of soreness, numbness, and a bizarre feeling that his body was full of leaking holes. The manuscript had warned of this: the opening chant did not always succeed. Talent, spiritual energy density, and sheer chance all played a role. Some succeeded on the first try; others failed a hundred times.

After a long, draining struggle, the sensations faded. Wang Lin was drenched in sweat, and his spiritual energy was utterly depleted. He had failed. Yet, he felt no despair. This was merely a test. He had just broken through; his spiritual energy was not yet at the peak of the first layer. With the endless spring water, he could cultivate until he reached that limit, vastly improving his odds for the next attempt. This became his new rhythm: cultivate to accumulate energy, practice the Attraction Force Technique to perfection, and periodically attempt the second layer chant.

Half a month passed in the real world—another three months in the dream space. He attempted the chant countless times, each failure leaving him exhausted and empty. "Failed again," he muttered wearily to himself one afternoon after another fruitless attempt. "Breaking through to the second layer is far more difficult than the first." Just then, his sharpened senses caught a presence outside his door.

A cold, familiar voice pierced the silence. "Apprentice-brother Wang, come out and see me."

Wang Lin’s heart tightened. He rose, opened the door, and found himself facing a young man in his late twenties, clad in stark black robes, an air of cold authority emanating from him. Wang Lin recognized him instantly: it was the same disciple who had escorted him, Wang Zhuo, and Wang Hao to the sect, and who later led his father to the cliffside. But at that time, the man had worn white robes. Now, after only a few months, he wore black. Wang Lin suddenly recalled the words of the examiner at the foot of the mountain, who mentioned this very disciple was at a critical juncture in his cultivation. The change from white to black signified a promotion, a leap in power and status. What business could such a person have with the sect’s least promising disciple? A cold knot of apprehension formed in Wang Lin’s stomach as he bowed slightly, awaiting the reason for this ominous visit.