Renegade Immortal Chapters 28-30: Wang Lin's Chore House Tyranny and Hidden Cultivation
The crisp mountain air of the Heng Yue Sect carried a new tension to Wang Lin’s humble dwelling. His quiet cultivation was interrupted not by a breakthrough, but by an unexpected visitor. Standing before him was the black-clad youth, Zhang, whose presence alone spoke of a significant advancement. The black robes were a stark symbol; Wang Lin couldn't even perceive the depth of his cultivation. He immediately offered a respectful greeting, his mind racing to understand the purpose of this visit.
"Wang Lin greets brother Zhang. Congratulations to senior on reaching black clothes," Wang Lin said, his tone carefully measured.
The black-clad youth regarded him with an inscrutable expression. "Me successfully breaking into the fifth layer of Qi Condensation does relate a bit to you," he stated slowly, his words landing with unexpected weight. "If I hadn’t found that cave while looking for you, I wouldn’t have broken through so quickly."
A jolt of surprise shot through Wang Lin. The cave? The very place of his desperate flight and strange discovery. "Brother Zhang, that hole with the suction force in the cave could help cultivation?" he asked, unable to mask his curiosity.
A slight nod was his answer. "When you reach the peak of the fourth layer and need to use the chant to enter the fifth layer, go there yourself and you will see the effect." Zhang's gaze then swept over Wang Lin, and a hint of something akin to pity or disdain flickered in his eyes. "Brother Wang, it can’t be helped since your talent is mediocre, but since you are a disciple now, you must cultivate diligently. I see that you have no spiritual energy in you at all. You haven’t even reached the first layer of Qi Condensation. I’m afraid that out of all the inner disciples, you are the only one."
Wang Lin felt a familiar, bitter taste in his mouth—the taste of being judged and found wanting. He offered a wry smile, the perfect mask for the complex reality he hid. "I’ll take Apprentice-brother’s advice to heart. I will double my effort in cultivation." He swiftly changed the subject, sensing the real reason for the visit had yet to be revealed. "Brother Zhang, what is the reason you’re here today?"
The matter, as it turned out, was administrative. The honorary disciple in charge of the chore house had vanished. Someone had seen Wang Lin there on the day of the disappearance. Zhang had come to inquire. Wang Lin’s heart beat steadily, his face a placid lake. He spun a tale of petty discipline—a disrespectful honorary disciple he had chastised, who must have fled the sect in fear. Zhang accepted the explanation with a half-laugh; the fate of a mere honorary disciple was of little consequence.
The true purpose followed. With the chore house master gone, the elders decreed an inner disciple must take over. No one wanted the tedious, spirit-draining job. The duty, by process of elimination, had fallen to the disciple with the "mediocre talent."
"I understand," Wang Lin said, his wry smile returning. "It seems the task has been assigned to me."
"Pack your things and head there today," Zhang confirmed with a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Right now, the chore house is really messy. You have to get it back in order." With a curt gesture, a flying sword materialized beneath his feet, painting a rainbow streak across the sky as he departed, leaving Wang Lin alone with his frustration.
This was a disaster. The chore house was a den of gossip and prying eyes, the last place he could afford to be with the secret of the bead and his dream space. The endless mundane tasks would be a constant drain on his precious cultivation time. Resentment simmered within him, but defiance was not an option. As he packed his meager belongings, a plan crystallized in his mind. He would not settle in. He would create such chaos, such unbearable injustice, that the honorary disciples themselves would riot and demand his removal from the elders. With that goal burning in his chest, he marched toward the chore house, a commander heading to a battle he intended to lose.
The Reign of the Black Hearted King
The chore house was as disorganized and gloomy as he remembered. He claimed the former master’s room, discarding anything non-essential with brisk, impersonal motions. Soon, a crowd gathered in the yard—over a hundred honorary disciples, their faces a mosaic of anxiety, fear, and resentment. The ones who had mocked him most fiercely in the past looked particularly pale.
Wang Lin let the silence stretch, his cold gaze sweeping over them. He then pointed a deliberate finger at one of the loudest past mockers. "You will now chop 500 pounds of firewood!"
The boy stammered, "Brother Wang I … I used to work in the kitchen. I don’t know how to chop wood."
Wang Lin’s expression didn't change. "Now it’s 1000 pounds a day!"
The reaction was instantaneous and exactly what he’d hoped for. The boy collapsed, weeping and begging. A wave of discontent surged through the crowd. Voices rose in anger. "Let’s go find an elder and have them carry out justice. Wang Lin is too overbearing!" another shouted.
"Correct! Let us go find the elders to get another inner disciple to be in charge of this place!" The insults began to fly, referencing his humble entry into the sect. "He doesn’t even remember that he entered the Sect by trying to commit suicide. Such a disgrace!"
Wang Lin’s heart lightened as he watched the mob, fueled by righteous indignation, storm out of the yard toward the main courtyard to plead their case. He did nothing to stop them. He wanted them to succeed. He waited, almost hopeful, in the suddenly quiet yard with the few disciples too cautious or scared to join the protest.
The hope was short-lived. The disciples returned, not with triumphant shouts, but with the heavy tread of defeat. Their faces were etched with despair and silent resignation. The elders had dismissed their complaints. Wang Lin’s disappointment was profound, but it only hardened his resolve. If this level of rebellion wasn't enough, he would have to be more outrageous, more blatantly corrupt. He would force the elders' hand.
"All of you who secretly mocked me, listen to me," he announced, his voice cutting through the gloom. "I am here today to get revenge. If you’re dissatisfied, go to the elders. If you can get me removed from this position, I will have to thank you."
His declaration triggered a desperate, chaotic scramble of excuses and pleas. Honorary disciples fell over each other to proclaim their past innocence. "Brother Wang, you are a great person. Please forgive us!" one begged, kowtowing.
"I never mocked you! I even defended you!" cried another.
The scene devolved into farce as two brothers, Zhao Xiao Er and Zhao Xiao San, turned on each other, each accusing the other of being the true slanderer. Then, the few female honorary disciples added their own tactics. One delicately mentioned her weak constitution and offered nightly massages. Another, more brazen, hinted at nighttime services she and other "apprentice-sisters" could provide, just as they had for the previous master.
Wang Lin watched this pathetic spectacle with growing impatience. Their fear and sycophancy were tools he would now use. "All of you, shut up. What a mess this is," he finally barked.
He then began his systematic reign of terror, pointing at individuals from his memory. "You, 20 vats of water. If you’re unhappy, go to the elders." "You, wash 500 kg of clothes every day. Remember, if you’re dissatisfied, go find the elders." The target of this order nearly fainted, muttering about the impossibility of the task. "You, clean the whole sect! Same thing!" "You, clear the outhouses. If I see one fly in there, you can live in there." "You, go gather 500 pounds of herbs a day. If you mix weeds in there to trick me, I’ll kick you out of the sect!"
He assigned backbreaking, impossible tasks with cold precision, ending each command with the same mocking refrain: "If you’re dissatisfied, go find the elders!" It was a taunt, a challenge he desperately wished they could meet. Having dispensed his "justice," he lounged back, but his mind was working. To ensure the pot kept boiling, he needed to add the final ingredient: open, institutionalized corruption.
He pointed to a random disciple. "You’re in luck. Your job is to keep track of everything. Make a list of all the gifts given to me. Record their names and time of gift. If you try to be greedy, I’ll kick you out of the sect!"
The disciple, shocked at the sudden "promotion," fell to his knees in grateful kowtows. The rest of the crowd was dumbstruck. The previous master’s corruption had been covert; Wang Lin’s was brazenly official.
The system immediately bore fruit. One clever disciple stepped forward and presented three "home visit" talismans. "Brother Wang, this is me paying my respects to you."
Wang Lin took them with a nonchalant grunt. "What job were you assigned earlier?" "Gather 20 vats of water a day!" "Then, do 5 vats a day instead," Wang Lin decreed, establishing the exchange rate for bribery.
Seeing this, a rush began, but Wang Lin stood, imposing order on the corruption. "All of you leave. You all need to follow the proper process of giving gifts. Write down your current job and your desired job on a piece of paper, then send it to the person I appointed to manage this. You can only do it only once in 10 days."
With that, he retreated to his room and closed the door, leaving behind a yard full of disciples sighing with resentment, their eyes burning with silent curses. The name "Black Hearted King" was born in those whispers, a title far more fearsome than the previous master's "weasel."
Seclusion and Secret Progress
Once alone, Wang Lin’s priority was finding a space for undisturbed cultivation. He explored the chore house compound and found a small, remote storage room. It was dusty and cramped, but it was secluded. After cleaning it out, he locked the door from the inside and entered the dream space. The chaotic world of the chore house fell away, replaced by the profound silence where time stretched and spiritual energy flowed.
Two months passed in the outside world, a much longer period within the dream. Wang Lin’s management style was simple: neglect punctuated by cold extortion. He spent most of his time cultivating, only emerging to collect "gifts" and snort at complaints. Yet, to his immense annoyance, no replacement came. The elders seemed willfully blind to the tyranny of the chore house. "Do I need to be even more unreasonable?" he wondered, frustration gnawing at him. He was prepared to escalate, to test the very limits of the sect's tolerance.
Within the dream space, his cultivation progressed steadily. After what felt like a full year of dedicated practice, the spiritual energy within his body swelled to the absolute limit of the first layer of Qi Condensation. He could accumulate no more. The time had come to attempt the breakthrough chant for the second layer. Drawing upon his relentless practice and the amplified time, he focused his mind and will. This time, after so many previous failures, success met him. A surge of power, subtle yet distinct, coursed through his meridians. The pores of his skin oozed a dark, greasy impurity—the physical evidence of his advancement.
After washing, he examined himself. His eyes seemed sharper, holding a glint like captured lightning. His entire bearing felt more substantial. Elation was quickly tempered by pragmatism. He now possessed only the chant for the third layer. To obtain the techniques for the fourth layer and beyond, he would have to return to Sun Dazhu. The problem was immediate and dangerous: Sun Dazhu believed him to be talentless. If he discovered Wang Lin had reached the second layer in such a short time, insistent and dangerous questions would follow. Wang Lin frowned, turning the problem over in his mind but finding no safe solution. For now, he would have to pause his cultivation progress and focus on what he could safely improve.
He turned his attention to the Attraction Force Technique. With the enhanced perception and control afforded by the second layer, his proficiency soared. From his initial shaky attempts, he could now execute the technique flawlessly, ten times out of ten. Seeking greater challenge, he began practicing on heavier objects within the chore house yard, moving from tools to large rocks with concentrated effort.
Another month drifted by. Winter’s grip tightened on Heng Yue Mountain, draping the peaks and forests in a blanket of pure white. The sect began to buzz with a different energy—preparations for the annual inner disciple competition. This year was special; it coincided with the honorary disciple competition held once every decade, where the top three could ascend to inner disciple status. This prospect consumed the honorary disciples, making them even more desperate to bribe their way out of chores to focus on training. Wang Lin saw this as another reason the elders might be ignoring the chore house chaos.
The competition held no allure for Wang Lin. Why waste time in public sparring when he could gain years of cultivation in the dream space? His goal remained singular: escape this administrative prison.
Mortal Thoughts and an Old Acquaintance
One quiet, snowing day, Wang Lin stood in the chore house yard. He did not cultivate. Instead, he practiced the Attraction Force Technique in a novel way, using it to create an invisible umbrella above him, gently pushing every falling snowflake aside so that not a single one touched his robes. As he stood there in his own bubble of clear air, his gaze turned westward, toward the distant, fog-shrouded lowlands where his village lay.
In the depth of winter, his home would be warm. The memory was vivid and tactile: the crackle of the fire in the stove, the smell of burning wood and his mother’s pickled vegetables. He saw himself as a boy, reading by the firelight, his father carving wood nearby. Sometimes, he would put his book down and watch his father’s skilled hands, sometimes even trying his own hand at carving. Under his childhood bed were wooden tops, treasures for playing on the frozen river with the other village boys. A deep, aching warmth spread through his chest, followed immediately by a sharp, cold clarity.
A cultivator was to sever mortal ties. These memories, these attachments, were distractions, obstacles on the path. Wang Lin took a deep, shuddering breath of the frosty air. He could not sever them—they were woven into the very fabric of his being. Instead, he did the only thing he could: he gathered those precious, painful memories and buried them deep within the most fortified vault of his heart. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were clear, calm, and resolved.
It was then that his newly awakened divine sense—a perk of the second layer described in his manual—tingled. Someone was approaching. A familiar presence. A moment later, the gate creaked open, and in walked Wang Hao, bundled in a leather cap and coat against the cold. He looked at Wang Lin standing serenely in the falling snow, barely dressed, and his eyes widened in surprise.
"Brother Tie Zhu, aren’t you cold? Wearing this little and still standing outside."
Wang Lin allowed a genuine, small smile to touch his lips. "I calculated that you would come and see me so I came out to welcome you, you little rascal." The cold was irrelevant now; his fortified body barely registered it.
Wang Hao chuckled, entering the yard and studying Wang Lin with a curious eye. "Brother Tie Zhu, how come I feel you’re a bit different from a few months ago?"
The moment of truth, offered casually. Wang Lin decided to test the waters with a truth disguised as a joke. "That’s natural. I have reached the second layer of Qi Condensation and can be considered an immortal!"
Wang Hao’s reaction was immediate and dismissive. He snorted, his mouth twitching with disbelief as he headed for the warmth of the room. "Don’t boast. Our talents are at about the same level. I have received help from immortal pills and still haven’t reached the first layer. But for you to reach the second layer? Impossible."
Wang Lin said nothing more, following him inside. Wang Hao’s disbelief was the perfect shield. It confirmed that the truth was too outrageous to be credible. Their relationship, built on shared origin but little else, did not warrant deeper confidence. Trust was a luxury Wang Lin could not afford.
Inside, he poured his fellow villager a cup of hot water. "Wang Hao, how come you have time to visit me today? Is the pill house not busy?"
Wang Hao warmed his hands on the cup. "You haven’t gone to the pill house to pick up your things in the past few months. I’ve been saving your portion, and came to deliver it to you today." He placed a small package on the table.
Wang Lin glanced at it but didn't touch it. His eyes remained on Wang Hao. He knew this wasn't just a delivery errand. The silence stretched, becoming pointed.
Under Wang Lin’s steady gaze, Wang Hao’s demeanor shifted to awkwardness. He forced a smile. "Tie Zhu, I heard you’ve been doing pretty well at the chore house these past few months."
There it was. Wang Lin took a sip of his own water, his expression unreadable. "Wang Hao, just say what you need to say. If I can help, I definitely will!"
Encouraged, Wang Hao leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Brother Tie Zhu, I always knew you were a smart person. Speaking honestly, I know you have a lot of the talisman the honorary disciples use to visit home. Can you lend me some?"
The request hung in the air. The talismans, the currency of his corruption, were now being sought by a fellow disciple from home. It was a small request, but it connected the two worlds Wang Lin was trying to keep separate: the ruthless Black Hearted King of the chore house and the simple village boy named Tie Zhu. Wang Lin looked at Wang Hao’s expectant face, considering the web of secrets, power, and isolation he was spinning around himself, and wondered where this small thread would lead. The snow continued to fall outside, silently covering the tracks of all who came and went.