Renegade Immortal Chapters 34-36: Wang Lin's Secluded Cultivation and the Gathering Storm
The air within the Heng Yue Sect thickened with a palpable tension, a collective sharpening of blades both literal and spiritual. For Wang Lin, however, the brewing storm of the inner disciple competition was a distant murmur, an irrelevant clamor. Secured within the silent, timeless expanse of the dream space afforded by his mysterious bead, he had finally obtained the chants up to the ninth layer of Qi Condensation. His path forward was clear, and the sect's petty rivalries were but gnats buzzing at the window of his secluded focus. He returned to his reclusive life in the chore house, a solitary figure against a backdrop of frenetic preparation.
Throughout the sect, inner disciples honed their skills with feverish intensity. The rewards for triumph were legendary: magic treasures, precious pills, talismans, and spirit stones. But the true object of covetous desire was the Two Moon Ring, a formidable defensive treasure once belonging to a senior from three centuries past, offered as the prize for first place. Among the newcomers, the consensus was unanimous; the victory would go to Wang Zhuo, whose talent shone brightly and whose arrogance grew in proportion. Even the honorary disciples, those on the lowest rung, turned hostile against one another, seeing the competition as their only sliver of hope to claw their way into the inner circle.
This entire atmosphere of ambition and anxiety had nothing to do with Wang Lin. His world had condensed to the cycle of cultivation and the meticulous practice of the attraction technique. As the month drew to a close, he activated the technique to cloak his true power, compressing the swirling spiritual energy within him to a meek manifestation of the first layer. The chore house had become a cage of distractions and prying eyes. He needed silence, a legitimate excuse to vanish. With this intent, he made his way to the main courtyard and stood before the gate of Sun Dazhu’s herb garden.
"Disciple Wang Lin requests to meet master," he called, his voice a model of respect.
The gate remained shut. "Why are you here?" Sun Dazhu’s voice dripped with displeasure, his dislike for this talentless disciple a constant, simmering pot.
Wang Lin’s expression didn't flicker. "Disciple’s cultivation is too low. I fear I would only lose in the competition and disgrace my master. I wish to refrain from participating."
A sneer echoed from behind the gate. "Hmph, it seems you are still a bit self-aware, you little brat. Look at Elder Xu’s disciple, Wang Zhuo. So young, yet already at the peak of the first layer, about to break through at any moment. Even if you went, it would be useless. The others could kill you with a finger. I even heard you are relatives. How could there be such a colossal difference?"
"Wang Zhuo has been clever since childhood, naturally gifted," Wang Lin replied, the words tasting like ash but spoken smoothly. "He is not someone this disciple could ever hope to match."
Sun Dazhu was silent for a moment, his greed surfacing. "Did you find any more of those gourds in the past half year?"
Wang Lin shook his head, allowing a mask of helplessness to settle on his features. "It has been strange. I have searched the mountain multiple times but have not seen a single one."
"Useless!" Sun Dazhu snapped. "Do you have anything else to say? If not, then scram. Every time I see you, I get angry!" The sentiment was visceral. Wang Lin was a living insult to his name, a reminder of his poor judgment, and he often fantasized about erasing the embarrassment with a single, violent stroke.
Wang Lin bowed again. "Master, disciple is weary of the mountain and wishes to leave until after the new year. May I have your permission?"
"Leave the mountain? Absolutely not!" Sun Dazhu refused, then seemed to remember something. "In fact, I’m glad you mentioned it. In four years is the intersect competition with Xuan Dao Zong. The sect master has ordered that after the new year, all participating inner disciples will enter intensive closed-door training. You will go. Perhaps you won’t completely ruin my name in the intersect competition."
"Intensive training?" Wang Lin was genuinely taken aback.
"It is a rule every twenty years," Sun Dazhu explained impatiently. "Xuan Dao Zong pretends friendship, but beneath the surface, the rivalry is fierce. For a century, we have lost to them. It is a disgrace. This training is to rectify that. Listen well, brat. If in four years you show no advancement and make me lose face, I will expel you from the Heng Yue Sect, rules be damned!" With that final threat, the conversation was over.
Wang Lin sighed inwardly. His plan to cultivate in peace outside the sect was shattered. Seeing no alternative, he nodded and took his leave. If he could not train outside, then this intensive training would have to become his sanctuary.
The day of the competition arrived with great fanfare, a spectacle Wang Lin ignored entirely. He remained in his room, using the time to solidify his foundation at the second layer of Qi Condensation. Through the gossip of the honorary disciples that trickled into the chore house, he learned the outcomes: among the inner disciples, Apprentice-Brother Zhang had taken first place, though notably, no purple-clothed core disciples had deigned to participate. Wang Zhuo, as predicted, reigned supreme among the newcomers, his victory only inflating his ego to new, insufferable heights.
A week later, in the quiet of the early morning, a bell tolled through the mountains. It rang five times, a summons for all inner disciples to gather immediately before the main hall. Deep within the dream space, Wang Lin heard nothing. The first he knew of the summons was the thunderous crash of his door being kicked open and Sun Dazhu’s apoplectic face filling his vision as he hastily stored the bead and emerged from his secret room.
"Wang Lin, are you deaf?" Sun Dazhu roared, spittle flying. "Did you not hear the bell? You worthless bastard! Every other disciple is already there! You have made me a laughingstock before the sect master and all the elders! You… you incinerate my patience!" His fury was a tangible heat in the small room.
Wang Lin simply raised an eyebrow and remained silent, which only stoked the flames.
Seeing no time for further reprimand, Sun Dazhu grabbed Wang Lin roughly, hauled him onto his seven-colored cloud, and shot into the sky. They landed with a jarring thud before the grand main hall, where Sun Dazhu unceremoniously flung Wang Lin to the ground. Leaning close, his whisper was laced with venomous intent. "Follow me in. If you cause me to lose face one more time, I will violate every sect rule and end your miserable life." The killing intent in his eyes was not a bluff. Wang Lin, rubbing his aching shoulder—grateful for the resilience his second-layer body provided—merely lowered his head.
"Disciple obeys."
Sun Dazhu straightened his robes, composing himself with a visible effort, and strode into the hall. Wang Lin took a deep, steadying breath, pressing down the cold anger that coiled in his gut, and followed.
The main hall of the Heng Yue Sect was a monument to awe and authority. Dozens of solemn statues of past sages lined the walls, their stone gazes imposing a weight of history and expectation. The space was vast, and as Wang Lin entered behind his master, dozens of eyes swiveled to him. The collective pressure of their gazes, many filled with curiosity or disdain, made the air feel thick and heavy. He kept his head lowered, focusing on the polished floor.
More than forty inner disciples stood in ordered ranks, a sea of black, white, and red robes—the absence of purple was notable. Among them, Wang Lin recognized faces: the ever-arrogant Wang Zhuo, the girls surnamed Xu and Zhou, the formidable Apprentice-Brother Zhang. All wore expressions of serious dedication. Before them, on raised platforms, sat two rows of elders, their faces carved from ice. At the center sat a man around forty, wearing a blue gown, his eyes sharp enough to cut stone. This was the sect master.
"Junior Brother Sun," the sect master's voice boomed, calm yet penetrating. "This is your disciple?"
Sun Dazhu’s anger vanished, replaced by an obsequious smile. "Elder Apprentice-Brother, yes, this is my foolish disciple, Wang Lin. He entered the sect late and is unfamiliar with the meaning of the five-bell summons. A regrettable oversight."
A red-faced elder to the right snorted. "The disciple truly resembles his master. A bit dull, just as you were in your youth."
Another chuckled. "Now, now, that’s not entirely fair. Junior Brother Sun at least had some talent. Far more than can be said for this one."
Sun Dazhu’s face flushed a mottled red and white. He shot a glare at Wang Lin that promised later retribution, then snorted and took his seat among the elders, pointedly ignoring his disciple.
The sect master frowned, his piercing eyes sweeping over Wang Lin once more before dismissing him entirely. He addressed the gathered disciples. "As stated, these four years of intensive training must yield results. We must prevail against Xuan Dao Zong. From this moment, you will enter the back mountain. Each of you will be assigned a private cultivation site. The sect will provide ten thousand Qi Gathering Pills for your use. No one is to leave the mountain during this period."
A unified "Yes, Sect Master!" echoed through the hall.
He gave a curt nod. "I hope in four years, one of you will ascend to become a purple-clothed disciple—a core disciple, a realm of importance far beyond your current status. You will understand in time. Now, proceed to the back mountain. You will be guided there." With a final wave of his sleeve, a brilliant white light shot forth, expanding rapidly to envelop every inner disciple in the room.
Wang Lin felt a sudden, warm lassitude wrap around him. In the blink of an eye, the grandeur of the main hall vanished. He found himself standing in a lush, secluded valley. The air here was different; it hummed with a spiritual energy noticeably denser than anywhere else in the sect. The sound of trickling water came from all directions. He scanned his surroundings: the other disciples were materializing around him, some looking disoriented, others immediately beginning to chatter.
The valley was dominated by a towering cliff face, its surface pockmarked with countless cave openings like a colossal stone honeycomb. Some were sealed with massive boulders. As Wang Lin’s senses adjusted, he felt a prickling on the back of his neck. He turned to meet the cold, mocking smile of Wang Zhuo, who was already watching him from across the clearing.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from one of the higher caves, descending with an effortless grace that spoke of profound skill. He was clad in the prestigious purple robes of a core disciple. Wang Lin recognized him immediately—it was Zhang Kuang, the unpredictable and cunning disciple who had purchased his spiritual energy liquid years prior, the one who had casually placed him in grave danger.
Zhang Kuang’s gaze swept over the newcomers, cold and assessing. "Fellow apprentice-brothers and sisters," he began, his voice carrying authority. "Welcome to the back mountain of the Heng Yue Sect. This is not merely the rear of our grounds; it is a sacred cultivation site built five hundred years ago by several Soul Transformation stage experts. The spiritual energy here is significantly richer. Your task is to cultivate. Focus. If you do not, do not blame us seniors for expelling you."
He paused, letting the warning sink in. "I possess the cultivation chants for the seventh layer and below. When you reach a new peak and require the next chant, come to me. After verification, it will be granted. As for your dwellings, any unsealed cave is available for the taking. Here are your Qi Gathering Pills." With a wave of his hand, fifty small white bottles appeared on a flat rock. "Each bottle contains fifty pills. They will be replenished once a year."
The disciples began to step forward, each taking a bottle before moving toward the cliff to claim a cave. Wang Lin moved with the crowd, keeping his head down. As he took his bottle, Zhang Kuang’s eyes suddenly fixed on him.
"What is your name?" Zhang Kuang asked, a strange look flickering across his face. "How is it you have not even reached the first layer of Qi Condensation? Who is your master?"
Wang Lin stopped and turned, adopting a posture of utmost respect. "Senior Brother, my name is Wang Lin. My master is Sun Dazhu. My innate talent is lacking, which is why I have not yet broken through the first layer."
A spark of recognition lit in Zhang Kuang's eyes, followed by a patronizing smile. "Wang Lin… I have heard of you. Well, talent is important, but perseverance is key. Since you are lacking, you must work ten times harder than the others."
Wang Lin murmured his assurances.
"These cliffs are too high for someone at your… level," Zhang Kuang said, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Allow me." He flicked his sleeve, and an invisible force lifted Wang Lin gently off the ground, carrying him up the cliff face and depositing him neatly at the entrance of an empty, mid-level cave. "Cultivate well."
"Thank you, Senior Brother," Wang Lin said, bowing. The moment he turned and entered the cave, his respectful expression vanished, replaced by a deep wariness. Having seen Zhang Kuang’s true, mercenary nature, he knew this small act of "kindness" was meaningless, likely performed for an audience or out of sheer condescension. He trusted not a single gesture from that man.
The cave was sparse and perfect: a simple stone bed and a single lever set into the wall. Wang Lin pulled it. With a grinding roar, a gigantic stone slab slid down, sealing the entrance and plunging the space into darkness, save for a few faint rays of light filtering through cracks. He examined every inch of his new home and found it secure. This was it—the secluded cultivation ground he had desired. While not outside the sect, it was a fortress of solitude. The only drawback was the lack of a water source. His cultivation via the bead and spiritual energy liquid required it. Fortunately, his bag of holding still held a considerable store of melted snow. The sounds of water in the valley below promised a solution, as long as he was careful.
Settling onto the stone bed, Wang Lin took out the mysterious bead. The world outside ceased to exist. He began his first true closed-door cultivation in the back mountain.
Time, within the dream space, was a river that flowed at its own mysterious pace. In the blink of an eye, two years passed in the real world. For Wang Lin, it was an epoch of focused, relentless effort—thirteen long years of cultivation and practice within the timeless realm.
He was never lonely. His existence became a binary cycle: cultivating the Qi Condensation layers and honing the attraction technique to an instinctual level. The spiritual energy in the back mountain was indeed rich, a constant, nourishing stream that, while paling in comparison to the concentrated power of the spiritual energy liquid, still doubled the density he was accustomed to outside.
Progress, however, was a tortuous climb. Starting from the solid foundation of the second layer, his advancement slowed dramatically. After the equivalent of six years in the dream space, he painstakingly reached the peak of the second layer and began the arduous assault on the third-layer bottleneck. Countless attempts, failures, and perseverances later, he finally broke through.
But then, a strange and frustrating plateau emerged. In the seven dream-space years that followed, he cultivated relentlessly to the peak of the third layer. Yet, the gateway to the fourth layer remained stubbornly shut, barred by an invisible, mysterious force that repelled him at the critical moment every single time. It was not a lack of spiritual energy; the bead provided ample fuel. It was a barrier he could not comprehend.
Adding to the mystery was the nature of the third layer itself. Unlike the first and second, which had clear ceilings, the third layer seemed… boundless. Even at its perceived peak, his body continued to absorb and condense spiritual energy, further tempering his flesh and meridians in a slow, endless refinement. He could feel the power accumulating, a deep reservoir growing, yet the qualitative leap to the next stage eluded him. The anomaly puzzled and concerned him, but no amount of introspection yielded an answer.
A practical problem finally forced him to halt. His stored snow water was exhausted. He had one final resource: a single gourd of spiritual energy liquid, one of the original three he had buried in the mountain. He had used two to trigger the tenth cloud on the bead. This last gourd, having been buried and concentrated for years, now contained a terrifying, volatile density of energy. The memory of nearly dying from a single gulp was fresh enough to instill deep caution. He decided to save it, a trump card for when he reached a higher, more stable level of cultivation.
It was time to emerge. He stood, his joints emitting soft pops after years of stillness. He walked to the wall and pulled the lever. With a thunderous groan, the stone door rose. Sunlight, fierce and unfiltered after so long in dimness, flooded the cave, forcing him to shield his eyes. As his vision adjusted, he stepped out onto the ledge and took a deep breath of the vibrant, spiritual-rich air.
Looking down into the valley, he saw that much had changed. A sizable group of disciples had gathered below, chatting and socializing. Clearly, the monotony of solitary cultivation had driven many to seek company. Wang Lin pondered for a moment, then activated his concealment technique, masking his true power to display only the first layer of Qi Condensation. With a casual wave of his sleeve, he stepped off the ledge.
His body did not fall. Instead, it floated downward with gentle, perfect control. After thirteen years of dedicated practice in the dream space, the attraction technique had become as natural as breathing. He no longer needed chants; a mere thought directed the energy. This level of effortless control, especially for slow, precise movement, was typically the result of a decade or more of obsessive practice—a luxury no cultivator racing against their mortal and spiritual lifespan could afford. But Wang Lin had that time. He was confident that even rapid flight would not destabilize him now. To avoid attention, he made his descent deliberately slow.
As his feet touched the soft grass of the valley floor, the familiar sound of ridicule found him instantly.
"Well, look who crawled out. The sun must be rising from the west. Even the trash, Wang Lin, has finally reached the first layer. Can finally get down from his hole without his senior brother carrying him like a baby."
Wang Lin turned. Wang Zhuo stood with a clique of other inner disciples, a smug grin plastered on his face. Beside him was a white-robed youth in his mid-twenties, who laughed derisively.
"Wang Lin, you know, you really don't belong here," the white-robed youth, named Sun Hao, taunted. "You should be down in the chore house, mixing with the other honorary disciples. At least there you could feel superior. Here, you are the bottom-feeder, the joke."
Wang Lin’s divine sense, far more powerful than they could imagine, swept over them discreetly. Wang Zhuo was, interestingly, also at the peak of the third layer. Sun Hao was at the peak of the fourth, on the cusp of a breakthrough.
Wang Zhuo puffed out his chest. "You were smart two years ago, Wang Lin. You knew you were no match for me, so you didn't even show your face. But let me tell you, trash will always be trash. You will never catch up. I was the champion of the newcomers. What are you? A recluse who hides for years to barely scratch the first layer."
Sun Hao chuckled, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Since you're here, junior brother, make yourself useful. Go fetch me some water from the river. Your senior brother is in a good mood. I might even deign to give you a pointer or two." He tossed an empty bottle. It landed at Wang Lin’s feet with a dull thud.
Wang Lin remained silent, his gaze level and unreadable as he looked at Sun Hao.
"What? You want to disobey?" Sun Hao’s expression turned dismissive. "You want to fight? Let me remind you, Apprentice-Brother Zhang has forbidden fighting among inner disciples. If you don't know your place, don't blame me for educating you on proper conduct."
"Enough! All of you, shut your mouths!"
A sharp voice cut through the tension like a blade. A figure descended from the cliffs like a bolt of lightning, landing lightly between them. It was Apprentice-Brother Zhang Kuang, his face a mask of stern disapproval. He glared at Wang Zhuo and Sun Hao. "The two of you, not cultivating, but gathered here to bully a junior who has only just reached the first layer? Is this the pinnacle of your ambition? Is this how you prepare for the intersect competition?"
The two instantly paled, their bravado evaporating under the core disciple's gaze. They shot venomous looks at Wang Lin but fell silent, their fear of Zhang Kuang evident.
Zhang Kuang then turned his stern gaze on Wang Lin. "And you, Wang Lin. You would be better off in your cave, cultivating. But since you are here, remember this: in the world of cultivation, power is the only truth. Nothing else matters."
Wang Lin nodded, accepting the admonishment. He saw an opportunity. He hesitated, then asked, his voice crafted to sound earnest and confused, "Apprentice-Brother Zhang, may I ask a question? After reaching the peak of the first layer, why is it that no matter what I try, I cannot break through to the second? Is there a method I am missing?"
From the side, Wang Zhuo couldn't resist a contemptuous snort. "With your trash talent, don't even dream of reaching the second layer in this lifetime!"
Zhang Kuang ignored Wang Zhuo’s outburst, studying Wang Lin for a moment. The question, coming from a disciple stuck at the first layer, was both pitiable and expected. The real answer, involving comprehension, spiritual accumulation, and breaking the qualitative bottleneck, would be wasted on this one. The mystery of Wang Lin's own peculiar third-layer stagnation, however, remained his own secret burden, a silent puzzle locked within the sealed cave and the depths of the mysterious bead, as the slow, relentless current of time in the back mountain flowed onward.