Renegade Immortal Chapters 37-39: The Bottleneck of Mortal Ties and the Sword of Wealth
The path of cultivation, Wang Lin was learning, was not a straight road paved with diligent effort alone. It was a treacherous mountain pass riddled with invisible barriers, each more confounding than the last. As the disciples gathered in the back mountain valley, the air thick with the spiritual energy that had nourished them for years, the topic of these barriers—these bottlenecks—became the center of a sobering lesson from Apprentice-brother Zhang.
Zhang Kuang’s gaze, often dismissive, swept over the group, lingering for a cold moment on the arrogant Wang Zhuo before addressing the collective anxiety. “The key to breaking through has much to do with talent,” he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. “Some need but a few attempts. Others require centuries, or never succeed at all.”
A melancholy shadow passed over Wang Lin’s features. The first two layers had fallen to his relentless, time-bending practice within the mysterious bead’s dream space. But what lay ahead? “Apprentice-brother Zhang,” he asked, his tone carefully measured. “Is every layer this difficult? From the second to the third, and the third to the fourth?”
“Yes,” Zhang Kuang confirmed, a nod that felt like the sealing of a fate. “The later the stage, the harder it becomes. Particularly the transition from the third to the fourth layer, and from the fifth to the sixth.”
His answer drew the attention of others. A female disciple, the one named Zhou whom Wang Huo fancied, spoke up. “Apprentice-brother, what is so difficult about the third to the fourth? I am at the third layer now.”
Zhang Kuang pondered for a moment, as if deciding how much truth to dispense. “Very well. I will speak of the two great bottlenecks below the sixth layer of Qi Condensation. The first is the one you face. For some, it is trivial. For others, it is an insurmountable wall that lasts a lifetime. Its key is not talent, but comprehension—the comprehension of the phrase, ‘the road is merciless.’”
He let the words hang, watching their faces. “To walk the immortal path, one must sever mortal ties. If you can achieve this state of mind, this detachment, the barrier dissolves. If you cannot, it solidifies into an eternal prison. As for the bottleneck at the fifth to sixth layer, that is a matter of the body’s transformation. The spiritual energy begins to alter your very essence, a process that demands a vast reservoir of power, thus blocking many.”
Sever mortal ties. The phrase echoed in Wang Lin’s mind, clashing violently with the memories he held dear: his parents’ worn faces, the simple warmth of their home. The immortals he had encountered in the Heng Yue Sect—greedy, jealous, proud—seemed anything but detached. They were mired in desire, often more deeply than the mortals they looked down upon. Where was the contradiction? If detachment was the key, why did the sect teem with such base attachments? The philosophical knot tightened in his chest as the disciples continued their questioning until dusk drove them apart.
Seeking solitude, Wang Lin followed the murmur of water through the valley until he found its source: a serene lake whose waters shimmered with a faint, palpable spiritual energy. It was a poor cousin to the miraculous liquid his bead could produce, but it was abundant. Thinking of the long cultivation ahead, he methodically took out gourd after gourd from his bag of holding and began filling them. His divine sense, a constant, vigilant web around him, detected nothing amiss.
It was only when the last gourd was sealed that he turned, and his blood ran cold. Apprentice-brother Zhang stood silently a short distance away, a ghostly spectator who had pierced through his spiritual感知. Wang Lin’s heart hammered against his ribs. How long had he been there?
“Brother Wang,” Zhang Kuang’s voice was light, but his eyes were sharp points of light in the gathering gloom. “The river is indeed beneficial for cultivation. But you seem exceptionally prepared. Did you know you would need so many vessels before you arrived?”
Forcing his expression into placid neutrality, Wang Lin replied, “Master Sun Dazhu informed me of the river’s properties. This disciple merely came prepared.” He stored the gourds away, every movement deliberate to hide the tremor in his hands.
Zhang Kuang stared, the silence stretching uncomfortably. “Sun Dazhu would know such things,” he finally conceded. “Return to your cultivation. To reach the first layer in two years shows determination. I hope to see you at the second layer next we meet.”
With a clasped-fist salute, Wang Lin departed, the weight of Zhang Kuang’s gaze on his back until he was safely within his cave. Only when the stone door sealed with a thud did he allow himself to slump, his robes damp with cold sweat. The encounter was a stark reminder. He had been constantly employing the technique to mask his true cultivation, presenting the facade of a first-layer disciple. If Zhang Kuang had discovered he was already at the third layer, his rapid progress would have invited lethal suspicion. Immortals are the same as mortals, he thought, a grim lesson solidifying in his heart. They come in all kinds, and their cruelty can be far greater. The bead must remain a secret, forever.
Settling into a cross-legged position, he tried to focus on the conundrum of the bottleneck. The principle of severing mortal ties was meant to eliminate distractions, to allow a single-minded focus on the Dao. Yet Wang Lin knew, with a certainty that was bone-deep, that he could never cut the cord that bound him to his family. Their love was not a distraction; it was the foundation upon which his will was built. Was this his limit? Would the third layer be his final stop?
After long, fruitless contemplation, he arrived at a pragmatic decision. His unique situation, cultivating within the dream space, seemed to have altered the rules. While others might hit an absolute ceiling at the peak of the third layer, his spiritual energy continued to accumulate, thick and potent, even if it couldn’t breach the next barrier. He would not fight the philosophical paradox. He would simply store power. He would build a reservoir of spiritual energy so vast that when the path forward finally revealed itself, he would be ready to flood through.
Thus began a period of profound isolation. Time in the real world became a slow river, while within the dream space of the bead, it was a torrential cascade. He emerged only once from his four-year seclusion, to refill his gourds from the spiritual lake. Four years in the Heng Yue Sect translated to twenty-five within the ethereal training ground. Combined with his earlier efforts, Wang Lin had been cultivating, in one form or another, for nearly three decades.
On the final day, an arrogant shout pierced the quiet of the cliffside. “Fellow apprentices! The four years are concluded! Emerge! The sect head is here to retrieve us!”
Stone doors grated open. The inner disciples filed out, their auras noticeably stronger, their eyes gleaming with the confidence of hard-won progress. Wang Lin’s divine sense, honed over decades of practice, swept out almost instinctively. He felt the subtle vibrations of their power. Wang Zhuo stood at the peak of the fifth layer, poised on the brink of the sixth. Others showed similar leaps. The girl named Xu was at the third layer. And Apprentice-brother Zhang… his energy was dense, formidable. He had reached the sixth layer.
A curious realization dawned on Wang Lin. As his divine sense touched the others, none reacted. They seemed unaware of his探查. Furthermore, when he observed the girl named Zhou—who had claimed to be at the third layer two years prior—he saw no growth. She was still there, seemingly stagnant. His own third layer, however, felt boundless, a deep well that continued to accept more spiritual energy without filling. The difference, he reasoned, had to be the dream space. The glowing orbs there, whose purpose still eluded him, emitted a light that his body absorbed, perhaps altering the fundamental nature of his cultivation limits.
He also ceased using the masking technique. Four years in the spiritually rich back mountains was a perfect, unassailable explanation for having reached the third layer. No one needed to know that twenty years of dream-time ago, he had already arrived at this stage. Nor did they need to know about the thousands upon thousands of repetitions of the basic Attraction Technique, a skill he had practiced for over two decades until its mechanics were as natural as breathing.
A familiar white light descended from the sky, enveloping them in warmth. This time, Wang Lin’s heightened perception caught the faint, fleeting symbols woven within the light, forming a brief, swirling vortex that swallowed them whole. They rematerialized in the main hall of the Heng Yue Sect. The sect head in his blue gown presided, elders flanking him. Powerful divine senses, far surpassing Zhang Kuang’s, scanned the returning disciples, assessing their harvest.
The sect head smiled, a gesture of clear satisfaction. “Four years have passed, and your progress pleases me. All disciples at the fifth layer or above, remain. The rest, report to your masters. In three days, the Xuan Dao Sect arrives. We must be victorious. Matters of rank and robes will be addressed after the competition.”
The dismissal was clear. Wang Lin, scanning the room, did not see Sun Dazhu among the elders. He followed the stream of departing disciples and made his way to the familiar, dilapidated herb garden. The formation on the gate, which once seemed an impenetrable and terrifying barrier, now felt flimsy under his divine sense. He perceived its flows and weaknesses instantly; breaking it would require little effort. Withdrawing his sense, he called out respectfully, “Disciple Wang Lin greets Master.”
There was a long pause from within. Sun Dazhu, deep in his own cultivation, had to ransack his memory. Wang Lin… The name eventually connected to a piece of discarded strategy from four years past—the mortal boy with the low spiritual affinity, accepted on a whim with the dark intention of a soul search. He had been sent to the back mountains, likely to languish. Curiosity, mild and detached, prompted him to open the gate. “Enter.”
Wang Lin walked in and bowed. Sun Dazhu’s examination was perfunctory until his spiritual sense touched the young man. His eyes widened. “You… reached the third layer?!”
“This disciple trained diligently these four years and barely managed the breakthrough,” Wang Lin replied, his head still slightly bowed.
Sun Dazhu blinked rapidly, reassessing. The soul search plan flickered in his mind but was quickly extinguished. The potential backlash to his own cultivation was no longer worth the gamble for whatever trivial secret a third-layer disciple might hold. The boy had, against all odds, become a legitimate inner disciple.
“Hmph. Fine. Since you’ve reached the third layer, you are a true disciple of mine. As my only disciple, you may reside here again.” Sun Dazhu’s tone was one of granting a great favor. “The competition with Xuan Dao Sect is in three days. You will attend with me to broaden your horizons. Now, having reached the third layer, have you practiced the Attraction Technique?”
“This disciple has practiced, but remains unfamiliar,” Wang Lin answered truthfully, though his definition of ‘unfamiliar’ was vastly different from his master’s.
“Naturally. These basic techniques are all about repetition. I myself practiced it for a full year—a record in the sect, mind you. Observe.” With a flourish, Sun Dazhu summoned a small, colorful flying sword. It zipped around the room in a flashy display before settling back in his palm. “After the Attraction Technique, at the second layer, one learns the Drive Technique to control such a sword. Of course, that requires the fourth layer at least. But with the competition so near, we cannot have you embarrassing the sect. Your cultivation is too low to compete, but you must not shame us either. A flying sword can still be held and made to look impressive with the Attraction Technique. Take this token to the Sword Pavilion and select a suitable sword. Something that looks imposing. It’s for show.”
Wang Lin received the tossed token, his expression morphing into one of profound bemusement. He stood silent, struggling for words.
Seeing his disciple’s strange look, Sun Dazhu snorted. “Do not underestimate this! Presentation is crucial. I did the same in my youth. Merely holding a fine sword earned my master much face.”
A wry smile finally broke through on Wang Lin’s face. “This disciple will endeavor to look… fiercely impressive, Master. Do not worry.”
Sun Dazhu nodded, satisfied. “Keep the token. It grants you access here. But do not touch the herbs. Now, go.”
The Sword Pavilion stood in the main courtyard, a place that stirred old memories of humiliation and determination in Wang Lin. A chubby, white-robed disciple in his thirties, who had not participated in the back mountain training, guarded the entrance. He looked Wang Lin up and down, sensing his cultivation. “Junior brother, you are only at the third layer. This place is for fourth-layer disciples and above. You cannot enter.”
Wordlessly, Wang Lin tossed Sun Dazhu’s token to him.
The fat disciple caught it, examined it, and his face underwent a comical transformation. A snort escaped him, then a chuckle, which rapidly swelled into full-bodied laughter. “Hah! So it’s Elder Brother Sun’s tradition! I’d almost forgotten! Yes, yes, at every inter-sect competition, he loves to have his disciple show off with a sword.” He wiped a tear from his eye, his earlier officiousness gone. “Go on in, junior brother. My advice? Take the third sword from the right. Truly, the most astonishing flying sword in all of Zhao. A masterpiece!”
Thanking him, Wang Lin approached the pavilion. At five meters, he felt it—a pressing, resistant energy emanating from the building, a defensive formation meant to bar the unworthy. The fat disciple, remembering he had not deactivated it, opened his mouth to shout a warning, but the words died in his throat. His eyes bulged in disbelief.
Wang Lin, feeling the resistance, remembered the crushing pressure from years ago that had pinned him to the ground. A cold snort escaped him. He did not stop. He took a step forward, then another. The pressure intensified, a tangible force pushing against his spiritual energy and body. But the spiritual energy within him was not that of a typical third-layer disciple. It was the accumulation of nearly thirty years of cultivation. Four meters. Three. Two. The formation groaned around him, its energy waves breaking against the rock of his will. One meter. And then, he stepped across the threshold and into the Sword Pavilion.
Outside, the fat disciple scrambled to his feet, his face pale. The formation isn’t broken, he thought with terror, having just been violently repelled and injured when he tested it himself. He forced his way through… with the power of the formation at full strength. The junior brother in ragged clothes was not who he appeared to be.
Inside, Wang Lin found his divine sense curiously constrained, limited to a sphere of only three meters. The room was filled with flying swords of all shapes and sizes, each humming with its own unique sword intent, a cacophony of dormant power. He walked past gleaming blades of frost and fire, past slender needles and broad cleavers, until his eyes fell upon the sword that had been recommended.
He stared. And then, he understood the fat disciple’s mirth.
It was not a sword. It was a declaration. A rectangular slab, two palms wide and a meter long, shimmered with an audacious, blinding golden light. The glow was not from enchantment, but from a thick, lavish coating of pure gold over what was, according to his divine sense, plain iron. The hilt was studded with two large, cut diamonds that caught the dim light and fractured it into rainbows. Even the tassel was woven from delicate strands of gold leaf. It was, unequivocally, the gaudiest, most ostentatious object Wang Lin had ever seen. In the world of immortals, it was a parody. In the mortal world, it was a king’s ransom.
A small placard beside it read: “Sword Name: Wealth. Crafted by Elder Ma five hundred years past. Said to possess unimaginable power. In truth, this sword has been broken and reforged numerous times. However, due to Elder Ma’s great service to the sect, his final wish was for it to remain here, awaiting a worthy inheritor. The inheritor must cherish it. If broken, it must be repaired. If sold, the seller will be expelled from the sect.”
A laugh, dry and unexpected, bubbled up in Wang Lin’s throat. He reached out and hefted the sword. It was heavy, solid, and profoundly ridiculous. “I choose you, then,” he murmured to the gilded slab. “But know this, I am Wang Lin, a poor man. If you break, do not expect me to mend you.” He stored ‘Wealth’ in his bag of holding, its value to him now twofold: a tool for his master’s face-saving pageant, and a potential emergency fund of staggering mortal wealth.
Exiting the pavilion, he found the fat disciple waiting, his earlier laughter replaced by deep, nervous respect. He bowed slightly as Wang Lin passed, saying nothing. Wang Lin, unaware of the spectacle he had caused outside, found the behavior odd but thought little of it.
Back at the herb garden, he presented his selection to Sun Dazhu. His master’s jaw went slack. He stared at the golden monstrosity, mumbled to himself, and then shot a long, thoughtful look at Wang Lin. “I saw that sword once… I lacked the courage to take it. It seems you have courage, or perhaps no sense of shame. Good. Carry it at the competition in three days. Let the elders have a good look.”
Three days passed. The dawn of the competition was heralded by the deep, resonant tolling of the sect bell—nine times, the sound washing over the mountains like a tangible wave. The entire Heng Yue Sect assembled before the main hall: the sect head, the elders, and rows of inner disciples. An air of tense anticipation crackled amongst them.
Then, they saw it. A black speck on the horizon, growing with terrifying speed. As it neared, the speck resolved into a nightmarish silhouette: a thousand-foot-long centipede, its chitinous body black as polished obsidian, riding on roiling banks of dark cloud. Its countless legs rippled through the air, and a deep, thunderous roar preceded it, vibrating in their chests. A wave of primal fear swept through the Heng Yue disciples. Gasps were heard; some of the female disciples paled and swayed on their feet.
Next to the sect head, the red-faced elder scowled. His voice boomed out, loud and defiant, clearly meant to carry to the approaching behemoth. “What is there to fear?! This overgrown insect may look fierce, but if all of us strike it with our swords, it will still be reduced to mincemeat!”
The colossal centipede slowed, its head hovering before the assembly platform. On its broad, segmented back, figures could be seen standing, looking down at the Heng Yue Sect. The competition had arrived, and with it, a display of power meant to intimidate. Wang Lin stood with the other disciples, the weight of the gilded ‘Wealth’ heavy in his bag, a symbol of the absurdity and the high stakes of the world he was now entrenched in. The true test was about to begin.