Renegade Immortal Chapters 4-6: The Brutal Test and a Heartbreaking Return
The path to immortality is paved not with gold, but with blood, despair, and shattered dreams. For Wang Lin, known to his family as Tie Zhu, the uneven stone steps leading up the Heng Yue Sect mountain were the anvil upon which his fate was being hammered. Each jagged edge bit into his resolve, each treacherous curve a test of the very spirit the sect claimed to seek. The air was thin, the silence oppressive, broken only by the ragged gasps of the dozen boys ahead of him and the pounding of his own heart. He had started with hope, a fragile vessel filled by his parents’ expectant eyes. Now, less than half a day into the climb, that vessel was cracking. His legs, once sturdy from village life, felt like pillars of lead, his breath sawed in his throat, and a primal voice in his mind whispered of surrender.
Looking up, the trail coiled into the mist like a malevolent serpent with no end in sight. Looking down promised only a swift, final failure. He gritted his teeth, the images of his father’s worn hands and his mother’s quiet strength flashing behind his eyes. He could not give up. This was their chance, his chance, to change a destiny of poverty and disregard. A sudden, sharp scream ripped through the mountain’s quiet. A boy behind him had slipped, tumbling off the side of the sheer steps. Panicked cries of “I give up! HELP!” echoed before a dark light streaked through the air. A Heng Yue Sect disciple materialized from nowhere, caught the falling youth, and floated gently down to the base, a stark reminder that failure here was not fatal, but it was final. Wang Lin, pale and trembling, did not pause. He pressed his raw hands against the cold stone and continued his agonizing ascent.
Time lost all meaning. The sun scorched him by day, the chill dew soaked him by night. Two days bled into a haze of pain. He had long since lost sight of the boys ahead. His world had shrunk to the next step, the next handhold. His cloth shoes had disintegrated, his feet were a mess of blood and swelling, each touch sending lances of fire up his legs. He crawled now, using his hands to drag his broken body upward, leaving a faint, smeared trail of red on the grey stone. The once-clean clothes from his mother were now tattered rags, soaked through with sweat and blood. In this state of near-delirium, a figure descended the steps towards him.
It was a middle-aged man with a sickly complexion, floating rather than walking. He passed the struggling youths like a ghost, his voice a soft, mournful chant. “Little children, keep your hearts strong, for this path is ruthless. It won’t be in vain, nothing is in vain….” His sigh was a wind of profound weariness. He paused by Wang Lin, the sixth and most pathetic youth he had encountered. The man looked at the boy’s mangled knees, his bloody fingers clinging to the rock, and saw the unfocused, yet terrifyingly persistent fire in his eyes. “My child, what is your name?” he asked.
Wang Lin did not hear him. The only names in his crumbling consciousness were “top” and “death.” There was no room for anything else. The middle-aged man studied him, a flicker of genuine emotion—something akin to pity and admiration—crossing his face. He placed a hand gently on Wang Lin’s head. “This boy has amazing perseverance. It’s too bad he lacks talent. What a waste, what a waste….” He gave the crawling boy one last, deep look, a silent eulogy for a doomed effort, and continued his sorrowful descent, leaving Wang Lin to his brutal, solitary struggle.
The third night was a descent into a personal hell. His hands were stripped raw, his consciousness flickering like a dying candle. Yet, some indomitable spark, fed by the memory of his parents’ faces, refused to be extinguished. He inched forward, a creature of pure will divorced from a broken body. As the first rays of the sun on the third day painted the sky, he saw it. Through blurred vision, the end of the stone steps was just visible, a flat plateau perhaps fifty meters away. A wild, desperate hope surged through him. He could make it. He would make it.
Then, the voice came. It was thunderous, cold, and utterly final, shaking the very mountain and shattering his last hope into dust.
“Time is up. Only three have qualified. The rest….FAILED!”
The words were a physical blow. Wang Lin’s body, held together by sheer determination alone, finally gave out. A small, bitter laugh escaped his cracked lips—a sound devoid of any warmth, the last protest of a defeated spirit. His vision darkened, his grip failed, and he slumped sideways onto the cold steps, his consciousness fleeing from the cruel reality. The last thing he saw, from less than fifty meters away, was the black-clad middle-aged man from the first day, standing at the summit, looking down at him with a gaze as ruthless and impassive as the mountain itself.
The aftermath was clinical. Disciples moved down the steps, administering healing pills to the unconscious failures. A female disciple reported in a cold, detached tone, “Seniors, out of 39 testers, 25 gave up. Only three passed the test, and 11 remain.” She herself had passed this test a decade prior and understood its brutal economy, yet no warmth touched her voice. The man in black merely nodded, his eyes like chips of ice as they swept over the prone forms. “Take the three that qualified and find work for them to do in the future. Send the 25 that gave up back to their families. As for the last 11 people, wait for them to wake up. Send them together to the house of the sword spirit to see if any of them have spiritual affinity. If they don’t, send them home.” With that, he turned and left, his interest in these shattered youths already expired.
Three days later, Wang Lin stood with ten other pale, hollow-eyed teenagers before the House of the Sword Spirit. The miraculous pills of the Heng Yue Sect had healed his physical wounds, sealing cuts and mending bruises, but the wound in his heart was raw and gaping. The pain of his failure was a constant, gnawing presence. This was the final, desperate gamble—a test not of perseverance, but of innate, unchangeable fate.
The test was overseen by a man in white robes they had not seen before, his expression one of profound impatience, his eyes holding the same cold disregard they had all become accustomed to. “This is the last test. If you can walk into this room, you are qualified,” he stated flatly, gesturing to an ordinary-looking building with an open door. Inside, the glint of numerous swords could be seen.
One by one, the youths stepped forward. Each met the same invisible wall. Upon reaching about five meters from the door, their faces would flush with strain before an unseen force violently hurled them back. “Unqualified! Next!” the man in white would bark, his boredom growing.
Wang Lin was seventh. Watching the six before him fall, his hope was a feeble, dying ember. With a heart heavy with bitter acceptance, he stepped forward. He passed the five-meter mark. Then the four-meter mark. He felt nothing—no pressure, no resistance. His heart, so still with despair, began to pound a frantic, wild rhythm. Could it be? Was there a chance?
The white-robed man let out a surprised “Hey!” His languid posture straightened, his eyes sharpening with sudden interest. He looked at Wang Lin with a new, appraising gaze. “Don’t hesitate to continue,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Keep walking towards the house of the spirit of the sword. If you are recognized by the spirit of the sword, you will be accepted as a true disciple, even if you failed the two previous tests.”
A surge of electric envy shot through the other teenagers. Their eyes bore into Wang Lin’s back, their own failures made more bitter by his sudden, shocking proximity to success. Wang Lin’s entire being was taut with tension. The images of his parents—their hope, their sacrifices—flooded his mind, giving strength to his trembling legs. He took another step. Three meters to go. He gathered himself, the dream so close he could almost touch it, and stepped forward again.
It was like walking into a mountain made of wind.
A colossal, irresistible force erupted from the doorway. It seized him utterly, plucking him from the ground and hurling him through the air as if he were a dry leaf. He landed more than ten meters away, the breath knocked from his lungs, his body screaming in fresh protest. The ember of hope was not just extinguished; it was blown apart and scattered to the winds. From the ground, he heard the mocking snorts and saw the vindicated, scornful looks on the faces of the other youths. See, their eyes said, you are no different from us. You are nothing.
The man in white’s face iced over instantly, the brief flicker of interest replaced by familiar disdain. “Failed. Next,” he declared, his voice once again a whip-crack of dismissal. Wang Lin lay there, the bitter taste of copper and defeat in his mouth. The expectant eyes of his parents, which had sustained him on the mountain, now faded from his mind’s eye, replaced by a vast, empty darkness.
The finality was absolute. None of the eleven passed. That same day, all were returned to the foot of the mountain. The disciple who had first brought Wang Lin to the sect arrived to take him home. With him were Wang Zhuo and Wang Hao, their bearing transformed, radiating a newfound arrogance. The disciple clasped his hands towards Wang Zhuo. “Brother Wang Zhuo, congratulations on becoming Uncle-Master’s disciple. You have a bright future ahead of you.”
Wang Zhuo’s chin lifted. “It is only natural. Master said that after I have finished taking care of the mundane affairs at home, he will teach me cultivator techniques after I return.”
Wang Hao, not to be outdone, interjected, “I have always looked down on your arrogant demeanor. So what if you have a master? I will be able to learn how to produce immortal pills.” Their bickering was the chatter of victors, a world away from Wang Lin’s silent despair.
Wang Zhuo’s gaze, full of triumphant contempt, settled on Wang Lin. “Tie Zhu, how was it? I told you before that you didn’t have the ability, but both you and your father wouldn’t believe it. Now we know the result.”
Wang Lin, his soul numb, barely registered the words. He looked at the disciple and said in a flat, dead voice, “Sir, my parents are waiting for me at home. Please take me back as soon as possible.”
His dismissal enraged Wang Zhuo. “Little bumpkin, you are better off becoming a carpenter in a little village for the rest of your life, like your father.” The immortal youth overseeing them offered a faint, amused smile at the petty drama, said nothing, and with a wave of his sleeve, enveloped them in a force that carried them away from the sect.
The flight home was a journey through Wang Lin’s personal ruin. The same landscapes that had once filled him with wonder now seemed grey and lifeless. Soon, the Wang family compound came into view, but it was not the quiet home he had left. It was a blaze of light and noise. The courtyard was packed with banquet tables, far more than for his father’s humble feast. The entire clan was there, voices raised in drunken celebration, all centered on three men: Wang Tianshui (Wang Lin’s father), his eldest brother Wang Tianshan, and his third brother.
Wang Lin’s father, usually so stoic, was flushed, surrounded by relatives who days before would have barely acknowledged him. “Second brother, this time your son will be selected for sure! After this you don’t have to be a carpenter any more!” one uncle exclaimed.
“Lao Er, back in the days I already knew your life wouldn’t be normal. You devoted your life to Tie Zhu. Now that he is going to be an immortal, you as his father must be extraordinary!” claimed another.
Wang Hao’s father, the third brother, clinked glasses with him. “Second brother, this time both your kid Tie Zhu and my son will be selected. Us brothers haven’t met each other in 10 years. This time, we must have a drink together, no matter what!”
Tie Zhu’s father laughed, the sorrows of a lifetime seemingly washed away, yet a deep, unspoken anxiety was a stone in his stomach. Tie Zhu, you must be selected!
His mother was similarly mobbed by female relatives, their words a cascade of flattery. “Second sister-in-law, your kid Tie Zhu has more ability than my child!” “Tie Zhu’s mother, my daughter is unmarried… why don’t we tie the knot between our families?”
Watching from the sidelines with a mask of indifference was Wang Zhuo’s father, Wang Tianshan. Secretly, he seethed, yearning for the moment the immortal would arrive and dash his second brother’s hopes, to see the pride wiped from his face.
At that moment, a sword of light pierced the festive night, landing in the courtyard. Silence fell like a guillotine. The Heng Yue Sect disciple, Wang Zhuo, Wang Hao, and Wang Lin emerged. The disciple’s eyes swept the scene of eager faces, and with a pang of memory and pity for Wang Lin, he simply said, “Immortal practitioners can’t have any earthly desires, take care of what you need to, I’ll come pick you up in three days.” Then he was gone, a streak of light vanishing into the darkness.
The silence broke into a frenzy. Wang Tianshan rushed to his son. “Did Immortal Hui Bing take you as his disciple?”
Wang Zhuo puffed out his chest. “Naturally. Master has said that in ten years I’ll be able to become the head of Heng Yue Sect Disciples.” His father roared with laughter, slapping his shoulder. “Good! Our Wang family will have an immortal!”
Wang Hao’s father looked anxiously at his son, who sighed with mock weariness. “Dad, you don’t have to ask. Your son is already a Heng Yue Sect Disciple.” Ecstatic, his father drained his wine cup. Wang Zhuo sneered, “Third Uncle, you gave birth to a good son. He lost the Wang Family a lot of face… only relying on a bribe was he able to become a helper.”
Wang Hao shot back, “I’m happy, so what? In the future, let us see who has stronger cultivator techniques!”
Amidst this clash of budding immortals, Wang Lin stood apart, a island of silence and shadow. His father saw the devastation on his son’s face, the utter lack of light in his eyes, and his heart plummeted. A cold dread seized him. Tie Zhu’s mother, her voice trembling with fading hope, asked the question that hung in the air like a condemned man’s sentence. “Tie Zhu, what…what about you?”
Before Wang Lin could muster the words, Wang Zhuo answered for him, his voice dripping with derision. “I have said before that this kid didn’t have any talent. All he did was go and lose face for our family… He failed all three tests. He might as well not have gone.”
The words were the first stone thrown. Wang Lin’s father, Wang Tianshui, seemed to shrink, collapsing into his seat as if aged a decade in an instant. His mother stared, uncomprehending. “Tie Zhu, is… is this true?”
Wang Lin bit his lip until blood welled, the physical pain a welcome distraction from the soul-deep agony. He fell to his knees, kowtowing on the hard ground. “Mom, Dad, Tie Zhu wasn’t selected by the immortals. I’m sorry, I …. I will repay you both in the next life.” The despair in his whisper was absolute.
His mother, realizing the abyss he stood before, rushed to him, pulling him up. “Child, don’t worry. So what if you weren’t selected? Next year there is the district exam. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Don’t do anything stupid. Your father and mother still expect you to be at our funerals.” His father, shaking off his stupor, ran over and held him tightly. “Tie Zhu, you better not do anything stupid. Listen to your dad. Let’s go home and study hard for next year’s district exam.”
But the sanctuary of their love was immediately violated. The crowd of relatives, like vultures sensing a dying animal, shifted. Their smiles vanished, their congratulations curdled into venom. They physically drew back from Wang Lin’s family, forming a ring of scornful spectators.
“I always knew that this Tie Zhu kid didn’t have any talent. How could he compare to Wang Zhuo?” the sixth uncle spat.
“Totally right. Since this was bound to happen, why act like he was already accepted? How shameful,” the third uncle, Wang Hao’s father, said sarcastically, his earlier camaraderie forgotten. “No wonder dad didn’t give you a share of the inheritance back then.”
The fifth uncle’s face was ugly. “If you ask me, the story that this kid has always been smart was fabricated. Lao Er tried to raise his son’s reputation by lying, and now he’s been exposed.”
The women were even crueler. “Out of the three children that went, only he failed. Tie Zhu is the worst child in our Wang Family,” one aunt scoffed. “Second sister-in-law, I earlier said you had good fortune. Now it seems like your luck will keep dwindling for the rest of your life.”
Another sneered, “I had already seen that kid Tie Zhu didn’t have any talent. Just look at his mom and dad. How could they give birth to anyone good?”
The aunt who had proposed marriage now waved her hands dismissively. “I was totally blind! Good thing we found out beforehand. My daughter would’ve hated me forever. Tie Zhu’s mom, let us forget about this whole thing. Since your Tie Zhu won’t become an immortal, who would want their daughter to marry him? Isn’t that like a toad wanting a swan’s meat?”
The barrage was relentless, each insult a lash on Wang Lin’s spirit and a dagger in his parents’ hearts. He stood, holding his trembling mother, watching his father’s face turn ashen. He saw the naked glee in Wang Tianshan’s eyes. He saw the cowardice and opportunism in the faces of those who had just been fawning over them. Coldly, silently, he began to engrave each face, each sneer, each cruel word into the very marrow of his memory.
Wang Tianshan finally spoke, his voice oily with false sympathy. “Lao Er, didn’t I tell you that to become an immortal’s disciple, you need fate on your side? How could there possibly be any chance unless you have talent like my son? Yet you seriously believed it. Now you made your son wish he was dead! Was there a need for this?”
That was the final spark. Wang Tianshui’s pent-up humiliation and rage exploded. “Wang Tianshan, shut your mouth!” he roared, his voice cracking. “Back in the day, father on his deathbed left me a part of the inheritance. You worked with the others to steal it away, and now you are here insulting me. Do you really think I will quietly endure this?” He swept his arm at the crowd. “And all of you people as well! Earlier you were happily congratulating me, and now you are here insulting us. Our son is already in this state, yet you add insult to injury. Are you all still human?”
Wang Tianshan was taken aback but quickly recovered. “Why bring up the past? I warned you with good intentions that your son didn’t have any talent, but here you are being angry at me. Hmph, with a dad like you, the son won’t be much better!”
The insult to his son broke Wang Tianshui’s last thread of control. “You, I’ll fight you to the death!” He grabbed a wooden chair, his face a mask of fury. His fourth brother, the only one who showed a flicker of loyalty, rushed forward and held him back. “Brother, don’t be impulsive! Elder brother has many servants. Listen to me, don’t bother with him.” He then turned a fierce glare on Wang Tianshan. “Eldest brother, is that any way to talk? I will not listen to this any longer. If you dare to keep insulting my second brother, don’t blame me for not caring about family ties. While the Wang family is big, I have made many friends during my travels. Don’t push me to burn it all.”
A flicker of fear crossed Wang Tianshan’s face; the fourth brother’s outside connections were well-known. He muttered but fell silent. The third brother, however, stepped in. “Lao Si, what you are saying is unreasonable. We aren’t wrong in pointing out that Lao Er’s son doesn’t have any talent. What’s wrong with us, the older generation, scolding the younger? What you’re saying is too unreasonable.”
Standing in the center of this maelstrom of familial hatred, Wang Lin felt something within him solidify. The pain, the despair, the humiliation—they did not vanish. Instead, they were compressed under immense pressure, transformed into a cold, dark, and unyielding core. The hopeful village boy, Tie Zhu, had died on the mountain steps. The youth who returned was someone else. He had looked into the heartless eyes of the immortals and survived. He had endured the physical destruction of the climb and persisted. Now, he was enduring the spiritual evisceration by his own blood. His fists were clenched so tightly his nails drew blood from his palms, but his face was an impassive mask. He did not cry. He did not plead. He simply watched, and he remembered. Every face, every word, was a lesson written in pain. The path had been ruthless, as the sickly immortal had said. The world was ruthless. And in the ashes of his shattered dreams, a new, harder understanding was being forged. The celebration around Wang Zhuo and Wang Hao continued, a world of light and noise from which he and his parents were utterly exiled. They stood in a circle of silence and shame, but within Wang Lin, a silent vow took root—a vow as cold and sharp as the swords in the spirit house that had rejected him. This was not the end. This was the beginning of a different path.