Renegade Immortal Chapters 49-51: The Humiliating Exchange and Wang Lin's Fateful Step

The air atop Pine Peak hung thick with the metallic scent of blood and the palpable weight of shame. The first exchange between the Heng Yue Sect and the visiting Xuan Dao Sect had concluded not with a dignified contest of techniques, but with a brutal, one-sided slaughter. The image of their fellow disciple, his body shredded by countless water needles before dissolving into a crimson mist, was seared into the minds of every Heng Yue Sect junior present. These were youths who had joined in the last two decades, nurtured in the relative peace of a declining sect; they had never witnessed such visceral, merciless violence. A heavy, sickened silence blanketed their ranks, broken only by the faint, mocking breeze that carried away the last remnants of the dead disciple.

Sect Head Huang Long’s face was a mask of stormy sullenness. His gaze, however, was inward-turning, filled with a bitterness that tasted of ash and decay. The Heng Yue Sect has truly fallen, he thought, the realization a cold stone in his gut. A mere sixth-layer disciple from the Xuan Dao Sect had wielded a water-screen technique impervious to anyone below the eighth layer. This was just the opening act. His eyes swept over his fellow elders—Xu, Sun Dazhu, and the others—and saw the same grim acknowledgment mirrored in their expressions. They were a skeleton crew presiding over a dying legacy.

Among the disciples, Wang Lin observed with a calm that set him apart. He had clearly seen through Liu Feng’s cultivation level, yet the potency of the technique still gave him pause. It was a stark reminder of the gap between sects, a lesson in power that was both terrifying and instructive. Beside him, Sun Dazhu sucked in a sharp breath, muttering curses under his breath. “A disciple is even more powerful than me! How does that lousy Xuan Dao Sect get disciples like this?”

“Friend Huang Long,” Elder Ouyang’s voice rang out, brimming with false camaraderie. “For this second round, it is your honorable sect’s turn to send a disciple first.”

Huang Long’s stern gaze traveled across the faces of his inner disciples. One by one, they lowered their heads, studying the stone beneath their feet with sudden, intense interest. The bravado from earlier had evaporated, replaced by the primal urge to avoid being the next sacrifice on that platform. Anger, hot and impotent, flared within Huang Long. Were there no spines left in Heng Yue?

Just as he was about to coldly appoint a victim, a voice, tight with nervous resolve, spoke up. “Sect Head, although this disciple is no genius, I am willing to fight in the second round.”

It was Sun Hao. A ripple of surprise went through the disciples. Sun Hao was only at the fourth layer of Qi Condensation.

Elder Xu frowned immediately. “Sun Hao, do not mess around!”

“Disciple… disciple has been practicing a new technique,” Sun Hao insisted, his mind racing. This was a moment of opportunity. If he volunteered when no one else would, he would earn the sect head’s favor. Even if he lost, he could claim he’d tried his best. A plan, devious and self-serving, crystallized in his mind. He would use the “stink bombs” he’d bought from that Xuan Dao Sect merchant, Li Shan. The irony of using Li Shan’s own product against his sect was not lost on him; he called it karma. His practice with the volatile orbs had been haphazard, but he’d managed a few successful throws under Li Shan’s brief guidance. It was enough to put on a show.

After a moment of heavy silence, Huang Long gave a curt nod. “Very well. Let us see this new technique of yours.”

Sun Hao straightened his robes, a flutter of anxiety in his chest, and stepped onto the blood-stained platform. “Heng Yue Sect disciple Sun Hao asks the Xuan Dao Sect for guidance!”

On the other side, Li Shan’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He struggled to contain a fit of laughter that threatened to burst from his lungs. When Elder Ouyang moved to select a disciple, Li Shan practically jumped forward. “Elder! This disciple, Li Shan, is willing to spar with him!” He accompanied his request with a meaningful, almost gleeful wink.

Knowing Li Shan’s cunning nature, Elder Ouyang assented. The boy wouldn’t volunteer without absolute confidence.

Li Shan practically bounced onto the stage, his heart singing. Sun Hao, oh Sun Hao, you’ve brought this upon yourself, he crowed internally.

Seeing Li Shan approach, Sun Hao’s expression turned peculiar, a mix of recognition and sudden dread. Li Shan struck a pose, brimming with mock bravado. “Brother Sun Hao! Come, show me your newest technique! I, Li Shan, will stand right here and take your attack!”

Swallowing hard, Sun Hao formed a hand seal. A red flying sword shot from his bag of holding, circling him with a cold light. “Go!” The sword shot toward Li Shan, a basic distraction. Seizing the moment, Sun Hao’s hands dove into his pockets and emerged clutching several lumpy, poorly-crafted black orbs—the stink bombs. He poured spiritual energy into them, drew back his arm, and shouted, “See my new technique!”

Li Shan, easily dodging the lackluster flying sword, simply thought, Explode.

Bang!

The orbs detonated not in the air toward Li Shan, but squarely in Sun Hao’s own grasp. A thunderous, wet pop was followed by an immediate, eye-watering putrid stench that spread like a physical wave. Sun Hao stood frozen, covered from head to toe in foul, black ash, his face a perfect portrait of dumbfounded horror. He stared at his sooty, empty hands, utterly bewildered. Did I use too much force?

Li Shan waved a hand in front of his nose, sighing with exaggerated pity. “Brother Sun Hao’s move is too strong! What is it called? ‘Self-Destruct’? I told you before, you must be gentle with those things. You gripped them too tightly!”

The Xuan Dao Sect disciples erupted. Roars of laughter, jeers, and howls of mockery filled the peak. The Heng Yue Sect disciples bit their lips, faces turning red with the effort of suppressing their own laughter, knowing any amusement would be seen as treason by the fuming elders.

Huang Long, his patience at an end, angrily waved his sleeve. A powerful gust of wind swept across the platform, carrying away the worst of the stench and unceremoniously lifting the stunned, ash-covered Sun Hao off Pine Peak, sending him tumbling back toward the distant Heng Yue main peak.

Elder Ouyang smiled, the picture of magnanimity. “That disciple misfired his own technique, so his true strength remains unknown. Let us call this round a draw.” He gave Li Shan a subtle, approving nod.

“A loss is a loss,” Huang Long growled, his voice low and grim. “How could it be a draw? Continue.”

“As you wish,” Ouyang said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Xu Mu! Step forward.”

A Xuan Dao disciple in his mid-twenties walked calmly onto the stage. He simply clasped his hands and stood waiting, silent and serious.

Huang Long did not even glance at his cowed inner disciples. Instead, he retrieved a piece of jade from his robe and crushed it in his palm. A flash of brilliant blue light erupted on the platform, and from it, three figures materialized.

They wore distinctive purple robes, the mark of direct disciples under the personal tutelage of the Core Formation elders. The moment they appeared, a palpable pressure rolled off them, a dense spiritual weight that made the inner disciples gasp and step back. These were not the juniors of the last twenty years; these were faces from the previous exchange, cultivators who had been in secluded training.

Elder Ouyang’s expression tightened as he scrutinized the newcomers. The languid middle-aged man standing at the very back of the Xuan Dao Sect contingent finally stirred, his eyes sharpening with a spark of competitive interest.

Wang Lin’s pupils contracted. Among the three, he recognized only one: his second senior brother, Zhang Kuang, who had once tried to recruit him.

The lead purple-robed disciple, a man in his forties with a stern face, coldly scanned the Xuan Dao Sect ranks. “Xuan Dao Sect? Hmph. Twenty years ago, I, Lu Song, lost. This time, I will not.”

A wave of excited whispers broke out among the Heng Yue disciples. “Lu Song! Fifth Senior Brother Lu Song! The genius who was at the sixth layer twenty years ago!” “Our Heng Yue Sect will win for sure!” The morale, crushed by the first two rounds, surged back. Female disciples gazed at Lu Song with newfound admiration. Even Huang Long allowed a faint, hopeful smile to touch his lips. With Lu Song, this round was secure.

Elder Ouyang’s face darkened. He said to his disciple on stage, “Xu Mu, you are permitted to remove the ancestor’s seal. Use your full power.”

Xu Mu nodded gravely. He opened the front of his shirt, revealing a simple yellow talisman pasted directly over his heart.

The Heng Yue Sect elders, including Huang Long, leaned forward, their eyes widening in shock. They could feel the profound, restrained power emanating from that slip of paper. “Friend Ouyang, this talisman…” Huang Long began, his voice wary.

“This,” Ouyang interrupted, his tone turning indifferent, “is a matter for another time. For today’s exchange, I wish to add a condition. If our Xuan Dao Sect wins, you must cede the Heng Yue Mountain to us for five hundred years!”

Silence, absolute and stunned, fell over the peak. Huang Long’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you joking?”

“I am utterly serious,” Ouyang replied, shaking his head. “As you can sense, this talisman is the work of a Nascent Soul cultivator. I will be frank with you, Huang Long. An ancestor of my sect has returned from the battlefields of a Rank 4 cultivation country. The news he brought is that all Nascent Soul ancestors of your Heng Yue Sect… have perished.”

The words landed like a physical blow. The inner disciples looked around in confusion, but a dreadful, sinking feeling gripped them all. The sky itself seemed to darken.

Wang Lin’s heart clenched. So what Situ Nan said was true. The cultivation world is a hierarchy of carnage, and the weak are consumed.

Beside him, Sun Dazhu’s face went deathly pale. He mumbled, almost to himself, “Over… it’s all over. We could barely cling on by using the ancestors’ names as a shield… Now that they’re gone… Damn it all! If not for the invasion five hundred years ago, for those Rank 4 countries stealing the dragon star and conscripting all our Nascent Soul power… we wouldn’t be in this state…”

Huang Long saw the terror spreading through his disciples and elders. He forced authority into his voice, a desperate dam against the tide of despair. “Do not panic! The truth of this will be verified by our own Core Formation elders! What is there to fear now? Lu Song! Proceed with the exchange!”

On the platform, Lu Song, shaken but composed, acted. He opened his mouth and spat out a cloud of purple mist. The mist churned and solidified into a gigantic, spectral hand that clawed through the air toward Xu Mu.

Xu Mu’s expression was grave. Without a word, he slapped his bag of holding, and six golden spheres shot out, intercepting the giant hand. Lu Song snorted. A seal formed with his hands, and the giant hand swatted through the air, generating a sinister gale that disrupted the trajectory of the spheres and caused the spiritual energy in Xu Mu’s body to churn chaotically.

“Explode!” Xu Mu shouted desperately.

The six golden spheres detonated simultaneously. The blast wave was violent, forcing spectators to shield their faces. Lu Song, however, merely sneered. “A petty trick!” The giant purple fist, slightly dimmed but still formidable, ignored the explosion and continued its relentless descent.

Trapped and pale, Xu Mu clenched his teeth. He produced a yellow talisman, identical in appearance to the one on his chest but inert. Biting the tip of his tongue, he sprayed a mouthful of blood essence into the air. The blood mist coalesced into a writhing, miniature dragon, which he then, with another complex seal, imprinted onto the talisman.

The plain talisman suddenly blazed like a captive sun. A blinding, righteous light erupted from it, and the mighty purple fist dissolved into nothingness before it could crush Xu Mu.

He has a magic treasure talisman too, Wang Lin noted, thinking of the similar talisman hidden in his own possession.

“So, a magic talisman!” Lu Song frowned, but his attack was not finished. With a sweep of his sleeve, two white streaks shot out, resolving into sleek, silver-white dragons that coiled once in the air before diving at Xu Mu with lethal speed.

Xu Mu, having spent all his energy and focus to block the giant fist, could only watch the dragons approach, a pitiful laugh escaping his lips. He was utterly defenseless.

At that critical moment, a cold, disdainful snort came from the Xuan Dao Sect ranks.

A black rainbow streaked from the crowd, intercepting the two white dragons with ease. It wrapped around them like a constricting serpent. A sharp crack-crack echoed, and the dragons shattered, reverting to their true forms—two silver flying swords—before breaking in half.

The connection was severed. Lu Song’s body jerked as if struck. He coughed out a mouthful of blood, his face etched with horror and pain. The spiritual backlash was immediate. The remaining purple mist and the giant hand above Xu Mu dissipated into nothingness. Xu Mu, spared by the intervention, scrambled off the stage, clutching his precious talisman.

Lu Song descended, his steps unsteady, his aura bleak. The victory that had seemed certain had been stolen in the most blatantly unfair manner.

Huang Long’s face turned thunderous. “Xuan Dao Sect! Do not go too far!” he roared. The Heng Yue elders flared their spiritual power, treasures flashing in their hands. The inner disciples buzzed with angry indignation. All eyes turned toward the source of the black rainbow—the bored-looking middle-aged man at the back of the Xuan Dao Sect group.

Elder Ouyang turned to the man, offering a wary, placating smile. “This third round is won by the Heng Yue Sect. As for the interference, I—”

“Enough pointless talk, Elder Ouyang.” The middle-aged man finally spoke, his voice dripping with contempt. He slowly walked forward. With his first step, the solid stone of the peak path cracked with a deafening sound, a fissure snaking all the way to the base of the platform. “This Heng Yue Sect is utterly mediocre.”

His body blurred and reappeared on the stage in an instant. He looked down at the assembled Heng Yue disciples with undisguised arrogance. “All you Heng Yue Sect inner disciples, come at me together. I, Zhou Peng, will take you all on!”

An uproar ensued. The Xuan Dao Sect disciples fell into a respectful, expectant silence. This was clearly a figure of immense stature.

Elder Ouyang coughed. “Friend Huang Long, this is Zhou Peng, the head disciple of our Xuan Dao Sect. Let this single match decide the final outcome. If any one of your Heng Yue Sect disciples can last ten seconds on this stage with him, then your sect wins.”

Before Huang Long could respond, a purple blur shot onto the platform. Zhang Kuang landed heavily, his eyes burning with fury. “Such an arrogant pup! I will test you!”

Zhou Peng laughed, a short, derisive sound. “You? You appear to be at the sixth layer of Qi Condensation, but you’re hiding your true strength—the eighth layer. It is not enough.” As he spoke, a cold light flashed in his eyes. He casually waved his right hand.

A wisp of black smoke shot from his sleeve, expanding in mid-air into a monstrous, semi-transparent black python. Its eyes were pools of cold malice, fixed directly on Zhang Kuang. The python opened its maw and inhaled.

A terrifying suction force, bizarrely selective, latched onto Zhang Kuang alone. He had no time to form a seal, to shout, to even think. His spiritual energy was locked, his body rendered helpless. Like a leaf in a hurricane, he was yanked off his feet and pulled toward the gaping jaws.

Zhou Peng moved with casual grace. He raised his hand and caught Zhang Kuang by the neck mid-flight, halting his momentum effortlessly. “Go back and train for a few more decades before seeking me out again,” he sneered, and with a flick of his wrist, threw Zhang Kuang’s limp form off the platform.

The remaining purple-robed disciple leapt to catch him, but the force contained in the throw was immense. He grunted upon impact, and both he and the unconscious Zhang Kuang skidded across the stone for a dozen meters before coming to a stop. Zhang Kuang’s face was waxen, his body trembling. Around his neck, a livid black handprint stood out, as if an invisible hand still choked him. The disciple who caught him could only stare in horror.

Huang Long’s heart sank into a cold, dark abyss. The head disciple of Xuan Dao Sect… at least the tenth layer, likely higher with a concealment talisman. He looked at his own inner disciples, at their ashen, averted faces. Even his own head disciple, training with the Core Formation elders, was only at the tenth layer. Sending him would be a gamble with the sect’s last shred of dignity. If he lost, the defeat would be total and absolute.

A wry, hopeless smile touched Huang Long’s lips. It is over. The Heng Yue Sect has no hope left. His priority shifted to damage control. “Very well,” he murmured to himself, making a decision. “We must end this farce and inform the ancestors immediately.”

On stage, Zhou Peng swept his arrogant gaze across the Heng Yue disciples. “Who is next?”

No one met his eyes. No one spoke. A suffocating silence of collective cowardice descended. Zhou Peng’s sneer deepened. But as his contemptuous scan continued, it suddenly stopped. Among a sea of lowered heads, one pair of eyes was not looking down. They were calm, watchful, and held no fear.

They belonged to a disciple whose spiritual pressure was faint, no higher than the third layer of Qi Condensation.

Zhou Peng stared directly at Wang Lin. “What?” he asked, his voice icy. “Do you wish to come up?”

The question acted like a spotlight. Every head turned to follow Zhou Peng’s gaze. When they saw it was Wang Lin, expressions twisted into confusion, pity, and morbid curiosity.

Huang Long sighed inwardly. Wang Lin. The lowest among them. At least he has the courage to look that monster in the eye. It was a pitifully small consolation.

Wang Lin said nothing, his face an impassive mask.

Zhou Peng, receiving no response, amplified his mockery. “Out of four battles, one remains! The Heng Yue Sect is such a famed, ancient sect, yet no one dares to come up? I am profoundly disappointed! Are all your inner disciples spineless?”

The taunt hung in the air, a public lashing. The elders squirmed. Then, Elder Xu, standing beside Huang Long, spoke up. “My apologies, Junior Brother Sun. Wang Lin! You will go!”

Sun Dazhu, who had been lost in his own despair, jolted as if stung. He whirled on Elder Xu, his face flushing with rage. “Dao Xu! You may be my senior brother, but you will not disgrace me like this! My disciple is at the third layer! Sending him up is not a fight; it is a sacrifice! Don’t think I’m blind to your scheming! Their head disciple is too strong. You’re all terrified your precious disciples will be shamed and injured, so you want to throw my trash disciple to the wolves as a scapegoat! Even if he loses, you can shrug and say, ‘What did you expect from the worst disciple?’ I will not agree to this cowardly, disgraceful act!”

Dao Xu’s frown deepened. Sun Dazhu had ripped the veil off their shameful reasoning right in front of their enemies. He shot a meaningful look at Sect Head Huang Long, sending a silent message.

Huang Long closed his eyes for a brief moment. The path was clear, and it was paved with humiliation. He needed to end this. Now. “Junior Brother Sun,” he said, his voice heavy with finality. “Say no more. Wang Lin. You will go up.”

Sun Dazhu stared at his sect head, then at his fellow elders. A bitter, mocking smile spread across his face. He threw his sleeves up in a gesture of furious resignation and looked away at the sky, as if seeking answers from the uncaring clouds.

All eyes were on Wang Lin. He stepped forward, clasped his hands, and bowed respectfully. “As you command.”

He took a deep, steadying breath, the air tasting of defeat and collective fear. Then, he began to walk. His steps were not rushed, nor were they hesitant. He moved with a deliberate, calm pace away from the crowd of his fellow disciples, past the stone-faced elders, and toward the blood-stained platform where Zhou Peng waited, a monument to the Heng Yue Sect’s utter ruin.

The Xuan Dao Sect disciples needed no prompting. A cacophony of jeers and insults erupted. “Heng Yue Sect has no shame! Sending garbage to fight our eldest martial brother!” “Eldest martial brother, don’t dirty your hands! I could crush him with my thumb!” “Have they just given up? How pitiful. Just knock him out gently and be done with it!” Elder Ouyang shook his head, his disdain palpable. “Today, I have truly come to know the real Huang Long and the Heng Yue Sect.”

Huang Long’s face was dark as iron. Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away, his back to the platform. He held no hope, only a desire for the spectacle to be over. The other elders, one by one, also turned away, shaking their heads in silent condemnation of their own actions.

Even the Heng Yue Sect inner disciples began to shuffle their feet, unable to bear the sight of what was to come—the final, utter humiliation of the weakest among them, sacrificed for their collective cowardice. They averted their eyes, not wanting to witness the inevitable.

Wang Lin continued his solitary walk, the noise of the world seeming to fade around him. The jeers, the shame, the turned backs—they all dissolved into a strange, quiet focus. With each step, he moved further from the sect that had never wanted him and closer to the stage that represented either his end or an unimaginable beginning. The weight of the magic treasure talisman hidden against his skin felt suddenly very real, a secret sun against the gathering dark. He reached the base of the platform and placed his foot on the first step.