Renegade Immortal Chapters 58-60: The Poison, The Power, and The First Kill
The air above Pine Peak crackled with tension, thick enough to choke on. On one side stood the disciples and elders of the Heng Yue Sect, their expressions a mix of anxiety and defiance. On the other, mounted upon a monstrous thousand-foot centipede that chittered and seethed, were the three visiting elders of the Xuan Dao Sect. The centipede’s venom, a shimmering black essence, was the prize, and Wang Lin’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was no mere contest; it was the potential cure for his ailing father, a hope he had carried from his mortal village into this ruthless world of cultivation.
Elder Ouyang of Xuan Dao Sect had just delivered his scornful refusal, his eyes like chips of flint. “You’re only a little junior. What right do you have to trade with me?” he sneered. The insult was public, deliberate, meant to humiliate both Wang Lin and the Heng Yue Sect by extension.
Wang Lin did not argue. His mind, cold and calculating, had already moved past words. With a thought, he activated his Attraction Technique to its absolute limit. An invisible force, potent and vast, shot toward the gargantuan centipede. The beast sensed it, thrashing its countless legs, but the grip was implacable.
Elder Ouyang’s face transformed from arrogance to fury. “Junior, you dare!” he roared. His sleeve flashed, and an ancient-looking flying sword shot out. It wasn’t just a sword; as it left his hand, it gathered the very wind around it, coalescing into a giant, shimmering blade of condensed air that swung down toward Wang Lin with a whistle of death. In Ouyang’s eyes, a clear killing intent bloomed. This Heng Yue disciple was an anomaly, too strong, a future threat. He would cripple him now under the guise of defending his sect’s property.
Sect Head Huang Long’s face darkened, his own sword flashing into his hand as he realized the lethal intent. But Wang Lin was already moving. He let out a short, humorless laugh. The power within him, the vast ocean of spiritual energy accumulated through years of unimaginable toil in the back mountain’s cave, surged forth. The invisible hands of his Attraction Technique glowed, becoming visible—two colossal hands of pure white light, swirling with energy that scattered the clouds around the peak.
One giant hand clamped around the centipede’s neck, holding the struggling beast in a vice. The other rose majestically, open-palmed, and met the descending wind-sword. A tremendous shockwave rippled outwards. The sword slowed, shuddered, and then stopped completely, held immobile in mid-air as if embedded in stone. Elder Ouyang’s face flushed a deep red, his earlier fury now mingled with dawning horror. The sheer power opposing him was incomprehensible for a disciple.
Seeing their elder thwarted, the other two Xuan Dao elders abandoned pretense. One spat out a rainbow-colored ribbon that snaked toward Wang Lin with malicious speed. The other threw a piece of jade, which shattered into eight ghostly green fireballs that screamed through the air, radiating a soul-chilling heat.
Wang Lin’s expression remained a placid lake. With a mere thought, a third giant hand of light formed around him, spinning rapidly and creating a vortex of wind that caused the ghostly fires to sputter and fade. Huang Long seized the moment, his own sword, the Purple Moon, flashing to intercept the rainbow ribbon in a clash of brilliant lights.
The window was seconds wide. Wang Lin shot toward the immobilized centipede. His right hand, glowing with spiritual energy, pressed against the creature’s grotesque head. The centipede let out a piercing, agonized shriek that echoed across the mountains, and from its maw, it coughed out a dense cloud of pure black poison—the very essence Wang Lin needed.
Dao Xu, ever observant, acted swiftly. “Disciple Wang Lin, use this!” he shouted, tossing a white jade bottle through the air. He then engaged the elder who had launched the ghostly fire, preventing any interference.
Wang Lin caught the bottle, his movements fluid and precise. Using his spiritual energy, he guided the swirling black mist into the container, sealing it with a sense of profound relief. The cure was secured.
“Heng Yue Sect, you’ve gone too far!” Elder Ouyang bellowed, his voice thick with impotent rage, his giant sword dissipating as Wang Lin released his hold.
Huang Long sighed inwardly, sheathing his sword and signaling a retreat. The confrontation was over. Wang Lin, holding the precious bottle, clasped his hands. His voice was calm, but firm. “Elder Ouyang, this poison is vital to me. I offer a trade.” He produced an ordinary-looking jade bottle from his pouch and tossed it over.
Ouyang caught it, his face sullen, but his eyes narrowed as he examined it. He uncorked it slightly, and a rich, palpable aura of spiritual power wafted out. “The river water from your back mountain’s cultivation ground?” he muttered, recognition dawning. Huang Long, watching, rubbed his beard with a wry smile—this brat was trading puddle water for a millennium centipede’s venom.
Elder Ouyang weighed the bottle, his greed warring with his anger. Finally, he grunted. “Friend Huang Long, your Heng Yue Sect has a very good disciple. Goodbye!” He shot a final, complex look at Wang Lin and sent a voice transmission, meant for Wang Lin’s ears alone: “Nephew-disciple Wang, I can let this matter go, but your Heng Yue Sect no longer has Nascent Soul ancestors backing it. Stay at your own risk!”
With that ominous warning hanging in the air, he touched the centipede. As the monstrous creature turned to fly north, Wang Lin’s gaze briefly met a pair of strikingly attractive eyes watching him from its back. He registered them, but his mind was too occupied with Elder Ouyang’s threatening words to care. The Xuan Dao Sect departed, leaving a stunned silence on Pine Peak.
Huang Long broke it, declaring the Heng Yue Sect the victor and promising rewards to all inner disciples. “All of you must follow Wang Lin’s example!” he proclaimed. The cheers that erupted were genuine now, laced with awe and newfound respect. The label of “trash” had been incinerated in the crucible of that display of power. Wang Zhuo, watching from the crowd, felt his world crumble. He turned to his teacher, Dao Xu, and requested entry into the life-and-death passageway, a place of no return, seeking escape from the shadow Wang Lin now cast. Dao Xu could only sigh and grant the wish.
“All of you may leave. Wang Lin, come with me,” Huang Long ordered. As Wang Lin nodded and prepared to follow, his eyes swept the dispersing crowd and landed on a familiar, now-pale face. “Third elder brother,” Wang Lin called, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “Wait a moment.”
The Rescue and the Reckoning
Lu Yunjie, the third elder brother who had once tormented him, flinched as if struck. He forced a trembling smile. “Wang… Brother Wang, do you need something? Spiritual energy gathering pills? I have plenty…”
“I want your helper, Wang Hao,” Wang Lin stated flatly, his gaze unwavering. The power he now wielded allowed for such directness. The debt to his cousin, long deferred, was now due.
Lu Yunjie’s face twisted. “He is crucial to my pill refinement! I cannot agree!” he blurted out, a desperate defiance in his eyes.
Huang Long, puzzled, interjected. “It’s just a helper, Lu Yunjie. How important can he be?”
But Lu Yunjie’s bitter, stubborn expression told Wang Lin everything he needed to know. A cold dread settled in his stomach. Without another word, he became a blur of motion, streaking toward the main courtyard’s pill house on Heng Yue Peak. Huang Long, the elders, and a dragged-along Lu Yunjie followed in his wake.
Wang Lin’s divine sense, sharper and wider than any Qi Condensation cultivator’s had a right to be, scanned the complex and found a flickering, weak life force in a back room. He burst inside, and the scene that greeted him ignited a cold, silent fury. In the center of the room sat a massive pill furnace. Inside, cross-legged and barely conscious, was Wang Hao. His life force was being steadily siphoned away, fed into the furnace’s flames.
Wang Lin acted without hesitation. An Attraction Technique hand shot toward the furnace. A protective rainbow light flared, but Wang Lin’s power was absolute. He shattered the light, gently extracted Wang Hao from the hellish heat, and laid him on the cool floor. Placing a hand on his cousin’s forehead, he channeled pure spiritual energy, stabilizing the fading spark of life.
The arriving elders took in the scene. The red-faced elder’s eyes widened. “The Fire Furnace Trial!” he exclaimed.
Dao Xu threw Lu Yunjie to the ground, his voice thunderous. “You have guts, Lu Yunjie! This trial is only for outsiders, never sect members! Have you forgotten?”
Lu Yunjie knelt, pale and trembling, but his voice held a desperate justification. “Twenty-five years I’ve been here, stuck at the 6th layer! This pill could extend my life, give me a chance to break through! Wang Hao is my personal helper, not a sect disciple. According to the rules, I’ve done nothing wrong!”
Wang Lin opened his eyes, having secured Wang Hao’s condition. He let out a derisive snort at Lu Yunjie’s words. Huang Long was caught in a bind—between a newfound genius and a disciple of twenty-five years. After a heavy pause, he deferred to Dao Xu, the discipline elder. Dao Xu, understanding the unspoken directive, pronounced the judgment: “Lu Yunjie will enter seclusion for twenty years.”
Huang Long then turned to Wang Lin, his tone placating. “Wang Lin, from now on, Wang Hao will be an inner disciple. Let that compensate him. Do not seek further trouble with Lu Yunjie. You are both of the same sect.”
Wang Lin’s eyes held Lu Yunjie’s for a long moment before he acquiesced. “Disciple obeys.” It was a strategic obedience. Wang Hao’s safety and new status were the immediate priorities.
Dao Xu promised to oversee Wang Hao’s recovery, and with that assurance, Wang Lin followed Huang Long away from the pill house, toward the main hall. He knew what was coming. The questions.
The Interrogation of Shadows
The main hall was imposing and empty. The moment the doors closed, Huang Long’s friendly demeanor vanished. “Wang Lin, you sure have guts!” he shouted, the authority of a sect head pressing down.
Wang Lin remained unshaken. “Sect Head, if you have something to say, just say it.”
“During the exchange, what technique did you really use?” Huang Long demanded, his eyes sharp.
“The Attraction Technique,” Wang Lin replied simply. To demonstrate, he activated it, causing all the tables and chairs in the grand hall to rise and orbit him slowly before settling perfectly back into place. The display was effortless, terrifying in its precision.
Huang Long studied it, his mind racing. After a long silence, he asked the core question. “Your cultivation appears to be at the 3rd layer of Qi Condensation. Yet your power… What is your true level? Tell me the truth!”
Wang Lin manufactured a look of profound confusion. “Disciple does not truly understand. I just cultivated diligently, and it became like this. As for my level… I do not know.”
“You’re still not going to tell me?” Huang Long’s voice deepened, a hint of threat creeping in.
Wang Lin met his gaze, his expression the picture of innocent bewilderment. “Disciple really does not know.”
Huang Long sighed inwardly. Pressuring him too hard was unwise. This disciple was too valuable, too powerful. Changing tack, he asked about the trade. “What was in that bottle you gave to the Xuan Dao Sect?”
A faint smile touched Wang Lin’s lips. He produced two more identical small bottles. “Sect Head means this? You would know it better than I. It is just river water from the back mountain.”
Huang Long took the bottles with a snort. “That water is not to be removed. I’ll confiscate these. Go and rest. Remember to meet me tomorrow. I will take you to the scripture library to select a proper cultivation technique.” This was both a reward and a placation.
Wang Lin felt a surge of genuine excitement. For all his power, his technical arsenal was barren. He bowed respectfully and left. The moment he exited the hall, the atmosphere among the lingering inner disciples was entirely different. They parted for him, their bows deep, their eyes filled with reverence. The lesson was stark: in the cultivation world, strength was the only true currency.
As Wang Lin walked toward the garden of his nominal teacher, Sun Dazhu, he reflected on this. The respect was fickle, born of fear. He preferred the honest solitude of the back mountain.
The Poisoned Tea and the Fatal Truth
The garden gate came into view. Sun Dazhu was already there, waiting with an obsequious smile that made Wang Lin’s skin crawl. “Good disciple! Teacher has been waiting! I’ve prepared top-quality recovery tea for you. It will restore your energy!”
He thrust a cup forward. Wang Lin stared at it, then at Sun Dazhu’s overly earnest face. The shift from neglectful contempt to fawning servitude was too abrupt, too jarring. Wang Lin’s divine sense subtly brushed the tea, detecting faint, unusual spiritual fluctuations within it.
“I am tired. I will not drink it,” Wang Lin stated, his voice flat.
Sun Dazhu was undeterred. “Tired? Then rest! My room is yours! The old one is too small!”
Wang Lin’s caution turned to certainty. This man was dangerous. “I will not stay long. I return to the back mountain soon,” he said, turning to leave.
“Wait!” Sun Dazhu called out. Wang Lin paused, then suddenly turned back, a faint, unsettling smile on his lips. Sun Dazhu’s face stiffened. “Good disciple, is there something else?”
“Teacher,” Wang Lin said, taking a step forward. “You look very nervous.”
Sun Dazhu’s heart hammered. He retreated a step, forcing calm. “Of course I’m nervous! My disciple is stronger than me, a mere 5th layer cultivator!”
Wang Lin’s eyes fell to the teacup. “In that case, teacher, drink the tea for me.”
Sun Dazhu’s composure cracked. His expression flickered through panic before settling on feigned indignation. “You suspect your teacher? Fine! I’ll drink it!” He grabbed the cup and made a show of drinking, then slammed it down. “Satisfied? The Sect Head has summoned me. I must not be late!” He turned to flee.
But Wang Lin had seen it—a subtle use of spiritual energy to contain the liquid in Sun Dazhu’s mouth, not his stomach. In an instant, Wang Lin moved. His speed was blinding. Before Sun Dazhu could take two steps, Wang Lin was upon him. His hand shot out, not to strike, but to slap Sun Dazhu squarely on the chest.
The controlled spiritual energy shattered. The tea, now truly consumed, dissolved and spread through Sun Dazhu’s system. Sun Dazhu cried out, “Wang Lin! What are you doing? Killing your teacher? The sect will execute you!”
Wang Lin ignored him, his divine sense tracking the substance. He felt it travel, transforming into thin, wire-like threads that wormed their way toward Sun Dazhu’s brain. Suddenly, the fury on Sun Dazhu’s face smoothed over, replaced by a dull, placid emptiness. His eyes lost their cunning focus.
Wang Lin stared, a hypothesis forming. “Teacher,” he began, his voice carefully neutral. “I did not wish to kill you. But you acted against me. Had you truly drunk the tea, I would not have done this.”
Sun Dazhu’s voice was monotone. “The tea should not be drunk.”
“Why not?” “It contains Three Thread Nematode Grass.” A cold knot tightened in Wang Lin’s gut. “What is its effect?” “It allows short-term control of the drinker. A key ingredient for puppet-making.”
Killing intent, sharp and clear, flashed in Wang Lin’s eyes for the first time. This was not a prank or a minor slight; this was an attempt to enslave him, to strip him of his will and secrets. “Why did you want me to drink it?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
The truth, under the herb’s influence, spilled out in a emotionless stream. Sun Dazhu spoke of his initial suspicion over the gourds, his plan to use the Soul-Searching Technique once Wang Lin reached the first layer, and his abandonment of that plan after feeding Wang Lin the Spiritual Energy Scattering Grass—a substance meant to cripple cultivation progress. He confessed how Wang Lin’s shocking display at the competition reignited his greed. He wanted the secret of the gourds, the secret of the power, for himself. He had obtained the Three Thread Nematode Grass from a wandering cultivator, intending it for Lu Yunjie originally, but saw a better opportunity.
“I wasn’t sure you’d return today,” Sun Dazhu droned. “It was a gamble. If you came, I would offer the tea. If not, you would likely be with the sect head or in the back mountain, and my chance would be lost.”
The calculated betrayal was laid bare. Wang Lin felt a cold fury rising, tempered by a profound disillusionment. This was the cultivation world—a place where even a nominal teacher would poison you for a chance at advancement.
One final question remained. “Earlier, you said the sect head summoned you. Was that true?” “No.”
The single word was the final verdict. In that moment, Wang Lin made a decision. It was not born of hot rage, but of cold necessity. Sun Dazhu knew too much, had tried to enslave him, and would undoubtedly try again. Leaving him alive was an existential threat.
Wang Lin’s eyes hardened. His hand, glowing with condensed spiritual energy, shot out and slammed onto the top of Sun Dazhu’s head. There was a sickening crunch, internal and final. Sun Dazhu’s dull eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then went forever blank. Blood trickled from his nose, ears, and mouth as he crumpled lifelessly to the ground.
The silence in the garden was absolute. Wang Lin stood over the body of his first kill, his teacher. There was no triumphant surge, only a hollow, heavy feeling settling in his chest, a chilling numbness in his limbs. The act was necessary, logical, yet it marked a line crossed, an innocence irrevocably lost. He had defended himself, avenged a plot against his very soul, but he had also extinguished a life.
For a long time, he simply stared. Then, with methodical movements, he stored the body in his bag of holding. He walked out of the Heng Yue Sect grounds, his expression a mask of dull introspection, the cheers from Pine Peak a distant memory. He trekked to a remote, desolate mountainside. There, under a cold, indifferent moon, he retrieved Sun Dazhu’s body and let it fall into the dark ravine below, swallowed by the shadows. No words, no ceremony. Just an end.
As he turned back toward the sect, the centipede’s poison secure in his pouch and the promise of the scripture library ahead, Wang Lin was fundamentally altered. The boy from the mortal village was receding. In his place stood a cultivator who had tasted true power, understood true treachery, and had paid for his survival with the blood of another. The path ahead was darker, more dangerous, and he would walk it alone, trusting no one, his heart guarded by the cold, hard lessons written in poison and blood. The renegade’s journey had truly begun.