Renegade Immortal Chapters 67-69: Wang Lin's Homecoming and a Vengeful Showdown

The air within the secluded cave of the Heng Yue Sect’s forbidden ground was thick with unspoken expectations. Wang Lin stood before the two Foundation Building ancestors, Liu Wenju and the old woman surnamed Wang, feeling the weight of their gazes. They saw in him a vessel for the sect’s future, a prodigy to be shielded and molded. The old woman Wang nodded curtly. “Wang Lin, if you have any questions, you can come and ask us at any time.”

Wang Lin hesitated, the image of his parents’ humble home flashing in his mind. Years had slipped by since he last saw them, years filled with struggle, near-death experiences, and a staggering ascent in power. The impending, lengthy closed-door cultivation for Foundation Building loomed before him, a gulf that would separate him from the mortal world for who knew how long. He could not enter that seclusion with this牵挂 tugging at his heart. He raised his head, his voice firm. “Disciple has one request that I hope ancestors will agree to.”

The old woman’s eyebrows knitted together. “What is it?”

“Disciple wants to go out once.”

“You must focus on reaching Foundation Building first. You can’t go out,” she refused quickly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Wang Lin’s resolve did not waver. “Disciple must go out to do something. Once I finish, I can focus on cultivation.”

A harsh stare was his answer, but Liu Wenju intervened, placing a calming hand on his fellow ancestor’s arm. His voice was warmer, diplomatic. “Your ancestor Wang is worried about your safety outside. Can you tell me what are you going to do outside?”

Wang Lin saw no reason for deception. His filial piety was a core part of him, untouched by the cynicism of the cultivation world. “Disciple hasn’t seen his parents in many years, and this closed-door training will probably last a very long time, so I would like to go home and see my parents first.”

Liu Wenju pondered, exchanging a silent look with the old woman. The risk was evident—Wang Lin was a treasure, and treasures attracted thieves and vengeance. Yet, a troubled heart was also a barrier to cultivation. After a moment, Liu Wenju nodded. He retrieved a simple piece of jade from his sleeve. “Ok, go quickly and return quickly. This piece of jade can take one hit from a Core Formation cultivator. Only use it when your life is in danger.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Wang Lin’s face. He accepted the jade solemnly, storing it carefully in his bag of holding. His arsenal of treasures was pathetically small: the talisman given by his friend Zhang Hu, and now this life-saving jade. It was enough. “This is the technique to open up the formation here. Remember it well,” Liu Wenju said, handing over another jade slip before retreating with the old woman into the depths of their training chambers.

Alone, Wang Lin committed the formation technique to memory. After bidding a silent farewell to the quiet cave, he performed the hand seals. A ripple passed through the air, and an exit appeared. He took a deep breath of the free, unconfined air and leaped out, leaving the sect’s protective embrace behind.

He did not pause for nostalgia. Activating the attraction technique around his body, he shot into the sky, a streak of red light carving a path through the clouds. The wind whipped past his face, a sensation of both freedom and urgency.

“You finally left. Do you plan on returning?” Situ Nan’s voice echoed in his mind, tinged with its usual mix of boredom and sharp insight.

Wang Lin pondered as he flew. “I will not be returning any time soon. After I settle the matters at home, I have my own plans.”

“If my guess is correct, once you give the heaven defying bead enough wood element, its ability to slow time will increase greatly. Right now it is 10 times, but once the wood element is filled, it might be 100 times. By then, your cultivation speed will increase greatly,” Situ Nan mused, painting a tantalizing future of accelerated growth.

The conversation lulled as Wang Lin pushed his speed to the limit. In a day, he crossed into the familiar southern mountain range of the Heng Yue Sect. Conscious of drawing unwanted attention, he slowed his flight, descending closer to the tree line. On the second day, the familiar layout of the countryside emerged, and soon, his village came into view.

From a distance, it was as if time had stood still. The same cluster of houses, the same winding paths. The only noticeable change was his own home. It had been expanded from a simple dwelling into a proper three-room house with a sturdy main gate, upon which a large, bright red character for “Fortune” was pasted. It was still early morning; lanterns were extinguished, but the sounds of life were stirring—the crow of a rooster, the bark of a dog, the faint clatter of pots from within homes as smoke began to curl from chimneys into the pale sky.

Wang Lin landed silently at the village entrance, his feet touching the earth of his homeland. He stood there, a cultivator among mortals, his gaze fixed on the house that represented his deepest tether to this world. Five years had vanished in the blink of an eye for him, yet the memory of his parents’ faces, lined with hope and worry as they sent him to the sect, was etched into his soul with painful clarity.

He hesitated, his hand half-raised as if to push the gate. But he let it fall. A cold, pragmatic fear had taken root. He was not just Wang Lin, the filial son. He was Wang Lin, the disciple who had humiliated the Xuan Dao Sect’s head disciple, Zhou Peng. In the ruthless calculus of the cultivation world, family was a weakness to be exploited. Would they come? He had to assume yes. To walk in now would only bring his danger to their doorstep, shattering their hard-earned peace with fear.

Clenching his fists, he turned away. He circled the village not as a returning hero, but as a silent guardian. He found a secluded spot on a small hillock overlooking the village, concealed by a thick copse of trees. Here, he sat down, cross-legged. He would wait. And watch.

For a full month, Wang Lin lived like a ghost on the periphery of his own life. He cultivated in the daytime, his divine sense stretched out in a continuous, invisible net over the village and the approaches to it. He watched his father leave for the fields at dawn, his mother hanging laundry in the courtyard. He saw their simple, content routines, a world away from the lethal politics of sects. The sight filled him with a warm ache and a cold, hardening resolve. He would protect this. Whatever the cost.

The tranquility shattered on a certain afternoon. A cold light, sharper than any blade, flashed deep within Wang Lin’s eyes. His body, still as a statue for weeks, tensed. “So, they came after all,” he whispered, the words dripping with a venom he had never known he possessed.

Two streaks of sword light pierced the sky, descending not with grandeur but with sinister purpose at the village outskirts. As the light faded, two figures were revealed. One was enveloped head-to-toe in a heavy black cloak, a shapeless silhouette that seemed to swallow the light. From it emanated a faint, persistently disgusting odor, like spoiled meat and damp rot. The other was a handsome youth with sharp, masculine features—Zhang Kuang. But his eyes, which might once have held ambition, now swam with a furtive, greedy glint.

A voice, thick with hatred and muffled by the cloak, spat out, “Zhang Kuang, Wang Lin’s parents live here?”

Zhang Kuang wrinkled his nose almost imperceptibly, trying to distance himself from the smell. He whispered back, obsequious, “Senior brother, that Wang Zhuo is really despicable. I thought that with how much he taunted Wang Lin, he would tell me where his parents were, but he wouldn’t say a word. Thankfully, I was smart and checked the Heng Yue Sect’s disciple registration and found that he was from this village, but I don’t know which house.” Internally, he seethed with his own calculations. Wang Lin, we were from the same sect before, so I still had some concern about you, but now, I’m a disciple of the Xuan Dao Sect. No matter what, I must steal the treasure you possess.

The cloaked figure was Zhou Peng. The humiliation at the exchange meeting had festered, transforming into a all-consuming hatred. His reputation was ash. Worse, the mysterious black dust from Wang Lin’s “Dragon Capture Hand” was permanently fused to his skin, unwashable. The cloak hid the visual disgrace, but nothing could mask the foul stench it produced. He lived in a prison of his own vile smell. Wang Lin had to pay. He would make him suffer through what he cherished most.

He coldly snorted. “Zhang Kuang, you said that Wang Lin went from being trash to an expert so quickly because of that liquid?” The memory of the mysterious, spirit-gathering liquid Zhang Kuang had shown him burned in his mind.

Zhang Kuang fought down a gag as the smell intensified. “Senior brother, why would I dare fool you? I already showed you the liquid. That was the liquid Wang Lin traded with me for the chants for Qi Condensation stages. I swear that if I’m lying to you, I will never reach the Foundation Building stage.”

Zhou Peng’s hood tilted, as if he were studying Zhang Kuang. A vicious light seemed to glow from within the shadows of the cloak. “Good. Zhang Kuang, if what you said is true, then, in the future, as long as I’m around, no one will dare to mess with you in the Xuan Dao Sect.”

Zhang Kuang’s face lit up with feigned excitement, while inside he sneered. Hmph, I, Zhang Kuang, am not someone who needs to follow in another’s shadow. Once I have my footing in the Xuan Dao Sect, I will be able to reach the Foundation Building stage in a few dozen years.

Unseen by Zhang Kuang, Zhou Peng’s lips curled into a mocking smirk beneath the cloak. His voice turned probing, dangerous. “Have you told anyone else about this liquid?”

Zhang Kuang shook his head vigorously. “Senior brother, in the entire Xuan Dao Sect, only the two of us know about this. I didn’t tell anyone else.”

The air suddenly grew heavy. Zhou Peng’s hand shot out with viper-like speed, clamping around Zhang Kuang’s neck. “Zhang Kuang, you are lying!” he shouted, killing intent pouring forth.

Zhang Kuang choked, his face flushing. He didn’t dare resist. “Senior brother, if you don’t believe me, you can use the soul search technique. What I say is 100% true. I didn’t tell anyone else!” he gasped out, the threat of having his mind ripped apart lending desperate sincerity to his words.

Zhou Peng’s grip loosened slightly, the killing intent receding but not vanishing. “I’ll believe you for now.” He released Zhang Kuang, who stumbled back, rubbing his throat. Zhou Peng’s next words were uttered with chilling casualness. “Go catch Wang Lin’s parents and kill them. I’ll refine their souls into spirit flags. We can use those to find Wang Lin. Then, using his parents’ souls to attack him, unless he’s reached the Foundation Building stage, his soul will break.”

A violent shiver wracked Zhang Kuang’s body. The sheer, unadulterated viciousness of the plan—to murder innocents and torment their souls for eternity—struck a chord of primal fear. He hesitated, his feet rooted to the spot.

“Go!” Zhou Peng’s command was a whip-crack, brooking no dissent.

Zhang Kuang clenched his teeth, his moral compass shattering under the weight of fear and ambition. He turned and began a slow, reluctant walk toward the quiet village.

High on the hill, a transformation was complete. Where there had been hesitation and watchfulness, there was now only pure, undiluted killing intent. It flooded Wang Lin’s veins, icy and focused. This was the first time in his life he genuinely, utterly wanted to end another’s existence.

“That’s right! Kill, kill, kill, kill them all!” Situ Nan’s voice roared in approval, a bloodthirsty cheerleader from the shadows of his soul. “You are too weak now, but if you were strong enough, you should kill your way to the Xuan Dao Sect and kill them all. Back then, I loved doing these things.”

For the first time, Wang Lin did not oppose Situ Nan’s brutal philosophy. The threat was no longer abstract. It had a face, a plan, and was walking toward his home. Silently, like a phantom, he moved from his perch, his attraction technique muffling his presence as he glided down the hill, closing the distance between himself and Zhang Kuang.

Zhang Kuang’s steps were heavy, his conscience a dying weight. He almost stopped, but the memory of Zhou Peng’s menace pushed him forward. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his resolve hardening into a desperate, ugly determination. He picked up his pace.

Just then, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He spun around.

Wang Lin stood there, not ten paces away, having appeared without a sound. He hovered slightly above the ground, his expression a mask of serene, deadly cold.

Zhang Kuang’s heart lurched into his throat. He backpedaled wildly, a forced, terrified smile stretching his lips. “Senior brother, you…you…”

Wang Lin remained silent. The cold smile on his face was more terrifying than any shout.

“Senior brother, I…” Zhang Kuang’s hand flew to his bag of holding, his eyes darting for an escape route.

“Zhang Kuang, aren’t you looking for my home?” Wang Lin’s voice was calm, almost conversational. He pointed a steady finger toward the three-room house with the “Fortune” sign. “It’s over there.”

The casual gesture broke Zhang Kuang. He fell to his knees, kowtowing in the dirt. “Senior brother, I was wrong. It’s Zhou Peng’s fault! He forced me to come. I…” As he wailed his apology, his other hand, hidden by his kneeling posture, clenched a piece of jade. In a sudden, violent motion, he threw it into the air, his face twisting from fear into ferocity.

The jade shimmered and transformed mid-air into a gleaming flying sword that shot straight for Wang Lin’s heart. Simultaneously, Zhang Kuang’s hands flew through a chant, and he flung out several pieces of black wood from his bag. The pieces fused in the air, crackling with dark energy, forming a long, sinister black whip that hissed through the air toward Wang Lin. Without waiting to see if his attacks connected, Zhang Kuang scrambled to his feet and fled.

Wang Lin’s mocking expression didn’t change. He simply shifted to the side with effortless grace, the attraction technique blurring his movement. At the same time, he sent out two invisible hands of force. One snaked out and pinched the flying sword in mid-air, halting its lethal momentum. The other shot across the distance and closed like a vice around Zhang Kuang’s neck.

Zhang Kuang’s flight was brutally cut short. He gagged, his hands clawing at the invisible pressure crushing his windpipe. His face turned a deep, suffocating purple. The unfinished hand seal for another technique fell apart as he fought for air.

Wang Lin looked into the eyes of his former sect mate, now a traitorous would-be murderer of his family. The killing intent within him crystallized into a single, clear command. With a mental twist of the attraction technique, he exerted force.

A sickening crack echoed in the quiet field.

Zhang Kuang’s neck bent at an impossible angle. The despair in his eyes froze, then glazed over. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth. Wang Lin released the technique, and the body crumpled to the ground, twitching once before lying still forever.

The flying sword, now ownerless, shuddered and reverted to a simple piece of jade, which Wang Lin caught. The black whip lost its cohesion, clattering to the ground as separate pieces of wood, which he also collected. He swiftly took Zhang Kuang’s bag of holding. With a flick of his wrist, a small fireball ignited the corpse, consuming the evidence of the act in moments. There was no time for reflection. He turned, his gaze locking onto the distant, cloaked figure of Zhou Peng, and shot forward.

Zhou Peng had been waiting with growing impatience. So slow, he cursed inwardly. He was about to march into the village himself when a distinct fluctuation of spiritual energy reached him, followed by its abrupt cessation. Then, a palpable wave of killing intent—familiar and terrifying—surged toward him like a tidal wave.

His blood ran cold. “Who killed Zhang Kuang? His presence has completely disappeared, meaning he has died.” The realization had just formed when Wang Lin materialized in his view, eyes like chips of winter ice.

Panic, pure and undiluted, seized Zhou Peng. Without a single word of bravado, he turned and fled, summoning his flying sword and mounting it in one fluid, desperate motion. He shot toward the distant silhouette of Heng Yue Peak, cursing Zhang Kuang with every fiber of his being. You’re going to get me killed! How come Wang Lin suddenly came back?

“You won’t be able to run away!” Wang Lin’s voice, cold and clear, seemed to whisper directly into Zhou Peng’s ear despite the distance. Zhou Peng shuddered, a cold sweat breaking out. A glance back confirmed his horror: Wang Lin was gaining, the red aura of his attraction technique cutting through the air like a blade.

“Wang Lin, there is no feud between us. What are you going to do?!” Zhou Peng shouted back, his voice cracking with desperation.

“No feud between us? You know it well yourself,” Wang Lin replied, his voice steady as he closed the gap. “Zhou Peng, you will die today!”

Zhou Peng groaned inwardly, pouring every ounce of spiritual energy into the flying sword. Just reach the sect. The elders, the formations… he wouldn’t dare!

But Wang Lin was relentless. He shot out another Dragon Capture Hand. Zhou Peng, having experienced this before, was ready. He jerked his sword downward, diving close to the treetops. The invisible hand missed his body but clipped the tail of his flying sword. The impact sent him into a wild, spinning spiral. He fought for control, righting himself, but the delay had cost him precious distance.

Anxiety began to gnaw at Wang Lin. The range of his attraction technique was limited; beyond it, its power waned dramatically. Zhou Peng was a Foundation Building cultivator on a dedicated flight artifact. The grim mathematics of the chase were turning against him. If Zhou Peng escaped, the danger would never end. It would hang over his parents, and over him, forever.

“Senior Situ,” Wang Lin called out mentally, urgency sharpening his tone. “Is there any way for me to catch him immediately?”

Situ Nan’s response was infuriatingly calm. “There is…but…”

Wang Lin’s frown deepened. “If Zhou Peng gets away, then I’ll just take my parents and move away. As for cultivation, I’ll just give it up and live as a mortal.” It was a bluff rooted in genuine desperation.

Situ Nan immediately lost his leisurely pace. “What are you in a rush for? I’m only talking a bit slowly. If it was the me from before, I would kill you with one slap for being such a disrespectful disciple.”

“What disciple, you fart? Hurry up!” Wang Lin snapped, the last vestiges of formality burning away in the fire of his anxiety.

Situ Nan muttered something inaudible but chose not to waste more time. “There is still a bit of my soul essence left. I can help you teleport once, but only once, because if too much of my soul essence is used up, then I’ll disappear before you reach Spirit Transformation.”

No sooner had the words formed in Wang Lin’s mind than he felt it—an invasive, overwhelming cold that erupted from the heaven defying bead. It was a cold that dwarfed the sensation of the white light teleportation from before. It surged through his meridians, into his bones, into the very core of his being. Where it passed, his flesh and blood screamed in protest, freezing solid. His attraction technique sputtered and failed. In moments, Wang Lin was encased in a shell of ice, a glittering statue suspended in mid-air, hurtling toward the ground.

Zhou Peng, sensing the sudden stop and the bizarre cessation of the chasing aura, dared a look back. He saw the ice-clad figure of Wang Lin beginning to drop. Confusion warred with relief, but his instinct for survival screamed at him not to investigate. He pushed his speed even higher.

Inside the icy prison, Wang Lin fought to maintain a sliver of consciousness. “Keep your mind calm. I’m about to teleport!” Situ Nan’s command was a lifeline.

Darkness swirled within the ice. Not the black of night, but the void-black of twisted space. It cycled around Wang Lin’s frozen form and, in the blink of an eye, the ice sculpture vanished.

Zhou Peng’s divine sense, stretched taut behind him, registered the sudden emptiness where Wang Lin had been. His mind blanked with incomprehension. Before he could process the impossibility, the space about five meters directly in front of him rippled. A single black dot appeared, then split, multiplied, and expanded into a cluster of swirling, pitch-black vortices.

From the center of this spatial distortion, Wang Lin’s body re-materialized. The thick ice covering him sublimated instantly into a mist of blue light that was sucked back into his body. His eyes opened, locking onto Zhou Peng’s horrified face from point-blank range. “You can’t run away!” he declared, his voice the finality of a closing tomb.

Zhou Peng’s face went deathly pale. With a roar of despair, he bit the tip of his tongue and spat out a mouthful of blood-infused spiritual energy. The energy coalesced into a shimmering, ethereal green bell. He rang it with a thought, and the sound seemed to tear a hole in reality itself. From that hole, a massive green python, summoned and empowered by his blood essence, erupted. It swelled in size, its scales glistening with venomous light, and with a mindless fury, it swung its colossal tail at Wang Lin, aiming to crush him into paste.

“Brat, there is still a bit of my power in your body. It would be a waste not to use it,” Situ Nan said, his voice now tinged with excitement. “I’m going to borrow your body and show you one of my famous techniques.”

Wang Lin felt a foreign will gently nudge his control aside. His hands moved of their own accord, weaving an intricate, beautiful pattern in the air. From his body, a brilliant, profound blue light erupted, gathering before him into a compact, swirling ball of azure energy.

The moment the ball formed, the world seemed to hold its breath. The sky dimmed. An aura of absolute, primordial destruction radiated from that small sphere. Then, with a soundless boom that was felt rather than heard, the ball shattered.

But it did not explode outward with fire and fury. Instead, it released a wave—a visible, expanding ring of deepest blue cold. It was the essence of absolute zero, the end of heat and motion.

The wave met the python’s sweeping tail. Instantly, a crystalline sheen raced from the point of contact. It swept up the tail, over the massive body, and encased the monstrous head in a fraction of a second. The python’s furious momentum ceased. It became a magnificent, terrifying ice sculpture of its own, and plummeted from the sky, shattering into countless frozen shards upon impact with the earth far below.

Zhou Peng, his spirit intimately linked to the summoned beast, convulsed as if struck. He coughed out a great gout of heart’s blood. But the horror was just beginning. The blood droplets froze in mid-air before they could fall, tiny rubies of ice. Then, the relentless blue wave touched him.

He had no time to scream. The cold washed over him, through him. His frantic flight stopped. His expression of utter terror was preserved perfectly as a layer of flawless, transparent ice encased him completely. Zhou Peng, the proud head disciple of the Xuan Dao Sect, became a frozen trophy in the sky.

“It is unfortunate that there are no more people,” Situ Nan remarked with genuine regret, returning control to Wang Lin. “This technique of mine works best when there is a lot of people. Hey kid, this is the power of the Underworld Ascension Method. Can you see how strong the cold energy of this technique is?”

Wang Lin didn’t answer. He moved swiftly, catching the frozen block that contained Zhou Peng before it could fall. Without a backward glance at the distant Heng Yue Sect, he changed direction, flying low and fast away from the mountains, seeking the deepest wilderness he could find.

After what felt like an eternity of tense flight, he found a suitable place—a remote, desolate valley with a small, hidden cave. He landed and placed the frozen Zhou Peng on the ground. The ice gleamed in the dim light.

“Is Zhou Peng already dead?” Wang Lin asked, his voice hollow.

“This little baby is not dead yet, but he is close,” Situ Nan replied slowly, savoring the moment. “If you want him to die faster, you can just break the ice, then he will die for sure.”

Wang Lin stared at the frozen face, the hatred and fear now permanent features. A dark thought, born of necessity and nurtured by Situ Nan’s influence, took shape. “Before, you said you would teach me a puppet technique. Teach me that technique now.”

Situ Nan let out a low, delighted laugh. He was profoundly pleased. He had been carefully, patiently trying to erode Wang Lin’s innate gentleness, to expose him to the ruthless pragmatism required to survive. This request was a sign of success. What he did not tell Wang Lin was that the “puppet technique” he had in mind was a particularly gruesome demonic art, and his description of it would be deliberately exaggerated to harden the young cultivator’s heart.

“This puppet technique must be performed by you,” Situ Nan said happily. “I’ll tell you how it’s done once you find a secluded cave.”

They were already in one. Wang Lin dragged the frozen Zhou Peng deeper into the damp, dark interior.

Situ Nan’s voice became a slow, deliberate guide into darkness. “I’ll release the ice now. Zhou Peng is in a near-death state. You must open up his body, take out his inner organs, and start refining them.”

Wang Lin stiffened, his stomach turning. “Take out his inner organs and refine them? This…” The very idea was monstrous, a violation of every natural taboo.

“This is a necessary step for making puppets,” Situ Nan insisted, lying smoothly. “If you can’t do it, then I can’t help you.” Internally, he reveled. Brat, you have never seen blood, so how will you ever be bloodthirsty? This puppet technique is actually not this complicated, but this is a good opportunity to open your eyes a bit. Kid, you will definitely be my demon sect’s member. You can’t escape it!

He pressed his advantage, his voice turning sharp. “I’m going to remove the ice. You have half an hour, so don’t waste any time. Think about what he was planning to do to your parents.”

The ice covering Zhou Peng began to melt, not into water, but dissipating back into the blue light that returned to the heaven defying bead. The body was revealed, pale and barely breathing, hovering on the precipice of death.

Wang Lin stood over him, his mind a war zone. The gentle scholar’s son from the village recoiled in horror. The cultivator who had just killed to protect his family understood the logic of permanent solutions. He saw again the “Fortune” sign on his parents’ gate, saw Zhang Kuang walking toward it, heard Zhou Peng’s plan for spirit flags. His hesitation crystallized into a hard, cold resolve.

He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. With a swift, controlled motion of his hand, guided by spiritual energy, he made an incision. There was no gush of blood; the body was too far gone, the tissues still numbed by residual cold. Swallowing back a surge of nausea, Wang Lin began the grisly task, following Situ Nan’s deliberate, step-by-step instructions. His hands formed strange, sealing patterns over the opened body as his divine sense, revolted but obedient, focused on the work. The half-hour deadline stretched into a subjective eternity, a descent into a nightmare of his own making.

When Situ Nan finally declared, “Good. This first step is over,” Wang Lin could contain it no longer. He stumbled out of the cave, falling to his knees in the clean air, and retched violently, his body convulsing as it tried to expel the moral poison he had just ingested.

Situ Nan’s laugh echoed in his mind, triumphant. “Now, this second step is the most important step. You must surround his body with your divine sense and refine it for 3 days and 3 nights. Once you do that, the puppet can be considered complete. You will need to perform some techniques during those 3 days. I’ll explain them one by one, so listen carefully.”

Wang Lin remained on his knees, his face as pale as the corpse in the cave. The taste of bile was in his mouth, the scent of blood and something else in his nose. He had crossed a threshold. The path back to simple innocence was closed forever. He took a deep, ragged breath, then another. The image of his parents’ safe, smoke-filled morning was the only compass point he had left. Slowly, shakily, he pushed himself to his feet.

He turned and walked back into the darkness of the cave, toward the thing that was once Zhou Peng, and toward the new, harder version of himself that was being forged in the fire of vengeance and the ice of cruel necessity. The three-day vigil of refinement was about to begin.