a journey into immortal cultivation

Chapter XIX: Expelled from the Sect

Chapter Nineteen: Expelled from the Sect

Just thinking of those gourds sent Sun Dazhu’s temper flaring. He’d pored over them the whole way back, peering this way and that, only to find they were ordinary to the extreme. He’d even dug out the seeds, filled them with spring water, and—much to his shame—been mocked by several senior brothers along the road.

Wang Lin sneered inwardly but kept his face meek. “I don’t even know what ‘spiritual aura’ is,” he said. “You told me if I found a gourd you’d give me a spirit stone. Why don’t you tell me—what exactly is aura?”

A wave of dizziness passed through Sun Dazhu. He studied Wang Lin at length, and for the first time a doubt took root: were those gourds truly plentiful as he’d imagined—or was there only one that this foolish boy had picked up by chance?

He brooded a while. What Wang Lin said did make a certain sense: only after reaching the first level of Qi Condensation could one perceive the spiritual energy between heaven and earth. At that thought he regretted having laced the boy’s meals with drugs that hindered cultivation. The lad’s aptitude was poor to begin with; breaking through the first level was hard enough. Now, with those medicines in him, he might not succeed for thirty or fifty years.

With a sigh, Sun Dazhu cooled. Yet unwillingness gnawed at him. After a moment’s hesitation he took out a lower-grade spirit stone and tossed it over. “This is the stone I promised. Take it and cultivate. Reach the first level as quickly as you can.”

Wang Lin caught it at once, thanked him, and returned to his room.

Sun Dazhu stood there dazed for a long time before breathing out a long, long breath. “You don’t bait a wolf without risking the lamb,” he muttered. “Only one way left to test whether he’s lying. Get him to the first level as fast as possible. Once he steps into the realm of cultivation, I’d rather take a step back in my own cultivation than perform a Soul-Search on him. That way I won’t violate the laws of heaven and earth that forbid using the art on mere mortals before the Core Formation stage.”

The Soul-Search Technique was a simple spell—but vicious. Nine times out of ten the target died on the spot, soul scattered. The best outcome was a lifetime of idiocy. Precisely because of that, the art carried restraints: used on mortals before one’s Core Formation, the caster would suffer the same backlash. Used on fellow cultivators, the taboo did not apply, but one could do it no more than three times in a lifetime, and each time one’s cultivation would fall back.

Sitting cross-legged, Wang Lin examined the spirit stone. Nothing about it looked extraordinary, yet holding it cleared his mind. He closed his eyes and began to breathe as taught.

An entire night passed. Wang Lin sighed—still no sign of qi entering his body. He forced a wry smile. Just then the door pushed open and Sun Dazhu strode in, face black, a stone bowl of inky liquid in his hands.

“Drink it.”

Wang Lin started, eyed the bowl warily, and did not take it. “Master, what is it?”

At that look Sun Dazhu’s temper leapt. “Would I harm you? I said drink! If I weren’t trying to get you to the first level quickly, you think I’d stay up all night and waste precious herbs brewing this?”

Wang Lin hesitated, saw the storm on his master’s face, and lifted the bowl. He held his breath and drained it in one gulp.

A searing heat surged up from his belly and raced through his limbs. His mouth went dry; it was as if a fire raged inside him. His vision swam; the stone bowl fell from his hand as heaviness pressed him toward sleep.

“Start breathing—now. I’ll help you draw it in.” Unwilling as he was, Sun Dazhu pressed a palm to Wang Lin’s chest.

A cool current entered from that touch, and Wang Lin’s mind cleared. He began to draw breath and guide qi without thinking. Sun Dazhu glanced with pain at the shattered bowl, muttered a few curses, then gritted his teeth and fetched several lower-grade spirit stones from his pouch, placing them to Wang Lin’s left and right. Boy, I’ve paid dearly this time. You’ll repay every bit in the end.

Soon the faint “ant-crawling” sensation began to rise. Sun Dazhu could clearly feel medicinal qi slowly gathering within the youth’s body; delight flickered across his features.

But just then a wave of foul turbid air rushed out of Wang Lin, effortlessly dissolving the qi that was about to condense—ruining the effort at the brink of success.

Sun Dazhu’s face soured. He recognized the source at once: the very Spirit-Dissolving Herb he’d made the boy ingest the day before. He tried again and again. Not until every trace of medicinal qi had been consumed did he stop; still, not a wisp of spiritual energy had formed.

He let out a long, weary breath, withdrew his hand, and stared at Wang Lin, emotions roiling.

Wang Lin opened his eyes feeling light and easy, comfortable through and through. He was about to offer thanks when Sun Dazhu, face bitter, flicked his sleeve and left without a word.

Wang Lin blinked, baffled by the man’s moods. He stretched, stepped to the door, and called toward his master’s room, “Master, I’m heading to the spring to see if luck’s with me today.”

Sun Dazhu said nothing, but the garden gate swung open without a sound. Wang Lin slipped out, and no sooner had he gone than Sun Dazhu shadowed him yet again.

A month slipped by. Each day Wang Lin went to the spring to sit and breathe. Each day Sun Dazhu watched in secret. Disappointment piled upon disappointment, until his heart grew cold.

Day after day he dosed Wang Lin with decoctions, yet nothing condensed. Sun Dazhu’s temper grew fouler by the day.

Worst of all, the aura in that earlier gourd dwindled bit by bit. In a single month it was gone. The water inside poured out exactly as it had gone in—devoid of even a trace of spiritual energy.

At last the gourd became no different from any wild calabash. Sun Dazhu could not hide his frustration. He thought it through and arrived at a guess: the gourd was not wondrous in itself; it had undergone some special change that made its aura dense. Wang Lin had likely stumbled on it by accident; the chance he possessed others was slim.

The more he considered it, the more right it felt. Heart aching at the waste, he summoned Wang Lin, gave him a thorough tongue-lashing, then flicked his sleeve and drove him out of the main courtyard.

Now, whenever he saw the boy, rage rose in his chest. Better not to see—better not to think. In short order he forgot he had ever taken such a disciple.

In his view, even with a month of medicinal aid, Wang Lin would not reach the first level in less than ten years—if not longer. Unless Sun Dazhu steeled himself to burn through precious herbs and keep dosing him, the boy could forget about progress.