a journey into immortal cultivation

Chapter Nine: Descent from the Cliff

In the days that followed, whenever hunger struck he ate the birds that had been sucked in and dashed to death. Most of each day he spent observing the stone pearl; whenever dew beaded upon it he rubbed the moisture into his arm. Little by little the arm returned entirely to normal. He took the dew very seriously, collecting quite a*****e of it in a bird’s skull.

One day, he soaked a strip of cloth with the dew he had saved, wrapped the stone pearl inside, and hung it around his neck. After tugging a few times to make sure it wouldn’t fall, he waited for a lull between the bouts of suction, went to the cave mouth, and—gritting his teeth—tore most of his clothing into strips. He tied one end to a rock, the other around his waist, and began inching down the cliff.

After five or six zhang, his hand slipped and his body dropped. The cloth rope held—barely. He swung, flung out a hand, and grabbed a branch that jutted from the cliff. The cloth strip split across the middle; the length around his waist dangled, swaying in empty air.

Cold sweat sprang from his brow. A glance downward showed twenty-odd zhang yet to go. One hand locked on the branch, he hauled up the strip with the other and, with difficulty, lashed it to the branch. Only then did he let out a breath.

He edged along with care and, after a long while, reached the rock face again and kept climbing down. When only a few zhang remained, the strips were at their limit. Without hesitating, Wang Lin pushed off and leapt.

The cloth couldn’t bear the weight and split once more, but it bled off a little of his speed. The wind slammed against his face; branches cracked in a staccato series. At the instant he hit ground he forced his body to curl, toes striking first, then rolled with the great forward momentum.

The stones were like knives, scoring his body with gashes; blood welled in lines. His right leg, especially, was pierced by a sharp rock—white bone showed in the wound.

His breath came fast; his eyes lost focus. He worked the cloth-wrapped pearl off his neck and into his mouth, sucking the dampness from it with his tongue. After a moment he struggled upright, hands shaking, unwound the strip, and twisted it hard over the wound in his right leg. Several drops fell.

A cool sensation spread from the gash. When it was done, he collapsed weakly onto his back and prayed no beasts would come before he’d recovered a little.

Just then, a distant shout drifted over.

“Tiezhu! Where are you?”

Wang Lin started. He listened—it was his father’s voice. Without stopping to think he mustered all his strength and shouted back, “Dad! I’m here!”

A rainbow arc skimmed in from afar. It circled above the cliff where Wang Lin lay, then dropped like lightning. When the sword light faded, the Hengyue disciple surnamed Zhang stood there with Tiezhu’s father tucked under his arm, frowning down at Wang Lin.

At the sight of his son, Father’s tears burst forth. He ran to Wang Lin, gathered him up, and sobbed, “Tiezhu, why put yourself through this? How could you think so darkly? Did you think, if you died, how your mother and I are to live?”

Wang Lin blinked. A moment’s thought told him his father had taken this for a suicide attempt. One look at his wounds and sorry state—and he could only give a bitter smile.

The disciple swept the scene with his eyes, glanced up, and spotted the dangling cloth strips. He sprang, and with a few light bounds reached the cave. At that very moment the suction returned. His face flickered with surprise, but settled at once; ignoring the pull, he peered inside, then dropped lightly back down. In a low voice he said, “Your boy tried to kill himself and happened to be caught by a natural wind eye—that’s all that kept him from dying. Now that he’s been found, the elders will decide what to do once we return.”

With that he flicked his sleeve, seized father and son, and sped away. In no time they were at the foot of the Hengyue peak; along the stone stair he bore them easily to the summit.

Back on that ground, Wang Lin’s feelings were mixed. Several people stood on the mountaintop wearing looks of open distaste. The disciple surnamed Zhang hurried forward and murmured to one of them. That man’s brows knotted. Coldly, he said, “Since he’s found, take him to the guest quarters to see his mother.”

In the guest room, Mother burst into tears at the sight of her son, clutching him, weeping and scolding all at once. From his parents’ account Wang Lin finally learned how things had come about.

After he ran away, his parents went straight back to the clan to find Fourth Uncle. The three, fearing for his safety, approached Wang Zhuo’s father. Pressed by Fourth Uncle’s hard line, he grudgingly rallied the kin to petition Hengyue, begging aid in searching.

Hengyue had never encountered such a thing. Their first impulse was to ignore it. But, after all, Wang Lin had run because he had not been accepted. If he truly died near their mountain, they might not care about the life or death of a mortal, but should word spread through the surrounding villages, few parents would dare send their children for testing thereafter. After deliberation they sent a few disciples to search nearby. Wang Lin’s father, uneasy, went with them.

So it had been.

Before long someone brought a decoction. Mother thanked him and carefully fed it to Wang Lin. The medicine, made by an immortal sect, was indeed potent. Warmth spread through him; his strength returned by half; the pain in his wounds eased.

His parents’ anxious words flowed on and on. He meant to explain, but on second thought, doubted they would believe.

Meanwhile, in the Hengyue Great Hall, several elders sat listening as the disciple surnamed Zhang recounted how they had found Wang Lin. At length a ruddy-faced elder slapped the table. “What have the lives of mortals to do with those who walk the Way? Look across the Zhao Kingdom—what sect stoops as we do? To send men in search of a boy who failed his trials and went off to die—shameful!”

A cold-faced middle-aged elder sighed and said in a level tone, “Elder Ma speaks true. Of all the sects in the Zhao Kingdom, we Hengyue are the most out of order. But if the boy really died at our gates, it would surely affect future recruitments. If parents think that a child denied admission might immediately seek death, who will dare send their children here?”

A brocade-robed elder lifted his cup, sipped tea, and spoke unhurriedly: “To put it plainly—we have declined. We must draw heavily from the mortal world to find those fit for cultivation. Heh. Had this been five hundred years ago, who would care whether a mortal lived or died? We’d pay no mind to their opinions.”

At last a wrinkle-faced elder sighed. “A youth who tries once may well try again. Enough. To spare ourselves future trouble, let us break precedent and accept him as a registered disciple.” With that he slanted a look at the middle-aged man, closed his eyes, and said no more.