a journey into immortal cultivation

Chapter Twelve: Celestial Talisman

Chapter Twelve: Spirit Talisman

Over the past month, nearly all the registered disciples had come to know Wang Lin. Whenever they saw him, they put on lofty airs and loosed vicious little jibes.

Wang Lin ignored them. He knew their hearts had twisted under the grind. Before he arrived, they were the very bottom of the sect; there was nowhere to vent the misery they bore. Now that he—accepted, so to speak, by “suicide”—stood lower even than registered disciples, he had become fair game.

He only gave a thin, cold smile. In this place the strong ruled; defiance would solve nothing. Those who’d entered before him were sturdier by far, and some had even learned minor arts. If he fought back, he would only suffer.

But he was no soft persimmon. He kept every sneer and every face in mind, to be repaid one by one when his strength allowed.

With that resolve he turned deaf and blind to the rest. Day after day he hauled water—and in secret, studied the mysterious pearl.

He tried soaking it in every liquid he could think of: spring water, dew, sweat, even blood. In the end he found dew worked best.

Dew, however, was not all one. The morning dew that beaded on the pearl itself was the most potent; night dew came second. Dew scraped from other objects and then used to bathe the pearl was weaker still. After that came spring water. The least effective were blood and sweat—almost no effect at all.

So as not to draw notice, he found several wild gourds in the hills, scooped out the seeds, and used them to store different kinds of dew.

He did not carry these on his person. Instead, he chose a few secluded spots, buried them deep in separate places, and unearthed them only when collecting—never bringing them back inside the sect.

What he kept on him was a gourd of spring water. A few swallows when exhausted, and vigor crept back into his limbs.

He also noticed something odd: at night or dawn, when dew covered the pearl’s surface, it only seemed to be a film of water. The moment he tried to collect it, more than half would vanish without a trace; at most, less than a tenth remained. He could only conclude the pearl was absorbing the dew. Absurd as it sounded, no other explanation fit.

One evening at dusk, after topping off the last three vats, he said to the yellow-robed youth who was cultivating nearby, “Senior Brother Liu, I’m going home for a few days. I won’t be here tomorrow.”

Liu rolled his eyes at Wang Lin and grunted through his nose.

Wang Lin took no offense. From Zhang Hu he had learned that registered disciples were allowed three home visits a year; they could apply at any time to an Elder Sun and receive a talisman that would let them come and go freely—an excuse, really, to display the sect’s arts.

Remembering that his father’s birthday was near, he was determined to go. Leaving the Odd-Jobs Office, he headed for the elder in charge of registered disciples.

The Hengyue Sect was arranged as five auxiliaries and one main court: Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth, each housing its registered disciples. Inner-sect disciples and elders mostly lived in the Main Court. While hauling water he had often gazed at it from afar, full of envy. Now, reaching its gate, he called out in a clear voice, “Registered disciple Wang Lin requests audience with Elder Sun.”

A white-robed youth sauntered out from the Main Court, gave Wang Lin a once-over, and said with lofty disdain, “So you’re Wang Lin?”

Seeing the white robe, Wang Lin straightened. He had learned the color code: among registered disciples, gray and yellow—yellow meant one had been permitted to learn an art. Among inner disciples, colors marked strength from high to low: purple, black, white, red.

The white-robed youth curled his lip, turned on his heel, and led the way in. Wang Lin followed without expression.

They did not go far before stopping by a little garden thick with flowers and herbs. The youth called lazily, “Uncle-Master Sun, a registered disciple to see you,” and then stood aside.

“Go,” came an old man’s voice from a room at the garden’s edge. “Let the registered disciple enter.”

The youth chuckled and withdrew.

Wang Lin, nerves tight, pushed open the gate. The moment he stepped through, a rich medicinal fragrance washed over him. He blinked, glanced back at the door, and wondered: a single threshold, yet not a whiff had reached the outside.

“What are you standing there for? Speak your name!” The displeased voice came from the room in the corner.

Wang Lin bowed. “Disciple Wang Lin, paying respects to Elder Sun. My father’s birthday is tomorrow. I wish to go home.”

“So you’re Wang Lin. Hmph. Those who cultivate must sever the dust of the mortal world. With your clinging heart, you’ll never set foot on the Immortal Gate!” the elder scolded.

Wang Lin frowned despite himself. “Disciple has not learned a single immortal art. How am I a cultivator?”

Silence. Then, impatience. “Three days. Go and return quickly. This is a Thousand-Li Talisman—usable twice. Paste it to your leg and your speed will increase.” A plain sheet of yellow talisman paper drifted from the window and came to rest at Wang Lin’s feet.

He picked it up and tucked it away with care. From Zhang Hu he knew that any registered disciple visiting home would be given such a talisman. The sect’s aim was simple: through these visits, show off a touch of immortal craft and draw more children to testing.

In truth the talisman was paltry stuff, its only virtue simplicity: paste it on the leg and it worked. For mortals, it meant more speed.

Even so, many inner disciples liked to collect them; they could be traded for odds and ends at markets outside. To registered disciples they were prizes—some hoarded them, pleading “family visits” again and again.

Leaving the Main Court, Wang Lin returned to his quarters, packed, said his goodbyes to Zhang Hu, and went down the mountain.

The stars were already bright. He had meant to leave at dawn, but he was unsure how fast the talisman would make him and feared missing his father’s birthday, so he chose to travel through the night.

Not long after he left, Elder Sun slid open his door to gather a few sprigs of herb—then stopped short, frowning toward the garden gate. The clump of blue-thread grass growing there had withered to a stalk, every last blade.