The CopyCat Immortal

Chapter 2 Traces of Death and Resurrection

The heavy wooden buckets slapped rhythmically against Ren’s bruised thighs, each step up the "Ladder of a Thousand Sighs" a agonizing reminder that he was very much alive. 

To the rest of the Azure Cloud Sect, Ren was a ghost—a discarded relic of a failed recruitment class. To himself, he was an architect, and he was currently sketching the blueprint of his own survival using the ink of his own blood.

The morning mist clung to the jagged peaks like damp wool, obscuring the path toward the outer peaks' waste disposal area. Most disciples avoided the "Grave of Mannequins." It was a valley of rusted automatons, cracked training dummies, and broken weapon arrays. For Ren, it was a sanctuary. It was the only place where he could "die" in peace without an audience.

Ren set the water buckets down with a sharp exhale, his ribs flaring with the remnants of the Inferno Burst trauma. He touched his chest. The skin felt leathery. Underneath, a dull, pulsing heat hummed within his meridians—the stolen fire, caged and waiting.

"You really should have killed me, Li," Ren whispered, his eyes narrowing at a particularly battered metal mannequin ten yards away. "Because 'luck' only happens once. Everything else is a choice."

He looked at the metal mannequin. It was a Spirit-Pulse Guard, designed to test a disciple's agility by firing rudimentary Wind Blades. Usually, disciples wore protective talismans during these sessions. Ren had nothing but a tattered servant’s robe and a desperate curiosity.

The mannequin hissed, its gears grinding. Its glass eyes flickered with a dim, rhythmic green light. 

If I can copy a fireball, Ren mused, can I copy a blade?

His pragmatic mind began calculating the cost. Inferno Burst had nearly erased his soul because the energy was too vast for his damaged spirit roots. A Wind Blade was lower on the tier list—Foundation Stage, Level 1. It was meant to sting, not incinerate. But for a boy with a "ruined" core, a sting could still be lethal.

He took a deep breath, stepping into the activation radius.

"Come on, you piece of junk," Ren muttered. "Show me what it's like to be the wind."

Click. Whirr.

A crescent of condensed air, barely visible except for the distortion in the mist, screamed toward his shoulder. Ren didn't move. He forced his body to remain rigid, resisting the primitive urge to duck.

Slice.

The air-blade ripped through the linen of his sleeve, carving a jagged red line across his deltoid. Ren hissed, the pain cold and sharp, a stark contrast to the boiling agony of Li’s fire. 

"Not enough," he croaked, sweat dripping into his eyes. "That wouldn't kill a mosquito. Harder. Hit me harder!"

He threw himself closer, intentionally tripping a sensor plate on the mannequin’s rusted base. The automaton responded with a mechanical shudder. Its core began to hum at a higher pitch. 

Suddenly, the air around Ren began to oscillate. Two... three... four Wind Blades materialized simultaneously. They were jagged, unrefined, and traveling at twice the previous speed.

Ren watched them with an eerie calmness. Most would see death; Ren saw data. He saw the way the mannequin compressed its internal Qi, the specific spiral pattern of the wind's rotation, and the "vibration frequency" that allowed air to behave like steel. 

The blades hit him in a brutal succession. 

One carved across his thigh. Another slashed his abdomen. The third took him squarely in the chest, the impact throwing him backward. His vision blurred instantly. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. 

Ah... there it is.

The sensation of the world pulling away. The "void" between heartbeats where his life force flickered like a candle in a hurricane. 

Then, the Grafting began.

Deep within his meridians, the "waste" and "ruined paths" he had been born with began to act as sponges. They didn't repel the hostile energy. They absorbed it. The Wind Blade’s specific Qi signature was imprinted into his cellular memory. 

Ren lay in the dirt for an hour, his breathing so shallow that the scavenger crows perched on the nearby dummies began to eye him with hungry intent. To an outsider, he was just another dead laborer. But inside his mind, a hurricane was being tamed.

Analysis complete, his instincts seemed to whisper. Wind Blade – Tier 1 – Synced.

Ren’s fingers twitched. He rolled onto his side, coughing up a dark glob of clotted blood. The pain was receding, replaced by a refreshing coolness that began to circulate alongside the latent heat of the Inferno Burst. 

He sat up, leaning against the mannequin he had just used as an executioner. He looked at the deep gash on his arm. It was already beginning to close. The blood wasn't clotting normally; it was being consumed to facilitate the spiritual mend.

"Man," Ren groaned, wiping his face with his sleeve. "I really need a better hobby. This ‘nearly dying’ thing is getting expensive on the robes."

He stood up, his legs shaking, and looked at the mannequin. He raised two fingers, mimicking the posture the automaton had taken before firing. He didn't focus on his breath—his breath was weak. Instead, he focused on the wound on his chest, pulling from the memory of how the wind had cut him.

Fwoo.

A small, sharp arc of translucent green energy flickered into existence for a split second before dissipating into a soft breeze. 

Ren stared at his hand. He hadn't succeeded in firing a full blade, but the seed was planted. The technique wasn't just stored in his head like a textbook; it was etched into his marrow. He didn't need to chant or refine Qi. He just needed to... remember.

"So that’s how it works," Ren muttered, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face. "If I want the weapon, I have to be the target first."

He looked toward the horizon, where the magnificent pagodas of the Inner Sect pierced the clouds. That was where the real monsters lived. Murid-murid like Xiang Wu or the "heavenly" Hua Ran. They had Tier 4, Tier 5, and maybe even Earth-shaking forbidden techniques.

His pragmatic mind went to work. If he kept doing this, his body would eventually give out. He needed a way to heal faster. He needed defense. He needed a library of suffering.

Suddenly, a twig snapped in the forest behind him.

Ren’s survival instincts—sharpened by a lifetime of bullying and two recent encounters with the Reaper—screamed. He didn't turn around immediately. He kept his back to the intruder, his hand discreetly hovering over the water yoke.

"Practicing your 'swing' are you, Ren? Or just seeing how many more scars you can add before the winter?"

The voice was low, resonant, and possessed an underlying weight that suggested it didn't belong to a common disciple. Ren turned slowly. 

Standing beneath the shade of a ginkgo tree was an old man dressed in the grey robes of a Low-tier Administrator. His back was slightly hunched, and a long, scraggly beard fell halfway to his chest. He looked unremarkable, like a faded piece of parchment, but his eyes... they were like two drops of mercury, liquid and impossibly sharp.

Elder Zhou.

"Elder," Ren said, dropping his head in a respectful, if slightly clumsy, bow. "Just cleaning up. This mannequin was acting up. Thought I’d make sure it didn't hit any of the junior disciples coming up for wood-hauling."

Zhou didn't move. He looked at the water buckets, then at the mannequin, and finally at the blood staining the dirt where Ren had fallen.

"Quite a mess for 'cleaning up,'" Zhou observed, his voice devoid of judgment. "And those wounds... they don't look like they were caused by accidents. They look like choices."

Ren felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. He kept his expression dull, the 'useless laborer' mask firmly in place. "The Elder’s eyes are keen. I’m a slow learner. Sometimes the dummy is a better teacher than the manual."

Zhou walked closer, his steps making no sound on the dry leaves. He stopped just inches from Ren, and for a moment, the world felt very small. 

"I remember when you joined five years ago," Zhou said softly. "meridians like blocked pipes. No talent for cultivation. You were destined for the kitchens or the waste pits. But the air around you just now... it tasted like salt and iron."

Ren remained silent. He could feel the Wind Blade essence vibrating in his shoulder, almost like it wanted to answer the Elder’s scrutiny. He suppressed it with everything he had. 

"The sect is a cruel place for those without wings, boy," Zhou continued. "But do you know what stays grounded while everything else is blown away? The mountain."

The Elder reached out and patted Ren on the shoulder. It was a brief touch, but Ren felt a strange warmth—a medicinal Qi that momentarily numbed the pain in his slashes.

"Don't get too used to dying, Ren. Even a man with ten lives eventually reaches his eleventh hour. Keep your buckets full."

Without waiting for a reply, Elder Zhou turned and vanished into the mist, moving with a speed that defied his frail appearance. 

Ren waited until the Elder’s presence had completely faded before he let out the breath he’d been holding. His hands were trembling. He had been seen. Maybe not all of his secrets were out, but the "invisible ant" now had a spotlight on him. 

"Damn," Ren whispered, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Talk about bad timing."

But then, he looked back at the mannequin. The green light in its eyes had dimmed. He realized he wasn't just scared of Elder Zhou’s observation. He was excited. If someone that powerful noticed a change, then it meant he was no longer invisible. He was a variable.

He picked up his yokes. His body felt lighter than it ever had, despite the injuries. 

Inferno in his veins. Wind in his thoughts. 

Ren looked up at the towering mountains once more. His eyes didn't look for mercy; they looked for technicality. 

"One technique is a fluke," he told himself, setting his feet back on the "Ladder of a Thousand Sighs." "Two is a pattern. Three is the start of an army."

He began his descent, a water carrier in rags with a treasure trove of death hidden beneath his scars. He had learned his second lesson today: If he wanted to live, he had to perfect the art of dying.

Step by step, the boy who should have stayed ash climbed toward his next catastrophe. He knew the bullies would be waiting for him near the servant quarters. He knew Xiang Wu and Senior Li were looming like storm clouds.

But Ren was no longer afraid of the storm. He was hungry for it. After all, if the thunder hit him and he didn't die... then the lightning belonged to him.