The CopyCat Immortal

Chapter 7 A Glitch in the Sect

Xiang Wu stepped out of the training pit. He wasn't looking at Kai, who was nursing a broken arm. He was looking at Ren. His eyes were like two daggers, cold and analytical. 

"Hey," Xiang Wu called out, his voice a low vibration that carried an undeniable authority. "You. Laborer."

Ren didn't look up. He kept scrubbing. "Just clearing the spill, Senior. Don't mind me. I’m almost done."

Xiang Wu crossed the courtyard in three long strides. The air around him felt heavy, a deliberate exertion of spiritual pressure intended to make Ren buckle. He stopped two feet away. Ren felt the heat coming off the senior’s skin—a residue of the Vortex Crash.

"I asked you a question," Xiang Wu said, his tone dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I’ve seen a lot of fast things in this sect, but I’ve never seen a water-carrier slide across tiles like a goddamn ghost. Where did you learn that movement?"

"Slide, Senior?" Ren laughed nervously, finally looking up. He made sure to look frantic, sweating—most of it real from the adrenaline. "I slipped! Did you see these sandals? No traction. I was reaching for my brush and tripped. Honestly, I thought I was dead when that ball flew past."

Ren pointed at his scorched sleeve. "It even singed my robe. This is coming out of my month’s ration, for sure. A real shame."

"You tripped?" Xiang Wu repeated, his lip curling in disbelief. "You tripped across twenty yards of open courtyard in under a second and deflected three hundred pounds of iron with your bare arm?"

"Pure panic, Senior Wu," Ren lied, his eyes widening with feigned awe. "Adrenaline is a crazy thing, isn't it? My old man once said he saw a grandma lift a cow once when her shed caught fire. I guess I’m just a guy who really doesn't want to get hit by a flail."

One of Xiang Wu’s followers, a lean guy named Chen, stepped up. "He’s right, Wu. Look at him. He’s trembling like a leaf. There isn't an ounce of Qi in his veins. He's just... abnormally lucky."

Xiang Wu didn't look away. He leaned down, getting uncomfortably close to Ren’s face. He sniffed the air. 

Shit, Ren thought. The smell of ionized air. The sulfur from the Static.

"Lucky," Xiang Wu muttered. He reached out and grabbed Ren’s forearm—the one that had deflected the flail.

Ren kept his muscles slack, letting the arm feel thin and weak under the Senior’s massive hand. 

Xiang Wu’s grip tightened. Ren felt the bone moan, but he didn't manifest the Earth Shield. He allowed himself to wince in pain. He forced a small tear to well up in the corner of his eye.

"Ow, ow! Senior, please! I still have to finish the West Hall before the moon rise!"

Xiang Wu let go, looking genuinely annoyed. He stared at his own palm, as if expecting to see a residue of some hidden power. There was nothing. Just the damp smell of dish-soap and the grime of a man who worked in the dirt.

"Go back to your scrubbing, trash," Xiang Wu spat, turning his back. "But stay out of the training pits. If you ‘slip’ again while I’m practicing, I might not let you trip out of the way so easily."

Ren bowed repeatedly, the image of a grovelling worm. "Thank you, Senior Wu! Truly a merciful gentleman! So generous! My bad, completely my bad!"

Ren watched the group walk away, laughing about the "cow-lifting laborer." He picked up his brush, his fingers steady now. His forearm was throbbing with a deep, bruised ache, but he didn't care.

He had learned something invaluable today. 

Xiang Wu’s Vortex Crash was flawed. In the moment of deflection, Ren had felt the "hollow point" in the technique—a millisecond of instability where the Wind Qi didn't fully bind to the Iron weight. If he ever had to fight Xiang Wu, he knew exactly where to strike.

"Close call," a quiet voice said.

Ren’s heart nearly leaped out of his throat. He turned to see Elder Zhou standing on the shadow-line of a pagoda. The old man was holding a simple wooden cup, watching the courtyard with that same terrifyingly sharp, mercury-gaze.

"Elder," Ren stammered. "I didn't see you there."

"Evidently," Zhou said, taking a sip from his cup. "Panic is a curious catalyst, isn't it, Ren? To slide across the floor without spilling your bucket. Most disciples can’t manage that after ten years of balance-training."

Ren stayed silent. The "I slipped" excuse wouldn't work on Zhou. Zhou had probably seen the Azure Static spark for the micro-second it existed. 

"The boy was lucky he didn't die," Zhou continued, stepping out into the light. He looked at Ren’s burned sleeve. "And you are lucky that Xiang Wu is too arrogant to believe a cockroach can hide dragon’s blood."

"I don't have blood, Elder. Only water and bad debt," Ren whispered.

Zhou hummed a low, thoughtfully dissonant note. "Maybe. But keep this in mind, Ren. An accidental savior still gets recognized. And in a sect full of wolves, being noticed is the first step toward the slaughterhouse."

The Elder walked away without another word, his grey robes blending into the shadows.

Ren stood there for a long time, the scrub-brush forgotten. The courtyard was empty now, the wind whistling through the cracks in the obsidian pillar. He felt a chill that settled deep in his marrow.

Elder Zhou didn't report him. But he was watching. 

Xiang Wu was suspicious. 

His "quiet life" as a servant was effectively over. He was no longer a shadow; he was a glitch in the sect’s reality. 

Ren picked up his bucket, emptying the dirty water into a drain. He looked at his hand—it was red, shaking slightly from the stress. 

"recognized or not," Ren muttered, a sharp, cold fire lighting up his eyes. "I’m not stopping."

He had already seen Xiang Wu’s masterpiece. Now, he wanted to see what other "geniuses" had to offer. Every technique thrown his way, every attempt to crush him—it was just another piece of the god-tier armor he was weaving out of his own suffering.

He walked away from the West Pagoda, his steps light and silent, already planning his next "accidental" brush with death. The Azure Cloud Sect was full of beautiful, lethal arts. And Ren intended to take them all.

By any means necessary.