The CopyCat Immortal

Chapter 9 The Limit of a Broken Vessel

His spirit roots—those fragile, cracked pathways that the Elders called "trash"—were glowing a sickly, pulsating translucent light. They were swelling.

They're going to snap, Ren realized, his breath coming in shallow stabs. I’m building a fortress on top of a swamp. If I add one more stone, the whole thing sinks.

"Getting greedy, boy?"

The voice came from the rafters. Ren didn't need to look up. He knew that mercury-gaze. He knew that calm, terrifying resonance. 

Elder Zhou dropped from the darkness, his landing as soft as a falling leaf. He stood before Ren, his expression unreadable, illuminated by the dim light of the dying mirror.

"This area is forbidden for disciples of your... standing," Zhou noted, his eyes scanning the cracked mirror and then the blood dripping from Ren’s eye.

"I got lost," Ren lied, though it felt pathetic. "I saw a pretty light. Thought it was a firefly."

"A firefly that broke a Tier 2 obsidian array," Zhou said, walking a slow circle around Ren. "A firefly that has stained your soul with the color of ghosts."

Ren tried to sit up, but the world tilted forty-five degrees to the left. He gripped the floorboards until his fingernails cracked. "Whatever it is... I didn't steal it. It just... stuck."

Zhou leaned down, his mercury-colored eyes boring into Ren’s skull. For a second, Ren felt the Elder's own spiritual sense probing him—not with the clumsy aggression of Xiang Wu, but with the delicate precision of a surgeon.

Ren immediately locked his meridians. He buried the Inferno Burst beneath the Earth Shield. He masked the Azure Static with the Wind Blade. But the Whispering Soul Illusion was still too new. It flared, throwing a momentary purple glint across his irises.

Zhou stopped his probe. He stepped back, a strange, grim look of realization on his weathered face. 

"You aren't just a laborer who slips on wet floors, are you, Ren?" Zhou whispered. "You aren't a lucky cockroach. You’re a parasite."

"A man has to eat, Elder," Ren spat, the violet energy giving his voice an eerie, doubled tone. 

"There is a difference between eating and devouring until you explode," Zhou said, his voice dropping an octave. "Look at your spirit roots. You are at sixty-percent saturation. In three more cycles, those roots won't be able to channel a single drop of Qi without turning into glass and shattering. You’ll be a vegetable, trapped in a body that won't die because of the techniques you’ve stolen."

Ren felt a cold shiver of terror. He hadn't known about the limit. His pragmatic mind hadn't factored in the storage capacity of a ruined container.

"How... how do I fix it?" Ren asked, dropping the mask. 

"You don't fix it. You temper it." Zhou reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small, unassuming bronze ring. He tossed it to Ren. "That is a Core-Damper. It won't help you cultivation-wise, but it will keep the 'signatures' you’ve absorbed from vibrating against each other. It buys you time."

Ren caught the ring. It felt like ice against his skin. "Why help me? Why not just execute me for breaking into the Gallery?"

"Because," Zhou said, his gaze shifting toward the high spires of the Inner Sect where the 'geniuses' slept. "The Azure Cloud Sect has grown fat on stagnant blood. They prize pedigree over grit. They believe talent is something you are born with, not something you bleed for. I want to see what a peasant who steals the sun actually looks like when the dawn breaks."

Zhou turned his back. "Get out of here. If you're still here when the guard shifts, I’ll be the one to sign your death warrant. And stay away from spiritual techniques for at least two weeks. Your mind is currently a frayed rope holding back a flood."

Ren stood up, using the obsidian pillar for support. He slipped the bronze ring onto his finger and felt an immediate, merciful quietness descend on his meridians. The war inside went cold, dormant.

"Elder," Ren called out as Zhou began to fade into the shadows. "Thank you."

Zhou didn't look back. "Don't thank me, boy. A man like you doesn't have friends. You only have witnesses. And soon, everyone in this sect is going to witness the catastrophe you're becoming."

Ren made his way back to the servant’s quarters under the cover of the morning’s first blue light. He walked past the water yokes, past the scrub brushes, past the buckets. They looked like props now. They looked like an old costume he had outgrown.

He sat on his cot and looked at his hands. He willed a tiny illusion into existence. In the palm of his hand, he saw a vision of his mother. She didn't look hateful. She just looked... peaceful.

Ren crushed the image. 

"No more distractions," he muttered, his jaw set in stone.

He knew he was dying. Every technique was a nail in his coffin, yet the coffin was getting so heavy that no one could lift it. 

I need more, he thought, even as he coughed up a fleck of blood. The Tournament is in three weeks. Xiang Wu wants my head. Senior Li wants my ash. The Elders want my secrets.

He lay back, his eyes fixed on the rotting wood of the ceiling. 

"Bring it on," he whispered to the silence.

His Secret Training was no longer about practice. It was about packing enough ammunition into a broken cannon to ensure that when it finally exploded, it would take the entire mountain with it. 

Deepening his training wasn't a choice; it was an ultimatum. And Ren had always been very good at having the last word. 

He closed his eyes, falling into a dreamless sleep, the bronze ring humming a cold, warning song against his skin. Tomorrow, there would be more buckets to carry. Tomorrow, there would be more smiles to fake. 

But tonight, the Copycat was satisfied. 

The Azure Cloud Sect didn't know it yet, but their most forbidden arts were no longer their own. They belonged to the trash. They belonged to the boy who didn't know how to stay dead.

And trash, as Ren knew, was very hard to get rid of once it started a fire.