Eerie Immortal Cultivation: I Became the Yellow-Clad Taoist Master
In his first year of cultivating immortality, Chen Huangpi’s body became as tough as bronze and iron, impervious to water and fire. With every gesture, billowing black smoke would swirl about him. His master told him this was spiritual energy. In his second year, Chen Huangpi was tormented by unbearable itching as a hundred sinister eyes burst forth from his flesh, brazenly radiating malevolence. His master called this a supernatural power. A hundred years later, Chen Huangpi stood with eighteen feet rooted in the shadowy earth and nine heads piercing the clouds, his gaping maws uttering obscure and wicked melodies. He styled himself the Dao Lord of Huangpi. When Chen Huangpi looked up, he saw his master seated solemnly in the Ninth Heaven, his entire form a deep blue-black, with countless deities and buddhas writhing and wailing in agony within his shadow. “Master,” Chen Huangpi asked, “are we truly cultivating the path to immortality?”
Eerie Immortal Cultivation: I Became the Yellow-Clad Taoist Master
Ten Thousand Great Mountains, towering and perilous.
On the Jade Qiong Mountain, within the Pure Immortal Temple.
The main hall rose ten meters high.
Three portraits of Daoist priests adorned the yellow-mud plastered walls.
With his back to the portraits, Chen Huangpi held the Medicine Classic, lost deep in thought.
Recently, his master had become deranged from his training.
He insisted that he actually had three masters.
The eldest master wore a purple robe, the second a white robe, and the third a blue robe.
He even removed the original deities from the shrine, replacing them with his own three portraits.
He claimed that the Pure Immortal Temple didn’t support idlers, let alone idle gods.
Since they all ate for nothing, he said, better to worship himself.
Chen Huangpi found this quite reasonable, and considered that when his master passed away, he’d replace the portraits with his own.
Suddenly, Chen Huangpi set the Medicine Classic aside.
“Master is coming.”
No sooner had he spoken than an elderly Daoist with white hair, dressed in a purple robe trimmed with black and embroidered with red plum blossoms, rushed in, shouting all the while.
“Huangpi, Huangpi!”
“Mas—Eldest Master, what’s wrong?”
Chen Huangpi had instinctively wanted to call him “Master,” but upon seeing the color of his robe, quickly corrected himself.
His master was as stubborn as a mule.
If he claimed there were three masters, one must not confuse their ranks or titles.
Otherwise, he wo
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