### Chapter 42: Where Is Lin Yi?
Mu Rongfeng and the hunchbacked man fell silent, shock rippling through them. Lin Yi's rapid rise defied all logic—how could a Five Spiritual Roots cultivator leap so far, so fast?
Then panic jolted Mu Rongfeng. "He heard us! What if he tells the sect? Our plans—"
Lord Luo waved a dismissive hand. "Relax. He took my Netherworld Twelve Needles. He'll be dead within an hour. By the time he staggers back, he'll be too delirious to speak. No one will ever know." His voice dripped with certainty—those needles were his deadliest tool, refined over decades to kill even Foundation Establishment cultivators.
Mu Rongfeng exhaled, relief washing over him.
"Now go," Lord Luo said, his tone hardening. "Win that tournament. With Lin Yi gone, no one stands in your way."
"I won't fail you, my lord," Mu Rongfeng vowed, bowing deeply.
…
*Cough!*
Lin Yi stumbled, spitting up another mouthful of blood. His face was ashen, his steps unsteady as he lurched toward his cottage. The Netherworld Twelve Needles had burrowed into his back, their poison spreading like wildfire—his skin had turned black around the wounds, a sickening contrast to his pale flesh.
If not for the *Five Spirits Body Tempering Technique*—if he hadn't already mastered the first two transformations, hardening his skin and muscles—his entire body would've rotted from the inside out. Even so, agony lanced through him, as if his spine was being slowly crushed.
Pan Yu, meditating outside, shot to his feet. Horror etched his face as he raced to catch Lin Yi, who collapsed into his arms. "Senior Brother! What happened? Who did this to you?!"
Lin Yi's voice was a ragged whisper. "Inside… get me inside." His strength evaporated, leaving him limp as a rag doll.
Pan Yu's hands shook. Tears blurred his vision, making him feel like a lost child. He half-carried, half-dragged Lin Yi into the cottage, his heart hammering.
"Help me sit… on the bed," Lin Yi gasped, his breath coming in wheezes. His skin had taken on a grayish tinge, the stench of rot clinging to him.
Pan Yu propped him up, his hands trembling so badly he nearly dropped Lin Yi.
"Go," Lin Yi ordered, his voice sharp despite his weakness. "No one comes in. Not until I say so."
"Senior Brother, I—" Pan Yu choked, tears spilling over. Since joining the sect, no one had ever treated him with kindness like Lin Yi. The thought of losing him shattered something in him.
"*Go!*" Lin Yi snapped, then dissolved into a coughing fit, spattering the sheets with blood. "I need to… purge the poison."
Pan Yu fled, slamming the door shut. He sank to the ground outside, hugging his knees, and sobbed.修炼, duty, pride—none of it mattered now. All he could think of was Lin Yi, dying alone inside.
…
Inside the cottage, Lin Yi mustered his last ounce of strength. With a shaky hand, he dipped his finger in his own blood and scrawled on the bedsheets—crooked, gory characters that burned with urgency:
*"Mu Rongfeng is a spy! Kill him!"*
He didn't tell Pan Yu. The force behind Mu Rongfeng was too powerful; dragging Pan Yu into this would be a death sentence. This message was a last resort—if he didn't survive, at least the sect's elders might find it, might start asking questions.
Then he closed his eyes, summoning the *Five Spirits Body Tempering Nine Transformations*. He cycled through its incantations, from the first transformation (toughening skin) to the third (fortifying meridians). Desperation fueled him—this technique was his only hope.
But he didn't stop there. He siphoned a wisp of spiritual energy from the *Eternal Life Art*, guiding it toward the poison in his back. Two forces—one from body tempering, raw and primal; the other from cultivation, refined and steady—collided in his meridians.
Something strange happened.
Instead of clashing, they *merged*. A new energy sparked to life, neither brute nor refined, but a volatile, potent mix. It seared through his veins, burning away the Netherworld poison as it went.
Lin Yi gasped. This was unplanned, unprecedented—a twist of fate. *"Misfortune may breed fortune,"* he thought, recalling an old saying. In his darkest hour, he'd stumbled onto something extraordinary.
…
Five days later.
The outer sect tournament had whittled its competitors down to eight. With Lin Yi and Mu Rongfeng, that made ten—enough for the finals.
The western clearing teemed with disciples. Nine finalists stood at the center, their faces alight with anticipation—all except Mu Rongfeng, who stood calm as stone. Even inner sect disciples lingered to watch; the outer sect finals, at last, promised a scrap worth seeing.
"Where the hell is that brat Lin Yi?" Steward Zhang muttered, craning his neck toward the mountain path. His foot tapped焦躁ly.
Elder Guan scowled. "Steward Zhang, how long must we wait? The disciples are ready."
"Just a little longer, Elder!" Zhang pleaded, waving over another outer disciple. "Find Lin Yi! Drag him here if you have to!" He'd already sent one messenger—now he cursed the fool for failing.
"A Fourth Level outer disciple, making an entire sect wait?" Elder Huo sneered. "He's got quite the ego."
Steward Zhang and Steward Qiao bit their tongues, silently cursing Lin Yi. *Hurry, you idiot.*
Then a voice cut through the crowd: "Where's Lin Yi?"
Murmurs erupted.
"Scared to fight Senior Brother Mu, that's why!" Yan Song jeered, loud enough for all to hear. He'd been waiting for this—Lin Yi's fall from grace.
"Even if he loses, he'd still make inner sect!" a voice countered. "Why skip it?"
"Coward! Too afraid to face Mu Rongfeng!"
"Typical Five Roots trash—all talk, no backbone!"
Mu Rongfeng's lips twitched. He'd had men watch Lin Yi's cottage for days. The door never opened. Pan Yu had sat outside, weeping like a lost soul. Lin Yi was dead—of that, he was certain.
"Enough waiting," Elder Guan snapped. "Start the draws."
"But—" Steward Zhang began.
"But nothing," Elder Huo cut in. "Do you expect us to linger until sunset? What if he's fled?"
Elder Guan nodded. "Steward Zhang, proceed. Ten tokens. If the last one is marked 'One,' we'll assume he's forfeited. Let chance decide."
The box held ten tokens, numbered one to five (each number paired for matches). With a heavy heart, Steward Zhang gestured for the disciples to step forward. He prayed Lin Yi would burst through the crowd, laughing off the delay.
But deep down, he feared the worst.