The Young Taoist of Pure Yang

Leaving the Scripture Repository where he had spent thirteen years of his life, Wang Li was deeply troubled.

Especially now, with his circumstances far from favorable, he found himself longing for those monotonous days spent in the company of books. As he looked around, he found himself in a subterranean workshop, its walls lined with countless restrictive formations. Dust covered the scattered objects, and at a glance, it was clear this ruin had been abandoned for untold years, desolate and eerie.

Wang Li could not fathom why the Pure Yang Temple, respected as the upright leader of the cultivation world, would possess such a place that made anyone entering feel distinctly uneasy.

As a disciple of Pure Yang Temple, he had always regarded it as an ethereal, dignified institution, one that would never imprison someone without cause. Yet, for the first time, sixteen-year-old Wang Li began to harbor doubts about the temple’s nature.

He had been confined here for seven or eight days already. In that time, aside from Granny Zheng bringing him food a few times, no one else had shown any concern. He felt as if he had been forgotten, just like the fallen leaves he used to sweep into the trash, their fates no longer anyone’s concern.

The reason for his imprisonment was absurd. Liu Wanjin, the menial officer who locked him up, had said: “Seizing a body for rebirth is a means of survival, but to take another’s flesh without permission is indefensible.”

“We cannot yet confirm your identity, so we cannot deal with you directly. But the Headmaster wi