Renegade Immortal (仙逆) tells a brutal truth: even a thousand-year cultivation genius can end up as a broken slave. Sun Tai’s (孙泰) life is no fairy tale. He rose fast, ruled with fear, then fell into a nightmare that lasted a century. This article explores his three acts—glory, humiliation, and a quiet, late redemption. No grand speeches. Just the raw arc of a man who once crushed ants like Wang Lin, only to become worse than an ant himself.
The Prodigy’s Throne
Young Sun Tai looked dangerous. His eyes held nothing but ambition. And why not? He reached Ying Bian (婴变)—a stage that takes most cultivators thousands of years—in just one millennium. That kind of talent caught the attention of the Shiyin (尸阴) Sect. They made him their grand elder. But the seat was not a gift. Sun Tai clawed his way up, stepping over corpses. His specialty? Crafting Shi Kui (尸傀), flesh puppets that fought for him. He was cold, efficient, and utterly ruthless.
In those days, killing Wang Lin would have been like flicking a bug. Wang Lin (王林) was nobody. Sun Tai was the nightmare that lower cultivators whispered about. He never expected a fly to bite back. But fate had other plans. A man named Zhou Yi (周佚) forcibly bound Sun Tai to Wang Lin’s service. Imagine a lion suddenly leashed to a housecat. That moment cracked open the door to Sun Tai’s hell.
His luck didn’t just turn; it shattered. The giant demon race’s elder teleported him to the Luotian (罗天) Star Domain. From there, Sun Tai was passed around like damaged goods until he landed on Donglin (东临) Star. That place was no star—it was a living purgatory. And Sun Tai would spend the next hundred years inside it, not as a master, but as a house slave.
The Century That Broke Him
Donglin Star broke what Shiyin Sect built. Sun Tai lost his cultivation heart there. For a cultivator, that’s worse than losing limbs. It’s losing the will to even breathe. He couldn’t fight back. His captors were too strong. So he did the only thing left: he obeyed. For one hundred years, he scrubbed floors, took orders, and swallowed every insult. The man who once ruled a sect learned what it felt like to be spat on.
Most people mistake suffering for a test. It’s not. Suffering is a slow acid. It eats your pride, then your hope, then your very idea of who you are. Sun Tai became a shell. He stopped dreaming of escape. He stopped believing he deserved anything better. When he finally left Donglin Star, he wasn’t the same person. He was timid, fearful, and desperate for any scrap of security. That’s how he ended up as a mere shopkeeper on Ran Yun (冉云) Star—a position he barely qualified for because he had no spine left.
Then came Wang Ping. The boy was simple, direct, and annoyingly kind. Wang Ping asked Sun Tai to stay in a village. Sun Tai couldn’t believe his ears. Stay? With people who wanted nothing from him? His first instinct was fear. He thought it was a trap. That’s what a century of slavery does—it makes you see kindness as a weapon. But Wang Ping didn’t scheme. He was just a child with an open heart. And that tiny, pure warmth began to thaw something in Sun Tai.
The Dust Returns to Dust
Sun Tai’s last ten years were quiet. He gained an adopted grandson—Wang Ping. No battles. no politics. No fear. Just a small village, a boy who called him “grandpa,” and meals that tasted like something other than ash. For a man who had lost everything, this simple life was wealth beyond measure. But here’s the cruel twist: you can only taste real sweetness after swallowing the bitterest poison. Sun Tai’s poison was Donglin Star. His sweetness was Wang Ping.
On his deathbed, he finally saw it. He could have chosen differently. He could have refused Shiyin Sect. He could have fled instead of fought. He could have been kind. But he didn’t. And that, he realized, was not bad luck. It was cause and effect—Yin Guo (因果), as Wang Lin would say. Every cruel choice he made echoed back to him. Every corpse he stepped on became a stone in his own prison. Regret? Yes. But also release. Because in that final moment, Sun Tai let go of it all.
Wealth. Fame. Hatred. Love. Even his own name. All of it dissolves when you touch death. Sun Tai’s body returned to the earth. His spirit scattered into the wind. The universe doesn’t remember prodigies or slaves. It only knows the cycle: dust to dust. And maybe, just maybe, that’s not a tragedy. It’s the only fairness that exists. Sun Tai lived, broke, and found a small peace. What more can any of us ask for?