Chapter 25 — The Unexpected

He reached into his robe and found the cold black iron rod. A month ago, when no one knew and no one would have noticed, Zhang Qingyue had been astonished to discover that he could, if only barely, command this black iron rod. At that moment he could scarcely believe his own eyes. Yet after countless repetitions late at night when all was still, as he drove it with his mind-force, the rod did indeed move.

"Driving Objects"—that was a phrase that rang through the Canglan Sect's arts of cultivation like thunder, the mark of having trained the Taiji Xuanqing Dao to the fourth stage of the Yuqing Realm. It was what every new disciple repeated deep in his heart through countless years of training, hoping, striving—and Zhang Qingyue had not even dared to think of reaching it except in dreams, dreams in which he won a little face before his master, in which he made his master smile.

But was it possible?

Zhang Qingyue suppressed it with all his might and said nothing of it to anyone. Yet when he tried to drive other things with his mind-force—the pots and pans in the kitchen, and the like—there was no response at all, and that sapped his confidence. He puzzled over it and could not understand: how had such a strange thing come about?

Late at night, waking from dreams, he would sit up and stare at this uncanny black iron rod that seemed fated to be entangled with him, and he could feel that thread of coldness wandering slowly through his body.

"Clang!" The clear note of the bell rang out, startling Zhang Qingyue and waking him from his thoughts. He turned: below the platform were still those dozen or so Chaoyang Peak disciples, the white-bearded old man still sitting there half asleep—but on the platform opposite him, at some unknown moment, a man of about thirty had appeared, smiling at him.

Zhang Qingyue flushed, made haste to bow, and said: "Zhang Qingyue, disciple of Dazhu Peak. I ask Senior Brother Chu for instruction."

Chu Yuhong smiled. "Not at all, not at all. Every age brings forth its own talents. Young as you are, Junior Brother Zhang, with the great contest before you, you stand on this platform perfectly composed, without the least sign of anxiety, without a trace of fear—far better than I managed in my day. I salute you."

Zhang Qingyue was dumbfounded a moment, then stammered: "To be honest with you, Senior Brother, I was actually woolgathering just now."

An uproar went up from below the platform; the dozen Chaoyang Peak disciples all but doubled over with laughter, and Chu Yuhong was taken aback too, and in the end could not help laughing aloud; then, thinking better of it, he forced it down: "Junior Brother Zhang jests. Er—the hour has come; I shall now seek instruction from you."

Zhang Qingyue's heart jumped; nervousness gripped him, and he said slowly: "I beg Senior Brother Chu to be merciful."

Chu Yuhong smiled and did not answer; from his look he seemed confident of himself. His right hand shook, and with a clang an immortal sword rose up, wreathed in pale yellow light.

"The sword is called Shaoyang. Junior Brother Zhang, please."

Zhang Qingyue glanced at the Shaoyang sword: its yellow radiance was pure and gentle, and even at a distance it lifted the spirits; plainly it was no common thing. He swallowed hard in secret, feeling his face grow warm, but in the end he reached into his robe, gripped the black iron rod, and drew it out.

Every eye in the place—Chu Yuhong's and those of the dozen Chaoyang Peak disciples below—fell upon that black iron rod.

For a moment there was no sound.

"Ha ha ha ha!" Someone laughed first—no one could tell who—and shattered the silence; a moment later the crowd below was laughing as one, and someone among them gasped out, as though the words cost him an effort: "Wh-what is that?"

"I said it long ago, every last one of Dazhu Peak is an oddity. And don't forget, yesterday that skinny fellow made a laughingstock of himself with a pair of dice for a magic treasure—and now today, today there's actually somebody using a black iron rod! I—I'm dying of laughter! Ha ha ha!"

By now even Chu Yuhong on the platform could hold back no longer; he laughed a few times, then with an effort swallowed it: "Junior Brother Zhang, this is—heh heh—this is yours? Heh heh, forgive me, I simply can't help myself. Ah—so this is your magic treasure?"

Listening to the laughter all around him, Zhang Qingyue's face burned red and he could not say a word. He had known well enough that carrying this black iron rod was an ugly sight and bound to draw mockery, but nothing else would answer his mind-force, and deep down he had also harbored a small, faint hope that this might truly prove something about himself. So in the end he had brought the rod out with him.

And in the end, what the black iron rod brought him was still contempt and mockery. The people around him laughed loudly; Zhang Qingyue lowered his head, and in all the world, as far as his eyes could reach, there remained only the black, ugly rod in his hands.

They laughed, laughed loudly, just as his fellow disciples had laughed so loudly when he set out, and even Senior Sister Ling'er, whom he cherished so deeply, had laughed in just the same way.

He lowered his head and closed his eyes.

A chill seemed to call out faintly from the depths of his body, drifting slowly through him.

When is a person at his most lonely?

Is it when he stands alone before the indifference of the whole world, when he faces all the mockery alone?

Is a man's blood cold, or does it boil?

He snapped his head up and looked ahead.

Sunlight was falling full upon his face, and no one could see his expression clearly.

In Chu Yuhong's hand, the Shaoyang Immortal Sword burst forth with a radiance that rivaled the newly risen sun itself—dazzling, magnificent, and stern with righteous qi. Following the seal he traced and a sharp shout, the Shaoyang Immortal Sword bore down upon his foe like the blaze of day, upright and irresistible.

A wave of heat struck his face, yet Zhang Qingyue's heart was cold as ice. For some reason, gazing at that oncoming mass of light, he suddenly remembered a morning long ago: he and Lin Jinghong had passed a night of terror in the wild, and when they returned to Liumiao Village they found a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood. On that very morning he had lost all his happiness; he had felt himself buried in that sea of blood, struggling with all his might, vainly hoping to find his kin, and in the end powerless to do anything—the pain had pierced straight into his heart.

The heat seemed about to scorch his skin, yet before his eyes rose another image—that quiet night by the jade-green pool, when a beautiful woman stood at the water's edge, locked in a tight embrace with the one she loved.

"Ah!" The sixteen-year-old boy let out a low moan. The inexplicable anguish was so intense that he quite forgot the light rushing at him and bit through his lip; bright red blood dripped softly down.

It fell upon the black iron staff—black with a trace of red, like threads of blood through dark jade.

The next moment, he was swallowed by that sun-bright blaze.

Cheers erupted below the stage; the disciples of Chaoyang Peak were all radiant with delight. Only one cry of alarm, threading through their laughter, sounded jarringly out of place.

It came from Zeng Shuyan, who had suddenly fixed them with a hostile glare and was sighing loudly, sick at heart for this newly made friend. Alas, the rules of the great trial forbade any interference—otherwise, judging by his furious look, he would most likely have charged up onto the stage.

Even the white-bearded old man seated to one side seemed stirred by Zeng Shuyan's outcry, and stole a glance their way.