Chapter 53 — The Strange Beast

This halo of light had, barely, forced the tentacle back a small distance. But Zhang Qingyue immediately felt that the power of the giant tentacle was simply too great—as though sensing that his resistance had suddenly strengthened, the crushing force redoubled, pressing inward with tenfold, a hundredfold momentum. Within moments, the magical halo of the Dark Iron Staff began to waver, unable to hold.

Zhang Qingyue was no fool; he knew full well that to go on this way was the road to death. Gritting his heart, he took a tremendous risk, clenched his teeth, and poured all his power into the staff. The Dark Iron Staff blazed instantly. Seizing this last chance, Zhang Qingyue gave a low roar and drove the staff like swift lightning into the tentacle that bound him.

There was a muffled thud—"pff"—and the entire Dark Iron Staff sank in, piercing through like a divine blade.

In the darkness, the only source of light—the Dark Iron Staff—was buried in that tentacle, and all around fell dark at once, without a glimmer. Feeling the breath of that darkness, sensing the boundless dead silence around him, Zhang Qingyue held his breath for a moment entire.

"Thud!"

A ray of light suddenly appeared. A great hole had been pierced through the tentacle by that radiance, letting the uncanny light of the Dark Iron Staff shine through.

"Thud!"

Another muffled sound, and on the other side of the tentacle, another ray of light burst forth!

Then—"thud, thud, thud!"—the sounds came without cease. Zhang Qingyue's mouth fell slightly open as he watched the giant tentacle that bound him being punctured like a sheet of thin paper, more and more rays of light shooting out from within, illuminating several chi of ground around him—and illuminating himself as well.

Soon Zhang Qingyue felt the tentacle binding him slacken and fall away. The Dark Iron Staff, too, burst out from within the tentacle and flew back into his hand. By its glow, Zhang Qingyue saw that the giant tentacle lay on the ground, covered in wounds, scorched and cracked everywhere—utterly unlike its former powerful, slippery self.

He had barely escaped the gates of hell, his soul still unsettled. And this monster before him was strange indeed: despite such grievous wounds, it made no sound at all, as though it felt no pain.

Zhang Qingyue had just caught his breath and was about to look for a way out when he heard, from the darkness ahead, another eerie shriek. A tremendous wind rushed at him like a mountain. As it drew near, Zhang Qingyue peered by the faint light—and nearly had his jaw drop in terror. Deep in the darkness, more giant tentacles were surging forth, and the black shadows danced wildly—who could say how many there were.

One such tentacle had nearly cost him his life; to face such a thing now—the outcome was all too easy to imagine. Without a second thought, Zhang Qingyue summoned the Dark Iron Staff and flew, turning to flee. But he had flown less than a zhang when—"bang!"—he and the staff crashed into a stone wall hard as iron.

The pain pierced to the bone; it was a heavy blow. He dimly felt something wet and slick on his face—blood, most likely—but at such a moment, who could care?

Yet now he was trapped in this pitch-black cave like a blind man. When the tentacle had dragged him in, he had been flung about so violently that he could not remember the way at all. So, like a headless fly, he rode the Dark Iron Staff and, almost entirely by instinct and the sound of the great wind, careened wildly through the cave, crashing into stone walls again and again—but any moment he could dodge was a moment gained.

But the tentacles in the darkness were not only enormous but surprisingly nimble. As Zhang Qingyue fled for his life, he heard the wind howling close behind him, almost at his back, and his heart and courage nearly failed. At the critical moment of life and death, he shut his eyes, gave a great cry, and desperately drove the Dark Iron Staff forward, seeking only to get as far as possible from that death-dealing tentacle.

But under the force of his frantic flight, though the Dark Iron Staff's speed surged, the stone wall ahead gave no quarter. He had not flown three zhang when—"boom!"—he crashed into the wall again.

This time, however, something seemed odd. The stone wall there appeared rather thin, and under the impact he burst straight through it, and from within came traces of light—and waves of searing heat rolling out.

Zhang Qingyue was startled, but before he could collect himself (in truth, there was no collecting himself—no matter how hard his head, no matter how strong the artifact's protection, such a crash would leave anyone upside down and reeling), he felt the ground vanish beneath him, and his whole body dropped into a narrow, downward-sloping passage, rolling headlong down.

How long he rolled, he did not know. But along the way, in his confusion, Zhang Qingyue felt all around him a crimson light, and the heat was scorching, the surfaces he touched burning hot. Several times he struck his wounds, and the pain sent stars bursting before his eyes.

In truth, if one were honest, Zhang Qingyue's endurance by now likely made him more stone than Shitou, who was even then fighting outside.

At last his tumbling body came to a stop. Blood at the corner of his mouth, his face covered in cuts, his whole body feeling as though it would fall apart, Zhang Qingyue slowly raised his head amid his groans.

And then he froze.

Before him lay an enormous subterranean cavern—but unlike anything before. Everywhere was magma, blazing red-hot, forming a scorching lake that filled the lower reaches of the cavern. Across its surface, bubbles of heat rose and burst without cease; in the more turbulent places, like the tide, the searing magma leapt up even into the air. And the red-hot flames rising from the magma bathed the vast cavern in a world of red.

As for Zhang Qingyue himself, he stood on a platform above the magma lake, with a passage sloping upward behind him—the very passage down which he had rolled. Directly ahead, at the far end of the platform, where the heat of the magma was nearly unbearable, was an oval-shaped stone hollow, and upon it lay a white fox, perfectly still.

White—an enormous white fox!

Its eyes were closed, as though it slept in peace, its body curled up, utterly quiet.

Very beautiful indeed!

Zhang Qingyue rose slowly to his feet, held his breath, and began to walk slowly toward it.

Slowly, step by step, he went toward it.

The heat grew more scorching, burning Zhang Qingyue's face crimson, yet he seemed wholly unaware of it. His wide-open eyes were fixed only on that lovely, beautiful, gentle, quiet fox, and on what lay behind it.

There, amid the handsome fur, its tail lay quietly curled.

Fine and beautiful was that fur, and where it split, though in harmony, there were six tails in all.