Chapter 79 — Seven

In the back hills of Mount Canglan there were two places of great consequence. The first was the Canglan Sect's most sacred ground, the Phantom Moon Grotto-Heaven, where a thousand years ago that peerless genius, Patriarch Qingye, had shut himself away in meditation and comprehended the Way—and from that time forth the Canglan Sect had stood above all under heaven, leader of the assembled heroes.

After Patriarch Qingye, the Phantom Moon Grotto-Heaven became the holiest place of the Canglan Sect; for a thousand years, only the sect master might enter it.

The other place was the Ancestral Hall.

As the name suggests, it was where the successive patriarchs of the Canglan Sect were enshrined. From Canglanzi, founder of the sect, to Patriarch Qingye, to the generations of forebears after them, all had their spirit tablets here, and incense never ceased to burn by day or night. Moreover, on every important occasion the Canglan Sect would gather here under the sect master's lead for a grand ancestral rite—so it too counted as a place of no small weight within the sect.

Yet apart from the days of ancestral worship, it was utterly desolate. When Lin Jinghong drew those four demon cultists after him and ran into this place, he saw only a vast open ground upon which stood a hall of imposing grandeur—upturned eaves at its four corners, glazed tiles upon its roof, antique plaques and crimson pillars, all seeming to tell, in that stillness, of the history of days gone by.

Wispy threads of smoke drifted from the deep and somewhat gloomy interior. From outside one could see only scattered points of candle flame within, and the long-burning lamps swaying faintly where they hung in midair. But apart from an old man in plain clothes silently sweeping before the hall, not a single soul was to be seen.

Just then, hearing hurried footsteps, the old man slowly raised his head and looked their way.

Regret welled in Lin Jinghong's heart. He had only meant to lure these demon cult followers away from the Phantom Moon Grotto-Heaven, never expecting to stumble into the Ancestral Hall. Here rested the spirit tablets of the patriarchs through the ages; should the demon cult defile them, he would deserve death ten thousand times and could never atone.

At that thought, Lin Jinghong halted at once, laid the Slaying Dragon Sword level before him, and turned to face the false Shangguan Lue and the others pursuing him.

At that moment, from the woods in the distance, a flock of birds suddenly burst startled into the air with a great clamor.

Lin Jinghong's heart lurched. That direction was where Zhang Qingyue was; he could not help but worry. Yet he knew the enemy before him was dire, and forcing his mind to still, he concentrated his guard, resolving in secret that even should he die here today, he would never let these demon cult wretches set half a step inside the Ancestral Hall.

The Slaying Dragon Sword seemed to possess a spirit of its own; its emerald light blazed, and against its master's face it made that resolve seem absolute.

The sweeping old man before the Ancestral Hall caught sight of the Slaying Dragon Sword in Lin Jinghong's hand, and his body suddenly trembled.

The four demon cultists exchanged glances and burst out laughing. These men clearly held no low station in the demon cult; at a glance they saw that this must be a place of importance to the Canglan Sect, and it seemed their venture would surely reap rich reward.

The false Shangguan Lue laughed smugly. "Little fellow, I see your aptitude is not bad. The Canglan Sect has run out of roads now; why not join my household? I guarantee you a future of glory and rise!"

"Bah!" Disgust rose in Lin Jinghong's heart. He gave a cold laugh and paid him no heed at all.

The false Shangguan Lue, strangely enough, was not angered. He sneered coldly. "Fine. Since you seek death, I shall oblige you!" With that he gave a signal, and the other three black-robed men attacked at once.

Lin Jinghong clenched his teeth; the Slaying Dragon Sword rippled with emerald waves as he held it across his body. The treasures the three black-robed men wielded were these: one a yellow flying sword, one a long halberd of massive weight, and the last the strangest and most horrifying of all—a white bone sword fashioned from several human bones, steeped in a grim, dark air.

Lin Jinghong fought alone against three, battling bitterly through clenched teeth. The Slaying Dragon Sword's green light crisscrossed as he held his ground, and he did not yield so much as a step—yet gradually he was still forced onto the defensive.

Lin Jinghong had entered the Canglan Sect as a youth, and his natural gifts were exceptional. Daoist Cangyan thought highly of him, not only instructing him with painstaking care but even passing down to him the Slaying Dragon Sword, a treasure of no small renown—whether because in this youth he glimpsed the shadow of one he had once revered, none could say.

And Lin Jinghong had indeed not failed Daoist Cangyan's pains. In but a few short years, by his own outstanding talent and by that conviction buried deep in his heart—to avenge his parents and kin—his cultivation advanced by leaps and bounds, and within a few years he had become the foremost among the younger generation of disciples.

Yet however diligently he applied himself, cultivation was in the end bound by time and could not be forced too swiftly. Now, facing three black-robed demon cultists, the halberd before him came smashing down without cease while the flying sword sought openings to strike by stealth; and worse still was that white bone sword, cold and grim, which under its wielder's command flickered in and out of sight. Every time he parried it, the dark air swept over him, and he could not help but draw a sharp breath and shudder from head to foot.

Thus he fought bitterly for dozens of exchanges. For all Lin Jinghong's wholehearted defense, the emerald gleam of the Slaying Dragon Sword was gradually pressed down by the three black-robed men, and watching his defeat become plain, at last he could hold no longer and fell back a step.

Behind him, the false Shangguan Lue gave a cold laugh.

Once he retreated, he could not stop his feet. The three black-robed men, their spirits soaring, unleashed their treasures all at once. Sweat poured down Lin Jinghong in streams as he fell back again and again, unable to plant his feet.

Suddenly that mysterious white bone sword vanished outright. Lin Jinghong was just parrying the halberd smashing down at his head and sweeping aside with another stroke the flying sword raiding from the side, when pain lanced through his foot and he could stand no longer. The white bone sword had at some point burrowed into the earth and crept up unseen, and now opened a great gash across his right leg, blood streaming down.

Lin Jinghong roared, and the Slaying Dragon Sword came cleaving down through the air. This immortal weapon struck the white bone sword with a faint crackling sound; the bone sword's master was sent tumbling away at once, and fine cracks could be seen bursting across the blade.

The demon cultist who wielded the white bone sword felt a pang of anguish and hastily drew it back to examine. But by then the other two's treasures had arrived, whistling with bitter wind. Lin Jinghong, in a place of death, spent his last strength to drive the Slaying Dragon Sword up across his head.

With a great crash, strange lights flashed wildly and sparks flew in all directions. From whence that power burst forth, none could tell; the Slaying Dragon Sword blocked both treasures outright—but Lin Jinghong's vision went black as well. In that instant, swift as lightning, his focus slipped, and he suddenly saw the false Shangguan Lue, who had stood far off but a moment before, appear right before him, grinning savagely.