Chapter 195 — Old Ground

Canglan Mountain, Jietian Peak, the Ancestral Hall.

The green woods were as they had always been, growing lush and vigorous, a faint morning mist drifting among the trees. Everywhere, on the tips of leaves and the petals of wildflowers in the grass, glistening dewdrops trembled gently in the breeze. From somewhere deep in the forest came the clear, melodious calls of birds; hearing them eased both body and mind, as though one stood in a realm of immortals.

Through this earthly paradise and Daoist fairyland, a short, stout figure slowly emerged along the forest path. It was Tian Buhui.

Seeming somewhat out of keeping with the surrounding beauty, Tian Buhui's expression was grave; his eyes were fixed straight ahead, his face heavy with care. And now he was entirely alone, which was strange in itself—for though Tian Buhui was the head of Dazhu Peak and one of the most important men in the Canglan Sect, it was clearly rather odd for a man of his station to come unaccompanied to the rear mountain's forbidden ground, the Ancestral Hall of the long line of sect leaders.

Along the mountain path there were no Canglan disciples standing guard; the whole way was silent, without a human sound. Amid the breeze and birdsong, Tian Buhui rounded the famous three-forked junction and gradually made out, deep in the forest, the imposing, upswept eaves.

"Tong—"

A faint bell or drumbeat came from somewhere—from the direction of the front mountain—echoing over the summit of Canglan Mountain.

That empty, drifting reverberation made Tian Buhui silently halt. He turned his head and gazed into the distance.

Heaven and earth, the vault of the sky—the sky was infinitely blue!

For tens of thousands of years, it seemed, nothing had ever changed.

Tian Buhui's face slowly grew calm. He stood silently for a while, then turned back and walked on toward the Ancestral Hall.

The broad stone steps opened before him. The Ancestral Hall was unchanged, lying in the forest's embrace like some slumbering giant beast. Its great doors still stood open, the interior dim as ever; even the scattered candles deep in that darkness seemed to be sleeping. Everything was so quiet.

Yet outside the Ancestral Hall, below the stone steps, a young man now stood with his back to Tian Buhui. Tian Buhui frowned and walked over.

Hearing the footsteps, the young man seemed startled—he had not expected anyone to come to this place at such an hour—and hurriedly turned around. As his face met Tian Buhui's, both of them started. The young man was none other than Lin Jinghong.

Tian Buhui then recalled hearing his disciples say that Lin Jinghong had long kept watch here in the Ancestral Hall, said to be tending the spirit of "someone." Yet who that "someone" was, no one seemed to know. At this moment, though, Tian Buhui naturally had no mind to wonder about it. He and Lin Jinghong had never been on good terms; the two exchanged a look and neither spoke at once, and the air grew somewhat awkward.

In the end it was Lin Jinghong who cleared his throat and said in a low voice, "Uncle-Master Tian, what brings you here so early?"

Tian Buhui glanced at him, then shifted his gaze to the dimness within the Ancestral Hall. "I've come looking for someone. What are you doing standing outside the hall at the break of dawn?"

Lin Jinghong's expression shifted slightly; a faint, bitter smile seemed to cross his face. He glanced into the hall but did not answer. Tian Buhui said coolly, "Is someone inside? Our Sect Leader, perhaps?"

Lin Jinghong nodded. "Yes. The Sect Leader is in the great hall. He ordered me to keep watch outside—without his summons, not a single disciple of Jietian Peak is permitted to enter."

Tian Buhui gave a cold snort. "I recall you are a disciple of Longji Peak. How is it you've come running to the long line's Jietian Peak to keep the gate for Senior Brother Daoyan?"

Lin Jinghong's face paled; he lowered his head slightly and said nothing.

Tian Buhui paid him no further mind. He lifted his leg and set foot on the stone steps. Startled, Lin Jinghong stepped forward. "Uncle-Master Tian, what are you doing?"

Tian Buhui said blandly, "I've come here, so naturally I mean to go in. I have matters to discuss with the Sect Leader."

Lin Jinghong's brows knit. "Uncle-Master Tian, the Sect Leader has said he will see no one. Without his permission and summons, every disciple of Jietian Peak—"

"I am not a disciple of Jietian Peak!" Tian Buhui cut him off coldly.

Lin Jinghong choked; for a moment Tian Buhui's words left him speechless.

Tian Buhui said no more, but climbed the stone steps and walked toward the hall. Lin Jinghong's body stirred as though he meant to stop him still, but then he halted, watching Tian Buhui's short, stout frame, a keen light flickering in his eyes.

He stepped over the high threshold, and at once a faint scent of sandalwood met him. A vast shadow seemed to well gently up from the depths of the hall, lightly barring the daylight that had been there a moment before outside the Ancestral Hall.

Tian Buhui stood in place for a moment, then slowly walked deeper inside. As his footsteps rose and fell, the expression on his face seemed to change as well, bit by bit.

One by one, great red-lacquered pillars stood at scattered intervals throughout the hall, upholding the majestic structure. Yellow cloth banners hung from the ceiling's dome, draping quietly beside the pillars; many looked somewhat worn, and to the eye they seemed to exhale a breath of vicissitude from that slowly aging yellow.

The years gone by seemed to have frozen here.

The hall was very quiet, almost without a sound but his own footfalls, echoing amid the silent shadows. Beyond, behind the great offering table, countless points of incense burned bright and soft, like so many strange and secret eyes watching the figure that moved through the shadows of the hall.

He passed the thickest pillar in the hall and walked out from behind the low-hanging yellow banners; at last Tian Buhui stopped.

Before him lay an open space, with three rows of rush cushions set upon the floor, seven to a row. On the cushion at the very center of the first row sat a familiar figure, motionless. Before the cushions stood an enormous offering table, laden with fruit and sacrifices; at its center was a great incense burner which, strangely, held only three slender sticks of incense, their faint smoke curling slowly upward.

Through the smoke-wreathed offering table, in the deep darkness behind it, one could dimly make out countless spirit tablets, each seemingly inscribed with characters, set upright within the shadows.

Tian Buhui's face slowly grew heavy, touched with reverence. Facing the spirit tablets of the Canglan Sect's generations of founding masters, his gaze rested first for a moment on that once-familiar back, then he walked silently forward.

Immortal Daoyan's body stirred slightly, but he did not turn his head.

Tian Buhui walked slowly to the offering table and looked at the countless spirit tablets shrouded in shadow. He drew a deep breath, then pulled three slender sticks of incense from the pouch beside the burner, lit them carefully at a candle flame nearby, stepped back, and standing three feet before the table, raised the incense reverently and bowed three times.

The cushion where Immortal Daoyan sat was no more than six feet from the offering table, yet the faint light ahead seemed no longer able to reach where he was. In the dim shadow he slowly raised his head; Tian Buhui's figure stood before him, his back turned.

Then suddenly, deep in that darkness, like ghostfire from the depths of the netherworld, with a *hu* two beams of keen light flared to life. Almost at the same instant, like the soundless wave of a ghost's shriek sweeping through the hall, every candle and lamp blazed up—all save the three slender sticks of incense in Tian Buhui's hand.