Chapter 3 — The Enigma
劍問蒼天 · Page 1 of 5
The old monk did not answer. He only let his gaze rest on the two children, studying them closely, and could not help letting his eyes linger a few moments longer on Lin Jinghong. He thought to himself: "What fine natural gifts—but why is his temper so fierce and unyielding?"
At this, Zhang Qingyue stepped forward and said, "Hey, who are you? How is it I've never seen you before?"
Liu Miao Village lay near the Canglan Sect. Daoism held sway in these parts, and Buddhist monks were exceedingly rare, which was why Zhang Qingyue had asked.
The old monk glanced at him, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, and asked in return: "Young benefactor, just now your life hung by a thread. You had only to admit defeat and that would have been the end of it—so why did you struggle on so bitterly? If this old monk had not intervened, I fear you would have thrown your life away for nothing."
Zhang Qingyue was stunned for a moment. In his heart he felt there was some truth in what the old monk said, yet when it came to the point, he still could not put his reasons into words, and could only stand there blankly.
Lin Jinghong glared at the old monk, took Zhang Qingyue by the hand, and said, "Xiaofan, this old monk is a strange one. Let's pay him no mind." With that he pulled him toward the outside, and the other children all followed along—plainly they had always taken their lead from him.
Zhang Qingyue's feet moved of their own accord, but after he had walked some distance from the temple gate, he could not resist turning back to look. The sky was gradually darkening, and he could just make out that the old monk was still standing there, though his face had already grown indistinct.
Deep night.
A peal of thunder; the wind swept the remnant clouds, and black clouds tumbled at the horizon.
A storm was about to break, and the air was filled with a killing stillness.
The old monk was still in the thatched temple, sitting in meditation on the ground. Looking up, he saw that distant Canglan Mountain was now but a blur, and the fields all around were silent, without a human sound—only the howling wind and crashing thunder filling heaven and earth.
What a wind it was!
A bolt of lightning split the sky, and the little thatched temple, standing alone in the wind, flashed bright for an instant. In that brief moment the old monk was already standing at the temple gate, his face grave, gazing up at the sky, his brows knitting tighter and tighter.
In the village to the west, a black vapor had at some point risen—thick as black ink, churning without cease. The old monk stood within the thatched temple, his eyes fixed dead upon that black vapor.
Suddenly the black vapor coiled and spiraled upward, then shot straight out of the village, heading directly toward the thatched temple. It moved with incredible speed, arriving in the blink of an eye. The old monk's sharp eyes caught at once that it carried a child within it—none other than Lin Jinghong, whom he had seen that day.
The old monk's face darkened. Without further hesitation—and without any visible exertion—his lean, withered body shot straight up from the ground and plunged into the black vapor.
Somewhere in the darkness, an unknown place, came a voice tinged with surprise: "Eh?"
Several muffled thuds, and the black vapor abruptly halted, circling above the thatched temple and refusing to disperse. The old monk, Lin Jinghong tucked under his arm, descended slowly—but a piece of the cassock at his back had been torn away.
By the faint light, Lin Jinghong could be seen with his eyes tightly shut, his breathing steady; whether he was asleep or had fainted, there was no telling.
The old monk did not set him down. He raised his head to look at the mass of black vapor in the air and said, "Your honor's Daoist arts are profound. Why stoop to strike at an ignorant child? I fear it ill becomes your station."