劍問蒼天 - 第25章 意外 - 翰墨軒

The heart of a sixteen-year-old boy was at this moment like the sorrow of a man of sixty.

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?"