Chapter 25 — The Unexpected
The Sword Questions the Heavens · Page 6 of 7
"I said it long ago, every last one of Dazhu Peak is an oddity. And don't forget, yesterday that skinny fellow made a laughingstock of himself with a pair of dice for a magic treasure—and now today, today there's actually somebody using a black iron rod! I—I'm dying of laughter! Ha ha ha!"
By now even Chu Yuhong on the platform could hold back no longer; he laughed a few times, then with an effort swallowed it: "Junior Brother Zhang, this is—heh heh—this is yours? Heh heh, forgive me, I simply can't help myself. Ah—so this is your magic treasure?"
Listening to the laughter all around him, Zhang Qingyue's face burned red and he could not say a word. He had known well enough that carrying this black iron rod was an ugly sight and bound to draw mockery, but nothing else would answer his mind-force, and deep down he had also harbored a small, faint hope that this might truly prove something about himself. So in the end he had brought the rod out with him.
And in the end, what the black iron rod brought him was still contempt and mockery. The people around him laughed loudly; Zhang Qingyue lowered his head, and in all the world, as far as his eyes could reach, there remained only the black, ugly rod in his hands.
They laughed, laughed loudly, just as his fellow disciples had laughed so loudly when he set out, and even Senior Sister Ling'er, whom he cherished so deeply, had laughed in just the same way.
He lowered his head and closed his eyes.
A chill seemed to call out faintly from the depths of his body, drifting slowly through him.
When is a person at his most lonely?
Is it when he stands alone before the indifference of the whole world, when he faces all the mockery alone?
Is a man's blood cold, or does it boil?
He snapped his head up and looked ahead.
Sunlight was falling full upon his face, and no one could see his expression clearly.
In Chu Yuhong's hand, the Shaoyang Immortal Sword burst forth with a radiance that rivaled the newly risen sun itself—dazzling, magnificent, and stern with righteous qi. Following the seal he traced and a sharp shout, the Shaoyang Immortal Sword bore down upon his foe like the blaze of day, upright and irresistible.
A wave of heat struck his face, yet Zhang Qingyue's heart was cold as ice. For some reason, gazing at that oncoming mass of light, he suddenly remembered a morning long ago: he and Lin Jinghong had passed a night of terror in the wild, and when they returned to Liumiao Village they found a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood. On that very morning he had lost all his happiness; he had felt himself buried in that sea of blood, struggling with all his might, vainly hoping to find his kin, and in the end powerless to do anything—the pain had pierced straight into his heart.
The heat seemed about to scorch his skin, yet before his eyes rose another image—that quiet night by the jade-green pool, when a beautiful woman stood at the water's edge, locked in a tight embrace with the one she loved.
"Ah!" The sixteen-year-old boy let out a low moan. The inexplicable anguish was so intense that he quite forgot the light rushing at him and bit through his lip; bright red blood dripped softly down.
It fell upon the black iron staff—black with a trace of red, like threads of blood through dark jade.
The next moment, he was swallowed by that sun-bright blaze.
Cheers erupted below the stage; the disciples of Chaoyang Peak were all radiant with delight. Only one cry of alarm, threading through their laughter, sounded jarringly out of place.
It came from Zeng Shuyan, who had suddenly fixed them with a hostile glare and was sighing loudly, sick at heart for this newly made friend. Alas, the rules of the great trial forbade any interference—otherwise, judging by his furious look, he would most likely have charged up onto the stage.
Even the white-bearded old man seated to one side seemed stirred by Zeng Shuyan's outcry, and stole a glance their way.