Chapter 26 — Luck
劍問蒼天 · Page 1 of 6
For a long moment no one moved. Then the white-bearded elder was the first to recover; he leaped onto the platform in a flash and went to Chu Yuhong's side, examining him carefully. But he found the young man whole and unharmed, with no sign of poisoning—it seemed rather that he had been struck by some immortal's magical treasure, his inner organs violently shaken.
Frowning, the elder straightened and looked at Zhang Qingyue, and could not help but regard the youth with new eyes. His gaze drifted, incidentally, to the black dark-iron rod clenched tight in Zhang Qingyue's hand.
"You have won," the white-bearded elder said calmly, suppressing the doubt in his heart.
Below the platform the Chaoyang Peak disciples erupted in an uproar, but the facts lay plainly before them and they had nothing to say. Only, Chu Yuhong's defeat was too baffling, too inconceivable—victory had been firmly in his grasp, and then in an instant, with a single great shout, he had lost. It was truly hard to accept.
By now Zeng Shuyan had also been struck dumb, but when he heard the white-bearded elder speak those three words, he charged up as well, ran to Zhang Qingyue's side, and gave his shoulder a heavy clap. "Good lad!" he cried with a great laugh. "So you were hiding your light under a bushel all along!"
Zhang Qingyue whipped his head around, his face like frost, and stared at him coldly.
Those eyes—cold, and yet black!
Zeng Shuyan said: "Xiaofan, what is it?"
At his question Zhang Qingyue gave a start, as though he had remembered something. His gaze softened at once, and that strange coldness in his eyes vanished, returning to its everyday look—perhaps tinged now with a little confusion. "No—nothing," he said. "I'm fine. What's the matter?"
Zeng said: "You ask me what's the matter? Why don't you ask me why you don't know that you've won this match?"
Zhang Qingyue was startled. "What? I won? I actually won?"
Zeng Shuyan was the more frightened of the two; his face went pale, and he hastened to press a hand to Zhang Qingyue's forehead. "Misery me, don't tell me that blast of fire scorched your wits clean away!"
Zhang Qingyue scratched his head, and then noticed that some distance away several Chaoyang Peak disciples were carrying the still-unconscious Chu Yuhong down from the platform—and a few of them were glaring at him with hatred.
Watching those people recede further and further, Zhang Qingyue found the whole scene of the duel rising vividly before his mind's eye, one tableau after another. Unconsciously he lowered his head and looked at the black dark-iron rod in his hand. The ugly little cudgel lay quietly in his palm, utterly still; and yet to Zhang Qingyue's eyes this dark-iron rod, which had been his companion for two years, had never seemed so strange—as though he had returned to that secluded valley of years ago, and that terrifying nightmare had come again.
*Whack.* Zeng Shuyan, seeing him standing there dazed, rapped him on the head with the fan in his hand. "What are you woolgathering about?"
Zhang Qingyue shook his head and sighed, tucking the dark-iron rod into his robe. "Nothing. Let's go. Oh, by the way—how did you come to be watching my match?"
Zeng Shuyan glanced at the dark-iron rod disappearing into his robe. "The match hadn't started yet, and I had nothing to do, so I ran over to watch you fight. I never expected to see such a show! Hey—that three-eyed spirit monkey of yours, what is it you call him again?"
Zhang Qingyue supplied the name: "Xiaohui."
Zeng said: "Right, Xiaohui. How come I haven't seen Xiaohui today?"
Zhang Qingyue shook his head. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of him since early morning. He's probably slipped off somewhere to play with Da Huang again."