Chapter 77 — Five
劍問蒼天 · Page 1 of 6
Within the great hall, Daoist Daoyan had still not returned, yet among the assembled crowd a low murmur of whispered speculation was already spreading.
When Shui Yue and her two disciples came walking back, the others had ranged themselves on either side, while Zhang Qingyue still knelt alone upon the floor. Xueqi seemed to hesitate a moment, but after Shui Yue's stern gaze swept across her, she at last went silently to stand behind her.
A short while later, Daoist Daoyan slowly emerged from the rear hall and returned to his seat, and the great hall fell instantly silent.
Yet Daoyan did not at once question Zhang Qingyue; instead, with an apologetic countenance, he turned to the monk Pucheng beside him and said, "Brother Pucheng, my disciples have been rude, and I must beg your pardon for this spectacle."
Pucheng smiled faintly and pressed his palms together. "What words are these, Brother Daoyan!"
At this moment Daoist Cangyan stepped forward, carrying Zhang Qingyue's black iron staff in his hands, and laid it upon the tea table at Daoyan's side. Daoyan's brows knit slightly, and he looked toward him with a trace of puzzlement in his eyes.
Daoist Cangyan said in a low voice, "Senior brother, after you departed just now, matters fell into some confusion. This object is of grave consequence, and to guard against mishap I took it into my keeping; now I return it here."
Daoyan nodded. "My thanks for your care, junior brother."
Daoist Cangyan thereupon withdrew, and Daoyan's gaze returned once more to Zhang Qingyue. The whole assembly tensed at once, knowing that the next moment would in all likelihood decide this young man's fate.
"Zhang Qingyue, I ask you one last time—have you anything to say?"
Beads of sweat were beginning to stand out upon Zhang Qingyue's brow; the situation had in truth sunk to the lowest ebb. Yet he had spent many years in the Canglan Sect and knew well how the orthodox sects abhorred any prying into another's secret transmissions. If he truly spoke out, his own fate was uncertain enough—but the monk Puzhao, long since laid in the earth, would likely lose more than his good name; even the burial place of his dharma bones would be torn out from the Rebirth Pagoda of the Fanyin Temple.
And more than that—Puzhao was one of the four great divine monks of the Fanyin Temple. Whether anyone would even believe him was a further question still.
There he sat, torn within, now recalling Puzhao's face and voice, now the deep grace of his own sect; yet to betray Puzhao was no different from being ordered to his death, and in so short a time he could by no means think it through.
But no one in that great hall was willing to grant him any more time.
Daoyan watched as Zhang Qingyue, having heard his question, let his face shift through light and shadow; though beads of sweat stood on his brow, he still did not utter a single word. And then, recalling how the disciples had pleaded for him but moments before, there suddenly rose and blazed within the depths of his heart a nameless fire that had lain dormant for many years.
It was as though a hundred years ago that white-robed figure had knelt thus in the Jade Balance Hall, before the images of the Three Pure Ones, before all the masters and elders—aye, even amid the desperate pleadings of his fellow disciples—and yet remained so arrogant, so overbearing, looking down upon the whole world.
Shui Yue, seated at the very back, watched Daoyan's face from afar; her body gave a shudder, a flicker of sorrow passed through her eyes, and she slowly bowed her head.
"Bang!"
A great crash—and the assembly was struck with horror!
Daoist Daoyan seemed at last to have lost all patience; he rose abruptly to his feet, pointed at Zhang Qingyue, and raged, "Wretched spawn! In those years I took pity on your wretched birth and kept you within the Canglan Sect—never did I think I was rearing a tiger to my own ruin!"