Chapter 77 — Five
The Sword Questions the Heavens · Page 2 of 6
Zhang Qingyue's body swayed; he lifted his head, mouth agape, as though he wished to say something.
But Daoyan's face was like ice and frost as he said coldly, "If I do not rid us of this wretched spawn today, how shall the Canglan Sect answer to the orthodox world? So be it—let me then grant you this—"
The assembly paled. Tian Buhui sprang to his feet; among the crowd Xueqi, Tian Lingsu, Lin Jinghong and the rest went white as sheets; even the divine monk Pucheng of the Fanyin Temple, seated nearby, seemed faintly moved to pity, and said to Daoyan in a low voice, "Brother Daoyan, ought this not be reconsidered—"
Daoyan gave a cold snort. "This wretched spawn bears a demonic relic upon his person and has committed the gravest taboo of our orthodox path; his sins are profound." With that he casually picked up the black iron staff lying on the tea table and said, "Today I shall let you die beneath this demonic relic of your own—"
A great humming filled Zhang Qingyue's skull, and his mind went blank. All before his eyes seemed to lose its color; he saw only, dimly, Daoyan raising his arm, his master Tian Buhui livid, seeming about to speak, and the Qingyun disciples around them thrown into confusion.
In that great hall, blood was about to be spilled within five paces.
"Ya!"
Suddenly a great cry rang out, freezing the whole assembly, and every face changed. In the midst of that horror, it was Daoist Daoyan himself—his body convulsing violently—who gave a furious roar and flung the black iron staff from him as though it had scalded his hand.
The black iron staff traced a dark arc through the air and struck the ground, clanging and rebounding several times, until it rolled to a stop right before Zhang Qingyue.
And it was at this very moment that all present saw a dark shape fly up from the staff, hover for a moment in midair, and give off a shrill chirring sound.
It was a strange breed of centipede, the size of a palm, gorgeously colored, with no fewer than seven forked tails at its rear. Now it quivered aloft, shaking its head and wagging its tail, its bearing arrogant beyond measure.
Zhang Qingyue was struck dumb; his whole body suddenly began to tremble faintly, his gaze fixed straight upon that monster in midair—that thing branded deep into his memory: "The Seven-Tailed Centipede!"
In an instant time seemed to flow backward like a roaring, surging torrent, bearing him back to that black night years ago—that night of blood when Puzhao duelled the mysterious man in black, and he lost everything he had in the same breath!
His whole body shook; the boundless reek of blood that rose from the depths of his heart wrapped him round. He reached out and seized the black iron staff in a death grip!
But at this moment no one marked Zhang Qingyue's strangeness at all; every eye and every scrap of attention was fixed upon Daoist Daoyan.
The presiding elders of the Canglan Sect were men whose experience and insight far surpassed the common run; in the blink of an eye they had surrounded Daoist Daoyan—above all, separating him from that Seven-Tailed Centipede. And when the crowd looked upon Daoyan, they could not help but blanch.
They saw Daoyan's right hand trembling, and upon his middle finger a wound plainly visible—clearly inflicted by the Seven-Tailed Centipede. In but that brief space the blood flowing from it had already turned black; and worse still, from the wound at his fingertip a shockingly dark qi was creeping upward at a speed almost visible to the eye.
The Seven-Tailed Centipede was famed as the most venomous creature under heaven; even a man of Daoyan's attained stature was laid low by it.