劍問蒼天 - 第92章 末路 - 翰墨軒

The night was black as ink, cold and grim.

Suddenly, a ray of light streaked across the darkness, flying in from the distance with incredible speed—though seen from afar, that light seemed to tremble faintly, showing signs of instability.

On the ground below, Meng Ji was pacing back and forth in agitation. Behind him stood the surviving disciples of the Changsheng Hall—a rough count put them at fifty or sixty—each wearing a look of dread as they gazed toward the road by which they had come.

Until they saw that beam of light.

The ordinary disciples immediately stirred, and many cheered. But Meng Ji, watching that flying figure, only grew more anxious, his face darkening further.

The light swept close and stopped. Yuyang Zi drifted down to the ground, and at once the crowd cried out "Sect Master! Sect Master!" in unison. But before anyone could rush to him, Yuyang Zi's face went white, and with a great "Waugh!" he spewed a mouthful of blood that soaked the front of his robe.

Everyone paled.

Meng Ji darted forward and caught hold of Yuyang Zi. The touch was ice-cold—Yuyang Zi's whole body felt frozen, utterly unlike normal, and beneath his garments his flesh was still trembling faintly. Meng Ji could not suppress a look of profound alarm.

Sensing Meng Ji's shock, Yuyang Zi swept his gaze left and right. He saw the same terror written on the faces of his disciples and knew that these people were now like birds startled by the twang of a bow, their morale in complete disarray. If he himself could not hold out, it would be a case of the tree falling and the monkeys scattering.

So he forced his spirits up, pressed down the blood and qi churning in his chest, and said loudly, "There is no need for alarm. Just now I used my own cultivation to force out the stagnant blood within me. It is nothing serious."

In ordinary times, Yuyang Zi was regarded by the Changsheng Hall disciples as something akin to a god. Now that he had said this, it had some effect—many faces in the crowd eased somewhat, clearly much reassured.

Yet for all Yuyang Zi's words, his complexion was truly dreadful, white as paper, and the left side of his body was drenched in blood—even his sleeve had vanished without a trace. He was in a state of utter wretchedness. Fortunately it was deep night and the darkness was thick; otherwise, in broad daylight, with a hundred-odd pairs of eyes fixed on him, they would have seen at once that he was already at the end of his rope.

Meng Ji's brows knitted tightly. Then he turned and barked at the Changsheng Hall disciples, "The Sect Master is fine! Go rest over there for now. We will decide what to do after daybreak!"

The crowd gradually dispersed at his word. Once the Changsheng Hall disciples had moved some distance away, Meng Ji suddenly felt Yuyang Zi's body slump heavily against his hand. He hurried to steady him and looked over—and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

Yuyang Zi's face was utterly bloodless. He was gasping heavily; had Meng Ji not been holding him, he would have collapsed.

Meng Ji hurriedly helped Yuyang Zi sit down. Yuyang Zi sat cross-legged on the ground and slowly regulated his breath. After a good while, his gasping gradually quieted and his complexion improved somewhat.

Throughout, Meng Ji stood at Yuyang Zi's side, his expression tense with worry, while he kept glancing about in every direction.

The night was deep all around. Apart from the small campfire the Changsheng Hall disciples had built nearby, the darkness was so thick you could not see your own hand.

The night was hideous, as if it too were peering at this battered, storm-tossed remnant of the Changsheng Hall.

Yuyang Zi slowly opened his eyes.

Meng Ji at once said in a low voice, "Sect Master, are you all right?"