Chapter 162 — The Illusory Moon
The Sword Questions the Heavens · Page 5 of 5
He stared blankly, and his mind went blank once more; some inexplicable dread seemed to seep thread by thread from some long-buried place deep in his heart, spreading through his whole being.
One step, then another; soundlessly he drew near that thatched temple, near that nightmare that seemed to have vanished long ages ago.
The older, handsome-featured boy sat astride Zhang Qingyue, a look of triumph on his face. "Caught you. Now you've got nothing to say, have you?"
Zhang Qingyue rolled his strange eyes. "No fair, no fair—you ambushed me. How does that count?"
The boy was taken aback. "When did I ever ambush you?"
Zhang Qingyue said, "Fine then, Lin Jinghong, don't you dare tell me you didn't put that door plank there?"
The boy called Lin Jinghong cried loudly, "I did no such thing!"
Zhang Qingyue pressed his lips together and tilted his head, the very picture of one who would never surrender, never yield. Anger rose in Lin Jinghong's heart; he seized the other by the neck with one hand and shouted angrily, "We agreed—whoever gets caught admits defeat! Do you yield or not?"
Zhang Qingyue paid him no attention at all.
Lin Jinghong's face flushed red; he tightened his grip and shouted, "Do you yield or not?"
Zhang Qingyue's windpipe was clamped shut in his grip, and his breathing grew steadily more labored, his face slowly turning red. Yet young as he was, his temper was stubborn to the bone, and he did not make a single sound.
Lin Jinghong's fury only mounted, the strength in his hand increasing, and he demanded again and again, "Do you yield? Do you yield? Do you yield?"
Do you yield... do you yield... The words suddenly surged through his mind like mountains toppling and seas overturning, and all the bitterness of those many years came flooding up into his heart upon that repeated cry.
And then, as though long awaited, and as though wholly unprepared: that hand, quietly extended from the years, withered and seamed with wrinkles, so familiar, so dear, and yet at some point become so soul-shaking, bearing boundless hatred!
The old monk, smiling, still wearing that once-compassionate, once-kind smile, stood before him. In an instant his world was utterly blank; everything else—the village, the child, the quarrel—vanished all at once, and there was only that compassionate, serene old monk, gazing at him with a smile, like a picture that had never faded through the long, dim years.
His whole body trembled, and from the depths of his heart a grief and indignation beyond all words came surging up; he could not help but throw back his head and howl at the sky.
When had the sky turned dark again?
A storm of wind and rain came quietly falling!