Chapter 223 — Reunion
The Sword Questions the Heavens · Page 5 of 5
Unlike the mysterious figure, though this newcomer came with overbearing force, he landed with the lightness of one who lifts a heavy weight as if it were nothing. Only a sharp, clear whistle burst through the air, slicing the former stillness, and when he touched the ground he merely spun a half circle quietly, coming to a soundless stand before turning his head to survey the scene.
A moment later, he froze.
Lu Xueling froze.
Tian Buhui froze as well.
It was as though hot blood had suddenly kindled in his chest. Ming Li's body swayed slightly of its own accord. Before him, not a zhang from where he stood, a short, stout man stood—his face somewhat ashen, his frame strangely bloated, yet no matter what, Ming Li recognized at first glance who it was...
It was the man who had raised him from childhood, who had taught him his arts—the master he had revered above all others since he was small!
He opened his mouth slightly, but no sound came. Ten years—it seemed a thousand words churned in his breast, yet at this moment all of them turned to silence.
Tian Buhui gazed deeply at Ming Li—no, who cared about that damned Ming Li; the one he looked at was simply his seventh, good-for-nothing disciple, that Zhang Qingyue.
Ten years gone, and the youth of those days was no longer young; there was even a faint trace of white at his temples. Surely these ten years had been hard on him. It was not that Tian Buhui had never imagined meeting this disciple who had turned his back on Qingyun; he had even planned to scold him roundly to his face, then instruct him kindly, hoping he would turn back.
But at this moment—perhaps he had truly grown old—not a single one of those scolding words he had once rehearsed could he utter. His slightly trembling lips at last curved into a faint smile, and he called softly, "Old Seven!"
Thunder roared in Ming Li's mind. Those two simple words seemed in an instant to shatter every wall he had ever built about his heart. All the past came vividly before his eyes, and on the green and lovely Dazhu Peak, the rustling of bamboo waves seemed to come surging toward him, wave upon wave.
He was stunned, frozen in place, his body trembling slightly; even Little Grey, the monkey crouched on his shoulder, was for once utterly silent. A burning sensation seared his throat, yet it carried a warmth he had not known for many years—once upon a time, that had been his most precious memory.
And now, that person was standing right there, calling out to him.
"Master!"
In that instant, it was as though he had been carried back to those years—an ordinary youth who had held nothing back, crying out for the sake of the passion that blazed like fire in his chest.
At the corner of his eyes, there was the glimmer of tears.
Flickering softly.