Chapter 25 — The Unexpected

The heart of a sixteen-year-old youth was at this moment like the sorrow of a sixty-year-old man.

He reached out, felt inside his robe, and touched that cold black iron rod. A month ago, when no one else knew or would have noticed, Zhang Qingyue had been astonished to discover that he could, if only barely, command this black iron rod. In that moment he could hardly believe his own eyes. Yet after countless repetitions in the dead of night, when all was quiet, as he drove it with his thought-force, the iron rod truly did move.

"Driving objects"—that was a term that rang like thunder in the Canglan Sect's cultivation arts. It was the sign of having cultivated the Taiji Xuanqing Dao to the fourth level of the Yuqing realm. It was what every new disciple repeated in the depths of his heart through countless years of cultivation—hoping, longing, striving. And Zhang Qingyue had not even dared to think of reaching such a realm except in dreams—dreams of winning a little pride before his master, of bringing a smile to his master's face.

But was it possible?

Zhang Qingyue desperately suppressed himself and told no one of the matter. At the same time, when he tried to use his thought-force to drive other objects—the pots and pans and bowls in the kitchen—nothing stirred, and this too struck at his confidence. He puzzled over it endlessly: how could such a strange thing come about?

In the dead of night, waking from dreams, he would climb out of bed and stare at this bizarre black iron rod that seemed fated to be tangled up with him, and he could feel that thread of cold breath wandering slowly through his body.

"Dang!" The crisp sound of bell and cauldron rang out, startling Zhang Qingyue and waking him from his thoughts. He turned his head: below the platform were still those dozen or so Zhaoyang Peak disciples, the white-bearded old man still sitting there half-asleep. But on the far side of the platform, a man had appeared without his noticing—about thirty years of age, smiling as he looked at him.

Zhang Qingyue flushed and hastily bowed: "Zhang Qingyue, disciple of Dazhu Peak, seeks instruction from Senior Brother Chu."

Chu Yuhong smiled: "Not at all, not at all. Every generation has its talents. Junior Brother Zhang, young as you are, stands on the platform calm and composed on the eve of the great trial, without a trace of anxiety or fear—far better than I was in my day. I admire you, I admire you."

Zhang Qingyue was dumbfounded for a moment, then mumbled: "To be honest with you, Senior Brother, I was actually just staring into space."

"Hua"—an uproar broke out below the platform. The dozen or so Zhaoyang Peak disciples all but doubled over with laughter. Chu Yuhong was taken aback too, and in the end could not help laughing aloud; then, feeling it inappropriate, he forced himself to stop and said: "Junior Brother Zhang jests. Er—the hour has come. I shall now seek instruction from you."

Zhang Qingyue's heart skipped; a wave of tension washed over him. Slowly he said: "Please go easy on me, Senior Brother Chu."

Chu Yuhong smiled and did not answer; from his manner he seemed to have everything well in hand. His right hand shook, and with a ringing clatter an immortal sword rose into the air, scattering a faint yellow glow.

"The sword is named 'Shaoyang.' Junior Brother Zhang, please."

Zhang Qingyue glanced at the Shaoyang immortal sword. Its yellow light was pure and mild, and even at a distance he felt his spirits lift—plainly no ordinary thing. He swallowed secretly, feeling his face grow warm, but in the end he reached into his robe, gripped the iron rod, and drew it out.

Every person present—Chu Yuhong and the dozen or so Zhaoyang Peak disciples below the platform—fixed their eyes on that black iron rod.

For a moment there was no sound.

"Ha ha ha ha"—someone was the first to laugh, breaking the silence; in any case, a moment later the crowd below was laughing as one, mixed with someone's voice saying, between gasps: "Wh-what is that?"

"I told you long ago, everyone from Dazhu Peak is a queer one. And wouldn't you know it, yesterday that skinny fellow made a laughingstock of himself with a dice treasure, and now today—today there's actually someone using an iron rod! It's—it's killing me! Ha ha ha!"

By now even Chu Yuhong on the platform could not hold back. He laughed a few times before managing to stifle it with difficulty: "Junior Brother Zhang, is this—heh—is this yours? Heh, forgive me, I can't help myself. Ah—is this your treasure?"

Zhang Qingyue listened to the laughter all around him, his face burning red, unable to utter a word. He had known all along that using this black iron rod would be too ugly a sight and would surely invite mockery—but nothing else could be driven, and deep in his heart there had been a faint, tiny hope that this might truly prove something about himself. So in the end he had brought the iron rod out.

Yet in the end, all the iron rod brought him was contempt and ridicule. Those around him laughed loudly; Zhang Qingyue lowered his head, and all the world within his sight shrank to the black, ugly iron rod in his hands.

They laughed, laughed loudly, just as his fellow disciples had laughed so loudly before he set out, just as even Ling'er—his senior sister, whom he held so deeply in his heart—had laughed in that same way.

He lowered his head and closed his eyes.

A chill seemed to call out faintly from the depths of his body, drifting slowly through him.

When is a person at his most lonely?

Is it when he stands alone before the indifference of the whole world, when he faces all the mockery alone?

Is a man's blood cold, or does it boil?

He snapped his head up and looked ahead.

Sunlight was falling full upon his face, and no one could see his expression clearly.

In Chu Yuhong's hand, the Shaoyang Immortal Sword burst forth with a radiance that rivaled the newly risen sun itself—dazzling, magnificent, and stern with righteous qi. Following the seal he traced and a sharp shout, the Shaoyang Immortal Sword bore down upon his foe like the blaze of day, upright and irresistible.

A wave of heat struck his face, yet Zhang Qingyue's heart was cold as ice. For some reason, gazing at that oncoming mass of light, he suddenly remembered a morning long ago: he and Lin Jinghong had passed a night of terror in the wild, and when they returned to Liumiao Village they found a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood. On that very morning he had lost all his happiness; he had felt himself buried in that sea of blood, struggling with all his might, vainly hoping to find his kin, and in the end powerless to do anything—the pain had pierced straight into his heart.

The heat seemed about to scorch his skin, yet before his eyes rose another image—that quiet night by the jade-green pool, when a beautiful woman stood at the water's edge, locked in a tight embrace with the one she loved.

"Ah!" The sixteen-year-old boy let out a low moan. The inexplicable anguish was so intense that he quite forgot the light rushing at him and bit through his lip; bright red blood dripped softly down.

It fell upon the black iron staff—black with a trace of red, like threads of blood through dark jade.

The next moment, he was swallowed by that sun-bright blaze.

Cheers erupted below the stage; the disciples of Chaoyang Peak were all radiant with delight. Only one cry of alarm, threading through their laughter, sounded jarringly out of place.

It came from Zeng Shuyan, who had suddenly fixed them with a hostile glare and was sighing loudly, sick at heart for this newly made friend. Alas, the rules of the great trial forbade any interference—otherwise, judging by his furious look, he would most likely have charged up onto the stage.

Even the white-bearded old man seated to one side seemed stirred by Zeng Shuyan's outcry, and stole a glance their way.