Chapter 27 — Self-Esteem

For some reason, Zhang Qingyue suddenly found all those kindly smiles ahead of him detestable—each one a veiled contempt. His face expressionless, he mounted the platform. Behind him, below the platform, everyone stood against him; this time even Zeng Shuyan was absent, for he too had a bout to fight.

But even if he had come, surely he would be cheering for a senior brother of his own branch!

In Zhang Qingyue's heart there suddenly welled a loneliness beyond words. Standing on this high platform, surveying the countless eyes below, he had not a single friend.

Why—why must it always be one man facing all the world, unable to see even one friend!

The sixteen-year-old youth cried out silently in his heart, bit stubbornly at his lip, and bowed his head.

The mountain wind came slowly, brushing past his cheeks.

"Dang!"

The bells and cauldrons near and far rang out almost as one, echoing across the summit of Jietian Peak and carrying far away. Zhang Qingyue's heart skipped; his first thought was: Senior Sister Ling'er must have begun her bout by now—she must not get hurt.

Then his heart ached, and he thought: "Whether she is hurt or not is no business of yours. Never mind that Master and Mistress are there—even that Qi Hao said he would settle his opponent as quick as he could and hurry over. Heh heh, settle his opponent as quick as he could—how magnificent, how confident, treating his foe as though he were nothing at all."

Lost in such thoughts, he quite forgot he himself stood upon a platform, until the opponent facing him called out loudly for the third time: "Junior Brother Zhang!"

Zhang Qingyue started awake and looked up to see that at some point a senior brother of Fenghui Peak had come to stand opposite him—tall and broad, his manner rather gentle, save that now, seeing Zhang Qingyue dazed, his expression had turned somewhat strange in spite of himself.

Zhang Qingyue flushed crimson, and from below the platform came a burst of laughter.

Peng Chang smiled and cupped his hands: "I am Peng Chang, disciple of Fenghui Peak. I ask Junior Brother Zhang to instruct me."

Zhang Qingyue hastily returned the courtesy: "Zhang Qingyue, disciple of Dazhu Peak, greets Senior Brother Peng."

Having exchanged greetings, Peng Chang smiled faintly, looked Zhang Qingyue up and down, then lowered his voice: "Junior Brother Zhang, Junior Brother Zeng has told me all about your affair. I—"

Zhang Qingyue's body trembled, and suddenly, beyond all restraint, the words burst from him: "Senior Brother Peng, please come at me with all you have."

Peng Chang was taken aback. He studied Zhang Qingyue closely; after a long moment he wiped the smile from his face, nodded, and swept his right hand before him. With a ringing "zheng," an immortal sword rose into the air, scattering red light, almost as though wrapped in burning flame.

"This sword is 'Wugou,' forged of thousand-year fire-copper. I ask Junior Brother Zhang to instruct me." For some reason Peng Chang's whole manner had turned grave, his bearing stern, as though he spoke to a formidable foe of equal strength.

Even at that distance, Zhang Qingyue felt the scorching breath strike his face; and this fiery aura was fierce and violent, utterly unlike the gentle righteousness of Chu Yuhong of Chaoyang Peak's Shaoyang immortal sword from the day before—it held a measure of tyranny.

Zhang Qingyue's heart raced despite himself; even at the thought of what he was about to face, he trembled slightly with tension. But he clenched his jaw, controlled himself with all his might, and drew from his bosom that black rod of dark iron.

From below the platform came a burst of shrill laughter.

Zhang Qingyue started as though pricked by a needle.

Peng Chang, facing him, did not laugh. He glanced at the black rod of dark iron and said gravely: "Junior Brother Zhang, begin!"

Zhang Qingyue looked at his opponent. Behind that burning flame, Peng Chang stood like an ancient fire god, wholly transformed; the blazing fire sent wisps of smoke drifting through the air, blurring even his face.

Gripping the black rod tightly, Zhang Qingyue felt once more that sensation of flesh and blood joined, as though the rod knew its master's heart; that icy coolness boiled up once again.

The black, ugly rod of dark iron slowly rose into the air, leaving his palm, scattering a dark blue-green light. Ugly it was, and faint, yet as it hung there in midair, facing that mighty flame before it—a flame that seemed irresistible, all-powerful—it, and its master, showed not the slightest thought of retreat.

One man, one rod of dark iron, facing the whole world!

Below the platform, the laughter slowly subsided; the people held their breath, none knowing why.

That great mass of flame grew ever more violent; none could tell what it burned to blaze so fiercely. The Fenghui Peak disciples far below felt the scorching heat press upon them, and the weaker ones among them even fell back. Some who knew better, like Senior Brother Gao, changed countenance—anyone could see that Peng Chang was in no mind to show mercy now; he was fighting with all his strength, as though for life and death.

The fire-dragon grew larger still, its claws and fangs all but covering the air above the platform. Seen from afar, Zhang Qingyue standing there—his clothes, his trousers, even the tips of his hair and brows—seemed on the verge of being scorched; one could well imagine what it must feel like to stand within a furnace, and the thought made the flesh creep.

Yet the youth stood there, pain on his face but no retreat, fear in his eyes but such fervor—the flame in the depths of his heart seemed to burn in his gaze as well.

With a shriek, the vast fire-dragon lunged, devouring all beneath heaven.

It seemed a single instant, yet it froze a lifetime.

Zhang Qingyue threw back his head and let out a long cry; the dark iron rod, its blue-green light unwavering, plunged into the flame.

A great roar and a shrill scream rang through the blazing fire, deafening.

Below the platform, Senior Brother Gao and the others looked at one another; after a long moment, they stamped their feet and sighed: "How did it come to this!"