Chapter 27 — Self-Respect

Why, why must it always be him alone against everyone, not a single friend in sight!

A boy of sixteen cried out silently in his heart, bit stubbornly at his lip, and lowered his head.

The mountain wind came slowly, brushing past his cheek.

"Dang!"

The bells and bronze chimes sounded almost at once, near and far, echoing over the summit of Jietian Peak and carrying far away. Zhang Qingyue's heart jumped, and his first thought was: Senior Sister Ling'er must have begun her bout as well; she must not get hurt.

Then a bitterness rose in his heart, and he thought: Whether she is hurt or not is no business of yours. Never mind that the master and mistress are both there; even Qi Hao said he would settle his opponent as fast as he could and hurry over. Heh heh, settle his opponent as fast as he could. What a show of prowess, what confidence, as though his opponent were a thing of no account at all.

Thinking thus, he quite forgot that he too stood on 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 find that a Fenghui Peak senior brother had at some point taken his place across from him: a tall, powerfully built man with a rather mild manner, though just now, seeing Zhang Qingyue dazed, his expression had turned involuntarily peculiar.

Zhang Qingyue's face went scarlet, and from below the platform came a burst of laughter.

Peng Chang cupped his hands with a smile. "This one is Peng Chang, disciple of Fenghui Peak. I ask Junior Brother Zhang for instruction."

Zhang Qingyue hastily returned the courtesy. "Zhang Qingyue, disciple of Dazhu Peak. I have seen Senior Brother Peng."

Greetings exchanged, Peng Chang smiled slightly and looked Zhang Qingyue up and down. Then he lowered his voice. "Junior Brother Zhang, Junior Brother Zeng has already told me of your situation. I—"

Zhang Qingyue trembled, and suddenly, beyond all restraining, it burst out of him: "Senior Brother Peng, please come at me with all you have."

Peng Chang was taken aback. He studied Zhang Qingyue carefully, and after a long moment his smile faded; he nodded, and his right hand traced an arc before him. With a ringing "zheng," an immortal sword sprang up, wreathed in red radiance, almost as though sheathed in burning flame.

"This sword is the Wu Gou, forged of thousand-year fire-copper. I ask Junior Brother Zhang for instruction." For some reason Peng Chang's whole manner had turned grave, his bearing severe, as though he spoke to a foe of equal strength.

Even at that distance Zhang Qingyue felt the scorching breath strike his face, and this heat was fierce and violent, utterly unlike the mild, upright air of Chu Yuhong's Shaoyang immortal sword of yesterday; there was a measure of tyranny in it.

Zhang Qingyue's heart raced despite himself; even at the thought of what he would face in a moment he was so tense that his body trembled faintly. But he gritted his teeth, mustered all his strength to master himself, and drew from his breast that black dark-iron rod.

From below the platform came a shrill burst of laughter.

Zhang Qingyue, as though pricked by a needle, flinched.

Peng Chang, facing him, did not laugh. He glanced at the black dark-iron rod and said solemnly, "Junior Brother Zhang, please!"

Zhang Qingyue looked at his opponent. Behind that burning flame Peng Chang was like some fire god of high antiquity, a different man altogether; the blazing fire set the air drifting with smoke, so that even his face seemed blurred.

Gripping the black rod tight, Zhang Qingyue felt once more that sensation of flesh and blood joined to flesh and blood; as though it knew its master's heart, that coolness began once more to seethe.

The black, ugly dark-iron rod slowly rose into the air, lifting from his palm, and gave off a dark-blue radiance. Ugly it was, and faint, yet there it stood in midair, facing the mighty flame ahead that seemed irresistible and all-powerful; and neither it nor its master showed the slightest thought of retreat.

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

Below the platform, the laughter slowly died away; the crowd, no one knew why, held its breath.

That vast ball of flame grew ever more furious, until no one could tell what it fed on to burn so violently. The Fenghui Peak disciples, far off below the platform, felt the searing heat pressing upon them, and the weaker ones among them even fell back. Those who understood what was happening—Senior Brother Gao and the rest—had gone pale. Anyone could see that Peng Chang was in no way holding back now; he was striking with all his strength, as though fighting for his very life.

The fire dragon swelled larger and larger, claws and fangs spread wide, all but covering the sky above the arena. From a distance, Zhang Qingyue standing there—his robe, his trousers, even the tips of his hair and brows—seemed already to show signs of scorching, and one could well imagine what it must feel like for him inside that furnace. It made the flesh crawl.

Yet the youth stood his ground, pain on his face but no thought of retreat, fear in his eyes and yet such fervor—the fire deep in his heart seemed to blaze in his eyes as well.

With a shriek, the vast fire dragon lunged and devoured all things in the world.

It seemed a single instant, and yet it froze a whole lifetime into stillness.

Zhang Qingyue threw back his head and loosed a long cry; the dark-iron rod blazed with blue-green light, and he plunged into the flames.

A great roar and a shrill scream, deafening within the blazing, roaring fire.

Below the platform, Senior Brother Gao and the others stared at one another. After a long while, he stamped his foot and sighed: "How did it come to this!"