Chapter 225 — The Wound

He laughed on, greatly pleased; then, as though remembering something, his smile eased and he said gravely to Master Gui, "My thanks to you."

Master Gui bowed his head slightly. "That this peerless array can succeed is all owing to the Sect Master's boundless fortune. And without this divine artifact, the Fulong Cauldron, I too would have been helpless."

The Nether King smiled and shook his head. "The Fulong Cauldron is the great treasure of our Palace of the Nether King, yet for many years none could fathom the inscriptions upon it. Only you, in the end, lent this old man a hand. Heaven sent you to me, that I might achieve my dominion!"

Master Gui was silent a moment. "The Sect Master flatters me."

The Nether King gave a soft laugh, then turned again, his gaze falling once more upon the Fulong Cauldron—suspended in the void, blazing with light, pressing upon the senses with its auspicious aura. Again a look of wild, exultant joy swept over his eyes, and he could not help but burst once more into laughter.

Master Gui stood quietly behind the Nether King, watching that ever more arrogant and reckless bearing, and said not a word. Were anyone who knew the Nether King to enter this place now, they would surely be astonished; the Nether King had always been a man of great ambition and deep reserve, never showing such brash, overweening expression. Yet seeing it now, Master Gui showed not the slightest surprise.

Whether it was because he had grown used to the Nether King in their many private hours together, or because his own thoughts ran too deep for any outsider to read—none could say.

In any case, above the vast blood pool in that hidden mountain belly, amid the thick stench of blood, the Nether King exulted in his schemes for what was to come. His gloating laughter echoed and would not fade, gradually filling the whole enormous cavern. And behind him stood a quiet shadow, silent and soundless.

At the foot of Canglan Mountain.

That strange layer of black cloud in the sky had, at some point, gradually dispersed, though the clouds remained thick. From the pitch-black heavens the rain still fell, washing over this somewhat desolate mortal world.

Over the wild land the wind blew hard and the rain came in torrents, the chill biting to the bone. The place that had so recently been an abandoned mortuary had, after a fierce and soul-shaking battle, become utterly a ruin; even the earth beneath had been torn open by the violence of mighty forces, and now, scoured by wind and rain, had turned to filthy mire.

The sky was murky, without a trace of light. In the wild, in the wind and rain, only a wisp of pale blue light glimmered faintly.

Lu Xueling, who had always loved cleanliness, had her white robes soiled with mud, but she seemed not to care in the least. Not far before her lay quietly the body of Tian Buhui; his eyes were closed, and he was calm as though asleep. Wind and rain beat upon his face, and in the wind there was a sound like sobbing, as though someone wept.

Ming Li still had not awakened. By the pale blue glow of Tianxuan one could see that his face was as white as a dead man's, his features twisted with pain. Had it not been for the faint rise and fall of his chest, one might almost have taken him for dead. He was held now in Lu Xueling's arms; Tianxuan shone quietly, and in the small space around the two of them an invisible force held back the raindrops.

Not far in front of them, the monkey Xiaohui had lost its usual liveliness and sat quietly on the ground. The rain falling from the sky soaked its fur, and now and then drops ran down its face and body to the earth. A cold wind blew past, and all three of Xiaohui's eyes blinked; as though it felt the chill, it quietly edged a little closer to Ming Li's body.

Lu Xueling raised her head in silence and glanced at Xiaohui, then reached out and gently lifted it into the halo of Tianxuan, letting it lie upon Ming Li's body. Xiaohui looked at Lu Xueling and gave a soft "chitter-chitter," then slowly lowered its head again and rested it against Ming Li's chest. Its head tipped to one side, its eyes fixed on something not far ahead—the quiet body of Tian Buhui.

Like a dream? Like an illusion!

It had seemed a long and lingering dream, yet there was no joy in it at all; for when it reached its end, one found it had been a nightmare all along.

Ming Li's body stirred. On his pale face the grief seemed to deepen; a moment later, with a groan of pain, he slowly came to.

There was light before his eyes—a pale blue radiance, drifting gently around him.

There were sounds about him—the sounds of wind and rain, wind driving the rain, rain and wind sighing.

Xiaohui, lying against Ming Li's chest, suddenly sat up straight and looked at him.

The cold wind blew past once more.

Ming Li trembled slightly, and then he saw Lu Xueling's gaze—that face as pale as his own, the only one to keep him company on this night of wind and rain.

The corner of Ming Li's mouth quivered faintly.

The pain in his chest had eased greatly. Ming Li glanced down at it and saw it bound with seven or eight strips of white cloth of varying width, plainly torn in haste from garments. His mind was clearing now, and he soon realized that the broken bones in his chest had all been set one by one. Yet Tian Buhui's palm strike had been truly formidable; his whole network of energy channels had been shaken and wounded, and though Lu Xueling had tended him afterward, he would likely need many days to recover.

At that thought he turned instinctively, and soon saw the master who had raised him to manhood. Ming Li did not speak; he seemed to lack even the strength for speech. In the wind and rain, Tian Buhui's face, spattered with water, lay silently in the filthy mud.

Who could have known it would come to this after his death?

With a low, hoarse cry in his throat, Ming Li rolled from Lu Xueling's arms into the mud, then struggled to crawl toward Tian Buhui's body. Lu Xueling started and instinctively reached out to hold him back, but as her hand touched him she heard Ming Li say softly, "Don't pull me."

Lu Xueling stood woodenly, slowly drawing back her outstretched hand. Her eyes followed Ming Li as he left the halo of Tianxuan and crawled, step by painful step, toward Tian Buhui's body. The wind and rain came on without mercy, soon soaking him through, and along the way the muddy mire splashed over his body.

The monkey Xiaohui followed at Ming Li's side. Seeing its master in such a state, it seemed anxious; now and then it leaped close and stretched out both hands to pull him along, but Ming Li was far too large for Xiaohui, and the little monkey could not manage it. In its worry it gave several "chitter-chitter" cries.

At last Ming Li reached Tian Buhui's side; what he touched was already cold. His teeth clenched tight, his body trembling faintly, he gazed at Tian Buhui before him as though a wanderer returning home after many years found nothing at the end but despair.

Drops of water fell from his face onto Tian Buhui's stiffened cheek.

The wind and rain grew fiercer.

His gaze came slowly to rest on Tian Buhui's chest. The garments had been straightened at some point, yet the huge, dreadful wound was still shocking to behold. Ming Li felt as though his whole body had been pierced; he went rigid.

Then he slowly turned and looked back.

Behind him was Lu Xueling's lone, desolate figure. In the wind and rain she silently met his gaze, her face pale and bloodless, her hands clenched into fists within her sleeves, her nails driven deep into her own flesh.

What bitterness lay in that one exchanged glance?

The expression on Ming Li's face slowly grew blank; even the first grief and agony faded, leaving only blankness. Blankly he turned his head away and looked again at Tian Buhui. The wind and rain blew over them, and at some point a few spots of mud from the ground had spattered onto Tian Buhui's face.