Chapter 25 — The Unexpected
劍問蒼天 · Page 5 of 7
A swell of feeling suddenly rose in Zhang Qingyue's heart. Five years ago he had been a village boy who knew nothing of the world, who had never dreamed there would be a day when he stood atop Jietian Peak to watch the sunrise. No—it was not that he had never dreamed of it; it was that he had simply never known such a beautiful sunrise could exist in this world.
In the blink of an eye, a life drifts vast and faint as white clouds.
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."