Chapter 163 — Fierce Battle
The Sword Questions the Heavens · Page 2 of 5
Outside the Yuheng Hall, Dao Yan Zhenren, Reverend Pu Cheng, and Yun Yifeng stood with solemn faces. Dao Yan Zhenren glanced at the other two, and they nodded as one. Yun Yifeng said, "Let it all be as you decide, Senior Brother."
Dao Yan Zhenren turned back without expression and gazed down the mountain a while longer. There upon the Cloud Sea, that wall of light was pinned fast beneath a vast black tide, and in several weak points it swayed on the verge of collapse, threatening to give way at any moment. Screams drifted up from time to time, and the smell of blood in the air grew ever thicker and more cloying.
His brows knit tightly, and he suddenly raised his head. High in the sky, the black clouds hung heavy, and as the wind and clouds raced past, that mysterious figure seemed faintly visible still. Dao Yan Zhenren stared long and deeply at it. After a moment, he turned his head, and Xiao Yichen, who had followed at his heels all along, stepped forward. Dao Yan Zhenren said mildly, "Go now!"
Xiao Yichen gave a word of assent and turned swiftly. With a sweep of his right hand, he rose into the air first, and behind him followed nearly a hundred righteous cultivators. Though fewer in number than those upon the Cloud Sea Plaza, the brilliance and dazzle of their treasures far surpassed those of the disciples below. At a glance, they were plainly the elite disciples of every branch of the righteous path, along with a number of wandering immortals. Led by Xiao Yichen, this company flew down toward the Cloud Sea, where the tide of battle pressed hardest.
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With a thunderous roar, lightning bolts darted wildly across the vault of heaven, as though he had returned to that rain of years long past. Only somehow, even on this rainy day, a strange moon still hung in the sky—very bright, very white.
The feeling of rain striking his face was so very cold...
Zhang Qingyue turned his head back woodenly. Wind and rain sighed on and on, and that tiny village had at last quietly faded from sight. Involuntarily he stretched out his hand, wanting to grasp something, but found nothing at all. Only behind him, Pu Zhao's eyes rested quietly upon his figure.
The next moment, he found himself in that familiar room. The scent that seemed peculiar to Dazhu Peak rose all around him, so intimate, so familiar. In the distance came the sound of his fellow disciples talking and laughing, the playful scuffling of Da Huang and Xiao Hui, and then that familiar footfall—a young girl, her face like a flower, came bursting into the room, crying with a laugh, "Lazybones, get up! Up the mountain for chores—we're going to cut bamboo..."
His whole body shook. All at once, the dam he had built around his heart over decades shattered, and collapsed.
Tears streamed down his face!
A withered hand reached out from behind and patted his shoulder gently. That kindly voice asked in a low whisper, "What is it, child? Why are you crying?"
Zhang Qingyue whipped around and looked at that compassionate face, his body tensing despite himself. He stared deeply into the eyes before him, as though he would see straight into the depths of this kindly old monk's heart—but Pu Zhao's gaze was ever so calm and yet so profound. Strive as he might, he could never see through it.
Word by word, as though in a low growl, he asked, "Why—why—why did you choose me? Why did you do this?"
Pu Zhao did not answer. He only gazed at Zhang Qingyue with that same sorrowful compassion for the world. In his eyes there was nothing but mercy and calm—no ripple of emotion to be seen, let alone any hint of regret!