Chapter 163 — Fierce Battle
The Sword Questions the Heavens · Page 3 of 5
Everything around him vanished once more, and the whole world was again left to just the two of them. Zhang Qingyue—no, as he now appeared, his entire being seemed to have been transformed into a demon. The ferocious, blood-red glow had once again taken possession of his eyes, and from head to toe he radiated an aura of murderous intent. With a soft "pu," the garment over his chest split apart, and the Soul-Devouring Demon Staff rose, flickering with a dim red light, and came to rest across his breast.
Pu Zhao's gaze finally wavered. Slowly he looked toward that baleful object. At the tip of the Soul-Devourer, the "Blood-Devouring Bead" now blazed with light, and the faint, dark red veins threading through the bead's body seemed, in turn, to be gazing back at him with a cold, mocking smile.
A monstrous stench of blood suddenly appeared out of nowhere from the figure of Ming Li ahead, then came surging over like mountains and seas. As though swept by a gale, Pu Zhao's monk's robes flapped wildly. He stood staring blankly as that hideous red glow, fraught with despair, charged at him like a cornered beast.
He made no move to evade at all. He stood there without stirring an inch. The next moment, that desperate, ferocious red light passed through his body, slowly came to a halt behind him, and coalesced into the figure of Ming Li.
The aged monk slowly lowered his head and took a slow look at his own body. Then, as though with a sigh, his head drooped, and he toppled slowly to one side. Behind him, Ming Li whirled around and stared at Pu Zhao, the expression on his face shifting violently like a raging storm. Gradually, the ferocious look faded, and grief welled up once more. The red glow in his eyes dimmed. He stared woodenly at that frame that seemed slowly to be losing its life, and in an instant let out a heart-rending, rending howl!
"Ah!..."
The black demon staff fell to the ground. He seemed to lose all his strength in that instant. Thunder rumbled across the sky, lightning flashed and thunder roared, and in the sighing wind and rain, a chill settled over his heart.
He staggered toward Pu Zhao, the ground beneath his feet seeming to turn to mire, every step draining the last of his strength. Again and again he fell, and again and again he crawled back up, using every ounce of his power to crawl toward that gaunt, withered body. At last, he struggled to Pu Zhao's side.
In one motion, he clutched that withered hand tightly. Over these ten-odd years, this had been the dearest palm of all—and now, holding it in his own, his eyes were blurred with tears.
"Master... Master..."
He choked, crying out in a low voice, tears streaming down his face, a note of hysteria in it: "Why, why—why is it like this?"
With great effort, Pu Zhao turned his head and looked at this youth who seemed once more to have become the helpless boy of years ago. He did not answer. His face was so pale, and his lips stirred faintly—but in the end, he said nothing more.
The withered hand slowly rose, reaching toward the young man's face before him. That hand trembled ceaselessly in the wind and rain, as though the wind's blade and the rain's arrows all fell upon it. Zhang Qingyue stopped weeping, lifted his head, and looked at him.
Their gazes met in the wind and rain, held, congealed, came to a standstill, grew strange, grew distant...
Pu Zhao's lips moved, as though he wished to say something, but he did not. Then his hand fell gently, without the slightest sound.
Life, it seemed, departed in an instant!
The youth was struck dumb, his whole body rigid as though turned to stone. Slowly he lowered his head and looked at his own two hands: "I killed him, I killed him..."