Chapter 77 — Five

Within the great hall, Daoist Daoyan had still not returned, yet among the assembled crowd a low murmur of whispered speculation was already spreading.

When Shui Yue and her two disciples came walking back, the others had ranged themselves on either side, while Zhang Qingyue still knelt alone upon the floor. Xueqi seemed to hesitate a moment, but after Shui Yue's stern gaze swept across her, she at last went silently to stand behind her.

A short while later, Daoist Daoyan slowly emerged from the rear hall and returned to his seat, and the great hall fell instantly silent.

Yet Daoyan did not at once question Zhang Qingyue; instead, with an apologetic countenance, he turned to the monk Pucheng beside him and said, "Brother Pucheng, my disciples have been rude, and I must beg your pardon for this spectacle."

Pucheng smiled faintly and pressed his palms together. "What words are these, Brother Daoyan!"

At this moment Daoist Cangyan stepped forward, carrying Zhang Qingyue's black iron staff in his hands, and laid it upon the tea table at Daoyan's side. Daoyan's brows knit slightly, and he looked toward him with a trace of puzzlement in his eyes.

Daoist Cangyan said in a low voice, "Senior brother, after you departed just now, matters fell into some confusion. This object is of grave consequence, and to guard against mishap I took it into my keeping; now I return it here."

Daoyan nodded. "My thanks for your care, junior brother."

Daoist Cangyan thereupon withdrew, and Daoyan's gaze returned once more to Zhang Qingyue. The whole assembly tensed at once, knowing that the next moment would in all likelihood decide this young man's fate.

"Zhang Qingyue, I ask you one last time—have you anything to say?"

Beads of sweat were beginning to stand out upon Zhang Qingyue's brow; the situation had in truth sunk to the lowest ebb. Yet he had spent many years in the Canglan Sect and knew well how the orthodox sects abhorred any prying into another's secret transmissions. If he truly spoke out, his own fate was uncertain enough—but the monk Puzhao, long since laid in the earth, would likely lose more than his good name; even the burial place of his dharma bones would be torn out from the Rebirth Pagoda of the Fanyin Temple.

And more than that—Puzhao was one of the four great divine monks of the Fanyin Temple. Whether anyone would even believe him was a further question still.

There he sat, torn within, now recalling Puzhao's face and voice, now the deep grace of his own sect; yet to betray Puzhao was no different from being ordered to his death, and in so short a time he could by no means think it through.

But no one in that great hall was willing to grant him any more time.

Daoyan watched as Zhang Qingyue, having heard his question, let his face shift through light and shadow; though beads of sweat stood on his brow, he still did not utter a single word. And then, recalling how the disciples had pleaded for him but moments before, there suddenly rose and blazed within the depths of his heart a nameless fire that had lain dormant for many years.

It was as though a hundred years ago that white-robed figure had knelt thus in the Jade Balance Hall, before the images of the Three Pure Ones, before all the masters and elders—aye, even amid the desperate pleadings of his fellow disciples—and yet remained so arrogant, so overbearing, looking down upon the whole world.

Shui Yue, seated at the very back, watched Daoyan's face from afar; her body gave a shudder, a flicker of sorrow passed through her eyes, and she slowly bowed her head.

"Bang!"

A great crash—and the assembly was struck with horror!

Daoist Daoyan seemed at last to have lost all patience; he rose abruptly to his feet, pointed at Zhang Qingyue, and raged, "Wretched spawn! In those years I took pity on your wretched birth and kept you within the Canglan Sect—never did I think I was rearing a tiger to my own ruin!"

Zhang Qingyue's body swayed; he lifted his head, mouth agape, as though he wished to say something.

But Daoyan's face was like ice and frost as he said coldly, "If I do not rid us of this wretched spawn today, how shall the Canglan Sect answer to the orthodox world? So be it—let me then grant you this—"

The assembly paled. Tian Buhui sprang to his feet; among the crowd Xueqi, Tian Lingsu, Lin Jinghong and the rest went white as sheets; even the divine monk Pucheng of the Fanyin Temple, seated nearby, seemed faintly moved to pity, and said to Daoyan in a low voice, "Brother Daoyan, ought this not be reconsidered—"

Daoyan gave a cold snort. "This wretched spawn bears a demonic relic upon his person and has committed the gravest taboo of our orthodox path; his sins are profound." With that he casually picked up the black iron staff lying on the tea table and said, "Today I shall let you die beneath this demonic relic of your own—"

A great humming filled Zhang Qingyue's skull, and his mind went blank. All before his eyes seemed to lose its color; he saw only, dimly, Daoyan raising his arm, his master Tian Buhui livid, seeming about to speak, and the Qingyun disciples around them thrown into confusion.

In that great hall, blood was about to be spilled within five paces.

"Ya!"

Suddenly a great cry rang out, freezing the whole assembly, and every face changed. In the midst of that horror, it was Daoist Daoyan himself—his body convulsing violently—who gave a furious roar and flung the black iron staff from him as though it had scalded his hand.

The black iron staff traced a dark arc through the air and struck the ground, clanging and rebounding several times, until it rolled to a stop right before Zhang Qingyue.

And it was at this very moment that all present saw a dark shape fly up from the staff, hover for a moment in midair, and give off a shrill chirring sound.

It was a strange breed of centipede, the size of a palm, gorgeously colored, with no fewer than seven forked tails at its rear. Now it quivered aloft, shaking its head and wagging its tail, its bearing arrogant beyond measure.

Zhang Qingyue was struck dumb; his whole body suddenly began to tremble faintly, his gaze fixed straight upon that monster in midair—that thing branded deep into his memory: "The Seven-Tailed Centipede!"

In an instant time seemed to flow backward like a roaring, surging torrent, bearing him back to that black night years ago—that night of blood when Puzhao duelled the mysterious man in black, and he lost everything he had in the same breath!

His whole body shook; the boundless reek of blood that rose from the depths of his heart wrapped him round. He reached out and seized the black iron staff in a death grip!

But at this moment no one marked Zhang Qingyue's strangeness at all; every eye and every scrap of attention was fixed upon Daoist Daoyan.

The presiding elders of the Canglan Sect were men whose experience and insight far surpassed the common run; in the blink of an eye they had surrounded Daoist Daoyan—above all, separating him from that Seven-Tailed Centipede. And when the crowd looked upon Daoyan, they could not help but blanch.

They saw Daoyan's right hand trembling, and upon his middle finger a wound plainly visible—clearly inflicted by the Seven-Tailed Centipede. In but that brief space the blood flowing from it had already turned black; and worse still, from the wound at his fingertip a shockingly dark qi was creeping upward at a speed almost visible to the eye.

The Seven-Tailed Centipede was famed as the most venomous creature under heaven; even a man of Daoyan's attained stature was laid low by it.