Chapter 142 — Calamity

Lin Jinghong fell silent. But seeing the old man's haughty expression, and hearing him dismiss Daoist Tianyun and those other chiefs of Qingyun who had once shaken the world as mere trash—were such words to spread abroad, they would be a shocking joke. Yet somehow, as Lin Jinghong heard them now, he did not doubt them in the slightest.

The old man turned his head and looked at Lin Jinghong. "Though you can now unleash this 'Beheading Ghosts and Gods,' this true-art sword formula is fierce and utterly yang in nature; its power is great, but it drains one's vital essence greatly as well. Your gifts are extraordinary, and at such a young age you have already mastered this art—but you must still cultivate ceaselessly before you can wield it freely. Unless at a moment of dire peril, it is best not to use this true-art sword formula."

Lin Jinghong knelt before him and said respectfully, "Yes, this disciple understands."

The old man raised him up, studied him for a few moments, and a trace of pride crossed his face. "In the world today, within the Canglan Sect and without, all say that the 'Divine Sword Summoning Thunder True Formula' is our sect's supreme true art. But what a figure our Patriarch Qingye was in his day! He compiled the arts handed down by the patriarchs before him, and joined to them what he himself had comprehended from the nameless ancient scrolls, and passed down in all four true-art sword formulas—and which of them is not a peerless true art of unmatched power?"

"What?" Lin Jinghong was startled. "There's such a thing? My master... he never told me any of this."

The old man shook his head slightly. "Your master does not know either."

Lin Jinghong's shock at this was even greater. In his day, Daoist Cangyan's standing in the Canglan Sect had been such that he stood below one man and above ten thousand—yet this old man said even he did not know. And in truth, Daoist Cangyan had indeed never spoken of it to him.

His curiosity about this old man's identity and origins grew all the more.

The old man's eyes, full of the experience of a long, weathered life, merely swept across his face and at once read the young man's thoughts. Yet he did not say so outright; instead his brows suddenly knitted, as though he had caught some sound or movement, and his gaze flicked toward the distance.

After a moment he drew his gaze back, an odd expression on his face, then said mildly, "It grows late. You had best go back first."

Lin Jinghong was truly reluctant to leave, but he had always revered this old man as a god and did not dare disobey. So he knelt properly once more and knocked his head three times, then turned and departed.

Soon only the old man remained on the ground. He was silent for a long while, then his body resumed its stooped bearing; he shuffled to one side, set his broom dancing, and raised the dust. As he swept up the stones and dirt, those hidden mystic talismans were lifted as lightly as if weightless and drifted into the dust.

Having tidied that open ground and haphazardly filled the great pit Lin Jinghong had struck into the earth with the stones, barely leveling it, the old man seemed somewhat winded and weary. He stood resting a while, then slowly turned and walked back into the great hall of the Ancestral Hall.

Within the great hall, all was as peaceful and dim as ever. Before the countless spirit tablets enshrined deep within, candles flickered point by point, burning in silence.

But now there was, unexpectedly, another figure standing before those tablets, tall and upright.

The man wore a dark green Daoist robe, with the air of an immortal—none other than the present head of the Canglan Sect, the Perfected Man Daoyan.

Hearing the footsteps, the Perfected Man Daoyan turned and glanced toward the old man, but said nothing. He turned back to the ancestral tablets, stepped forward, took three slender sticks of incense from the offering table before them, lit them at the candle flame nearby, bowed three times with the incense held reverently, and set them in the censer.

"It has been some time since I came to offer incense," said the Perfected Man Daoyan, his voice calm and slow, as though speaking to a very, very old friend. "I wonder whether the patriarchs will hold it against me."

The old man behind him shuffled forward unsteadily, leaned his broom against the side, took up a rag, and gently wiped the incense ash from the offering table. "You have made our Canglan Sect flourish and prosper," he said softly. "The patriarchs can scarcely contain their joy—how could they hold anything against you?"

The Perfected Man Daoyan smiled faintly and turned to look at him. Suddenly he said, "You seem to have aged a little more."

The old man's body paused for a moment, then he went on wiping the table, without turning his head. "A man whose heart is already dead naturally ages faster."

The Perfected Man Daoyan gazed at the old man in silence and said no more. The old man slowly and carefully finished wiping the table, set the rag aside, turned to face the Perfected Man Daoyan, looked at him a while, and suddenly said, "You saw it all just now?"

The Perfected Man Daoyan nodded silently and said with a sigh, "That child's aptitude is indeed very high, but"—his voice seemed to rise a little—"I never imagined you would pass on 'Beheading Ghosts and Gods' to him."

The old man snorted. "That child's heart and aptitude are both good. So why not pass it on? Must everyone hoard it in secret like you, and carry it into the coffin when they die?"

The Perfected Man Daoyan's expression changed, as though anger stirred, but for some reason, before this old man—he, the leader revered by all the righteous paths of the world—was extraordinarily forbearing. Even at such mocking words he merely let his face change, then restrained himself.

"By the way, there is one more matter I should mention to you," said the Perfected Man Daoyan mildly.

The old man raised his head a little. "I am nothing but an old man with one foot in the grave. What matter could there be?"

The Perfected Man Daoyan said, "Today, a little later, the valley master of Fenxia Valley, Yun Yifeng, will lead his disciples here to Canglan Mountain to pay their respects to the mountain."

The old man's brows suddenly knitted. "Yun Yifeng?"

The Perfected Man Daoyan smiled. "You still remember him, then?"

The old man gave a cold laugh, turned his head away, and his voice suddenly took on a meaningful tone. "That one—he's an old fox through and through..."

The southern borderlands, the Qili Dong mountain range.

Here lay a stretch of rolling, unbroken mountains, spreading outward from the Qili Dong valley as their center. These hills had always been a place of dense forests and green waters and blue hills, but now they had utterly lost their former appearance.

A cold,阴 wind descended from the sky, howling through the mountains like the wailing of ghosts. The sky was covered in black clouds, pressing low—somewhat like the day the Li tribe had invaded Qili Dong, yet the menace now was far beyond comparison with that day.

And the forests, once teeming with every kind of bird and beast, had now been turned into a hell on earth. Everywhere were monstrous beasts and alien races of every description, everywhere the slaughtered corpses of birds and animals—a scene of blood and gore.

With a long cry, a pure figure came sweeping in from the distance, rising and falling a few times before arriving close at hand—it was none other than Qinglong.

His face was stern, his clothes long since stained with blood. A fierce wind swept past as he paused on a branch jutting out sideways, cast a quick glance all around, then looked behind him.