Chapter 171 — Eleven

With a long sigh, his heart in turmoil, Ming Li had no more heart for the entanglement. He felt only that here and now was unbearably painful, and wished to leave; and deeper still was a bitter longing, a wish to be back in the Foxqi Mountains in the blink of an eye, to see Bili's face and pour out his heart to her.

Just then, ahead of him, Lin Jinghong had already sent a sword leaping into empty air, screaming toward him, azure light like lightning piercing the vault of heaven. Ming Li's face darkened; he retreated three steps in succession, and the Soul-devouring Demon Staff came crashing down, striking squarely on the Slaying Dragon sword's blade.

Lin Jinghong's body shook violently. He felt a bizarre and utterly unnatural bloody malevolence pass from that black staff, shaped like a rod of dark iron, and at the same time a strange drawing force that seemed to pull at his very essence and blood, about to surge outward, so that he could scarcely contain himself.

Lin Jinghong paled with fright, certain it was the supremely evil and inauspicious treasure in Ming Li's hand; but his nature was unyielding, and he was utterly unafraid. Instead of retreating he pressed forward, the Slaying Dragon sword rising again like a dragon sporting beneath the blade, heedless of the wide opening at his own chest, driving straight at Ming Li's face.

Ming Li's gaze flickered. If he struck now, though he would not escape grave injury himself, he was wholly certain he could kill Lin Jinghong. Yet gazing at that familiar face, a vision flashed through Ming Li's mind like lightning—the two of them at play as boys—and then, Bili's face.

In this world, how many people are left that I might cherish, still living among the living?

As though mocking himself, he asked this with a faint bitter smile, drew back the Soul-devouring Demon Staff, and leaped into the air, evading the crisis of that critical instant. But his bitter smile, seen through Lin Jinghong's eyes, seemed like mockery itself, and inflamed his fury to the heavens.

At that very moment, Ming Li, suspended in midair, suddenly trembled and looked into the distance. A white figure came drifting toward them swift as lightning; and when that person had seen clearly what was happening here, the figure too seemed to shudder, and upon a face of peerless beauty appeared an expression mingled of joy and shock, of sorrow and delight beyond telling—even the voice trembling faintly:

"You... it really is you..."

It was Lu Xueling.

Upon her snow-white cheeks, no one knew when it had begun—for the first time in her life, before others, two tears slipped quietly down.

That man stared at her, astonished, as she descended slowly through the air—that face so familiar, the longing graven on her heart for how many years?

When she had thought him dead after all, what grief and anguish had been hers! Were there not others present now, she would have flung herself into his arms and wept her fill.

Who would choose a lifetime of lonely bitterness?

Who would choose to pass the days in solitude?

If love were not so deep it could not be restrained, how could a tender heart be turned a hundredfold and grow cold as frost!

Ming Li seemed dazed as well. He opened his mouth as though to say something, but no words came out. Unexpectedly, just then, Lin Jinghong behind him did not stay his hand; the Slaying Dragon sword came on like wind and fire, and with a great shout he swept in once more.

Ming Li started awake and whirled to meet the foe, but he had already lost the advantage; the azure radiance dazzled, about to reach him, and the murderous qi on Ming Li's face surged, the Blood-devouring Pearl blazing red in an instant.

And at that critical juncture, suddenly, as though a memory from some former time, something stirred faintly and woke again.

A pale hand reached out from beside him and took Ming Li's wrist. Ming Li's body shuddered; suddenly all the strength in his body seemed to vanish, and a passion about to burst forth from the deepest place surged up in his heart. A humming filled the depths of his mind, and he turned his head sharply, a cry of "Bili" about to break from his lips.

But he stopped short in astonishment. The one standing before him, robes of white fluttering, was Lu Xueling.

"Qiang lang..."

Like a phoenix crying across the nine heavens, clear and sweet, the Celestial Dipper divine sword flowed forth from its sheath like autumn water and with one stroke turned aside the unstoppable Slaying Dragon sword—and Lu Xueling placed herself before Ming Li.

Upon that delicate, lovely face was boundless tenderness—and what did she care, then, for all the world?

Lin Jinghong shouted angrily, "Sister Lu, have you gone mad?"

Lu Xueling's body trembled, as though waking from a dream. Then she turned her head silently and gazed at Ming Li, her eyes misty and tender; with a soft smile she slowly released his hand.

"Mad..." Lu Xueling smiled faintly, her eyes seeming to hold only Ming Li's likeness. "I must have gone mad long ago!" she said softly.

Ming Li was silent. The murderous qi on his face dispersed; only pain crossed his features, and he bowed his head in silence.

Lin Jinghong was stunned. A hush fell over the field, if only for a moment.

Then, in that instant, a tremendous crash came from the heavens, so loud it seemed to shake the earth. The mountain range convulsed violently, and even the three of them, for all their cultivation, could not keep their footing.

All three were startled. They raised their heads and gazed at the sky, and there, above the blue clouds, that cataclysm of the age had at last reached its final moment.

********

Blazing white light, dazzling to the eye—no one could any longer make out the figure within that halo. All people saw was the radiance in the sky illuminating the whole vault of heaven, until even the rising sun at the horizon lost its color.

And across the entire sky, the Slaying Immortals formation, once so grand and manifold, now held only a single master sword—yet the power implied within it seemed greater still than the countless sword shadows that had filled the heavens. Ever more intense white light shot from the halo around Daoist Zhenren Daoyan onto the master sword; the sword's color shifted from seven hues to one, from a single white to pure white, its radiance flooding ten thousand fathoms, as though it were a mad sword about to pierce the sky and be gone.

In the wild wind, the Beast Sovereign stood poised above the clouds, gazing at that divine sword ahead—a blade that did not look as though it should ever have appeared in the mortal world—and across its hideous face crept a trace of bewilderment.

Under the expectant gaze of thousands upon thousands, amid cheers that verged on revelry, the vast, blazing divine sword slowly stirred, turned about, and faced the Beast Sovereign. In but a moment, the black qi surrounding the Beast Sovereign was driven back several fathoms by that white light, as though by natural enmity.

Deep within the white light, someone seemed to be breathing hard—a hoarse sound, like a savage beast's low growl, like a cornered animal's roar.

The Beast Sovereign stared fixedly at the divine sword and the mass of white light ahead. After a long while, he suddenly burst out laughing. His voice had always been hoarse and ugly; now, laughing with abandon, it was all the more grating—everyone who heard it turned their faces away.

The Beast Sovereign laughed on, his manner frantic, as though in his mind there existed some thing in this world more ridiculous than all else. Yet in the end he did nothing but laugh wildly, and spoke not a single word more.