Chapter 27 — Self-Esteem

Zhang Qingyue clenched his teeth. "What am I, that I could use a treasure?" By the end his voice carried a catch of tears, and even that cool breath seemed startled by his grief, pulsing and leaping as though it had come alive.

Zhang Qingyue felt it, but paid it no mind, taking it only for the mountain wind chilling his body. He raised his head slowly and looked at the dark iron rod in his hand, and his mind drifted back to that year when he had gone with Tian Lingsu into the secluded valley—a time that now seemed like another life.

The threads of blood within the rod's dark blue-green deepened slowly, as though sensing something. Zhang Qingyue saw it by chance and his heart gave a jolt; he was startled, and at the same time he remembered Zeng Shuyan's words from the day. In his heart a sudden, irrepressible impulse surged up.

He closed his eyes.

In an instant, that cool sensation coursed through his whole body, yet with no chill in it at all. All around was silence, yet from the depths of his heart he heard with utter clarity a mad roar, as though countless wronged souls beneath the ninefold underworld were wailing, carrying endless resentment, rising seething upward.

White bones, fresh blood, shrill howls, the stench of gore!

Zhang Qingyue's eyes flew open and he gasped for breath—yet a moment later, he held his breath.

His hand lay flat and open, fingers some extended, some crooked, forming the shape of a mudra, while the black dark iron rod had already flown from his palm and hung suspended in midair, black vapor seething about it, blue light blazing forth.

In front of the rod, a tree in the woods facing him—one that had been full of life—had in that instant withered completely, its branches and leaves fallen away, as though something had drained all its life in a heartbeat.

For the first time in his life, Zhang Qingyue felt himself so intimately joined with this dark iron rod. Though the rod hung in midair, across that distance he clearly felt that he was holding it, and that familiar cool breath had grown mightier than ever before. Within it, it seemed, threads of an inexplicable fresh, pure air were being drawn from the black staff and coursed through his whole body.

Just then, from somewhere far behind him, came a low, deep roar. He turned in alarm and saw the waters of the jade-green pool suddenly thrown into chaos, as though something had been startled. He thought no more; by instinct he took to his heels and ran, swiftly reaching the Rainbow Bridge, and without once looking back he ran on until he had crossed the bridge and come to the sea of clouds, and could feel nothing strange behind him. Only then did he stop, gasping for breath.

After a long while, he gazed once more at the black dark iron rod in his hand. Now it was as it had always been—plain and unremarkable, lying ugly and quiet in his palm.

The next day, the Seven Branches Martial Contest of the Canglan Sect entered its third round.

There were sixteen Qingyun disciples, distributed neatly across eight platforms, all competing at once. Of the three from Dazhu Peak, Zhang Qingyue was assigned to the "Kan" platform, Song Dayi to the "Li" platform, and as for the bout between Tian Lingsu and Lu Xueqi, it was set upon the largest and most conspicuous platform of all—the "Qian" platform.

According to Zeng Shuyan—a friend Zhang Qingyue had known only three days yet already gotten along with famously well—the old fellows of the Canglan Sect had made a fine mess of the platform arrangements. Then again, who could blame them? The match between Lu Xueqi and Tian Lingsu had drawn every eye in the sect. Lu Xueqi, bearer of "Tianxuan," needed no introduction: these past days, whenever she took the platform, the young disciples of Canglan Sect had ringed it three layers deep, packed so tight not a drop could have seeped through. And Tian Lingsu of Dazhu Peak already bore a reputation within the sect for precocious brilliance; these two days she had shone all the more, cutting down strong foes in succession and drawing every gaze, her beauty unmatched besides—for a time she and Lu Xueqi were the talk of the sect, Ying and Yu of the age, and busybodies whispered comparisons in private.

Today these two—the finest young female disciples the Canglan Sect had produced in nearly a century—met far too early. Among the elders there might have been some regret, but the young disciples were all delight and jubilation, and they had long since packed the Qian platform tight as an iron barrel.

Song Dayi and Zhang Qingyue both stood before Tian Buhui to take their leave. Tian Buhui looked at Song Dayi and said: "Your opponent today is Chang Jian of the Long Peak faction. The man is patient and enduring, long practiced in the Dao, and his defensive arts are exceedingly strong—the very opposite of your immortal sword 'Ten Tigers.' Be careful."

Song Dayi said respectfully: "Yes, Master."

Something stirred in Zhang Qingyue's heart; the name seemed faintly familiar. He thought a while before recalling that five years ago, when he first climbed the mountain, it was Chang Jian who had led him and Lin Jinghong to the Yuheng Hall. At the thought, his heart turned again with longing for Lin Jinghong. He had heard that yesterday his childhood friend had also won his second bout, his strength outstanding, hailed by all as a prodigy—only Zhang Qingyue had no time to go and congratulate him.

Tian Buhui turned his eyes to Zhang Qingyue, standing beside Song Dayi—this unexpected youngest disciple, head bowed, silent. Tian Buhui frowned and said: "Old Seven, you be careful too. If you cannot manage, it is no shame to concede. Mind you do not get hurt."

Zhang Qingyue's body gave a start, though none could read what he felt within. He said only, softly: "Yes, Master."

Song Dayi glanced into the distance and said to Tian Buhui: "Master, it is getting late. Your youngest disciple and I will be going."

Tian Buhui nodded. Su Wan, standing to one side, smiled and said: "Take care, both of you."

Song Dayi answered and walked out of the crowd with Zhang Qingyue. Along the way he sensed that his youngest junior seemed not himself today, silent and sullen unlike his usual manner, and so he said to Zhang Qingyue: "Little Junior Brother, you have not said a word all day—are you nervous?"

Zhang Qingyue glanced at his eldest senior brother, forced a smile, and did not answer.

Song Dayi laughed openly and said: "Do not think too much of it, and do not weigh victory and defeat so heavily. Our master and mistress may care a great deal for face, but they will never blame you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Zhang Qingyue answered, while inwardly he thought: They expect nothing of me at all, so of course they will not blame me.

Song Dayi nodded. By now the two had emerged from the crowd—pushing in had been no easy matter, but getting out was quite effortless. Song Dayi chuckled and said: "Little Junior Brother, here we must part ways. Good luck to you; I hope you win another bout shortly." And without waiting for any response from Zhang Qingyue, he burst out laughing himself.

Zhang Qingyue sighed softly and walked on toward the platform where he was to compete.

Below the "Kan" platform, most of the Fenghui Peak disciples had gathered, and among them Zhang Qingyue spotted that senior brother surnamed Gao and his lot. Fenghui Peak was one of the great branches of the Canglan Sect, with over two hundred disciples, second only to the Long Peak faction of Jietian Peak and to Long Peak. Plainly the Fenghui Peak crowd had heard something from Zeng Shuyan; every face was relaxed, and they greeted Zhang Qingyue with friendly smiles and nods.