Chapter 36 — The Fiend

Zhang Qingyue felt a stir within him; it seemed this Senior Brother Facheng truly did regard him with special favor. Still, he answered with a smile.

Qi Hao nodded, cupped his hands to Facheng and the others, and led Zhang Qingyue and the other two into the left fork. They had gone only a few paces when the light behind them shifted and slowly faded—it seemed Facheng and the others had entered the right fork.

Qi Hao walked at the very front, the ** Mirror raised above his head. He urged on his immortal power, and the mirror's pale yellow halo spilled down, enclosing the four of them within it.

This fork was much narrower than the cavern they had come through. The rock on either side jutted out in jagged, sharp clusters, and Zhang Qingyue, careless once, nearly drew blood. The one thing unchanged was the eternal darkness around them; here, it seemed, a ray of light had never once shone.

None of the four Canglan Sect disciples had the heart for talk—least of all Qi Hao at the front, wholly absorbed in watching for the unknown dangers ahead.

They walked on, and on. So long that Zhang Qingyue could not help wondering: even if they met demon cult fiends on their side and gave the long whistle, would Senior Brother Facheng's party even hear it?

Just then, something changed. In the passage where they walked, amid the darkness and stillness that seemed eternal, there suddenly rose a great wailing of ghosts—"wu wu"—deafening, chilling to the heart.

The four started violently. Qi Hao had just opened his mouth to warn them when his body shook. From every direction, out of the endless dark, strange lights of every hue flared to life and shot all at once toward the four in the passage, striking the halo of the ** Mirror.

So great was the force that even the ** Mirror swayed, and Qi Hao's whole body convulsed with the shock. He could not speak a word; he hurried to steady his mind and pour more power into the treasure's defense.

The ghostly wailing grew louder and louder, until it made the head swim and the eyes blur. Zeng Shuyan, Lu Xueqi, and Zhang Qingyue guarded Qi Hao in their center, and watched as countless beams of light were flung back by the ** Mirror, wheeled about in midair, and then came savagely sweeping back in again. In the darkness, who could tell how many enemies were hidden, or how many enchanted weapons flew through the air?

Qi Hao's face was pale, his hands locked in the mudra. Though the enchanted weapons of the outside besieged them, the ** Mirror steadied by degrees, its halo brightening—and just as the Canglan Sect disciples were about to breathe easy, Zhang Qingyue suddenly felt the hard ground beneath his feet shift.

His heart lurched; before he could react, Zeng Shuyan cried out in alarm, "Careful—underfoot, there's—"

Before the words were out, a great roar drowned out even the howling all around. In that instant the whole place seemed to heave like an earthquake, and a vast force burst up from beneath their feet, blasting the ground to fragments. The four Canglan Sect disciples were flung each in a different direction. The ** Mirror could guard what lay around them, but not what lay beneath. This blow, struck from within, scattered its light in an instant, and it fell back upon Qi Hao's hurtling form.

In the darkness countless beams of light shrieked past, as if in gloating, exultant laughter, and hurtled after the four where they had been scattered.

Zhang Qingyue, standing toward the front, was thrust from below by that great force, and his whole body flew helplessly forward. But after so many years of cultivation in the Canglan Sect, he was startled without being thrown into disorder. He brought the Dark Iron Staff, already in his hand, up before his chest, and the familiar chill of it coursed through his body. The staff gave off a faint dark-blue radiance in midair, and he leveled it at the several beams of light that came hard on his heels.

A moment later, one of them—a beam of dark red—rushed to the fore. Zhang Qingyue caught a reek of blood and nearly retched; he held his breath and drove the Dark Iron Staff, whose dark-blue light surged up to meet the dark-red beam. Strangely, beneath the staff's radiance, that dark-red light dimmed considerably.

Somewhere in the darkness, from an unknown place, came a low sound of startled doubt.

Just then, two more beams—one yellow, one gray—came rushing in as well and struck the Dark Iron Staff together. By their light Zhang Qingyue could now make out that the dark-red beam had been a small dark-red trident, heavily stained with blood; the yellow was a three-foot sword; and the gray was stranger still—a huge fang of some nameless beast!

Zhang Qingyue was still in midair, just regaining his balance, when these three enchanted weapons slammed into him. Though the Dark Iron Staff held them off in the air, the sheer force drove his whole body straight backward, beyond all control, and smashed him hard against the rock wall beside them—burying half of him in the stone, sending chips flying.

Stars burst before Zhang Qingyue's eyes; his back blazed with pain to the very marrow. But he knew this was the line between life and death. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he dropped to the ground—and saw the three deadly things wheel in the air and come savagely plunging down again.

In the darkness, where were the ones who controlled these weapons? There was no telling.

Zhang Qingyue parried left and right as best he could, gripped his mudra, and gave a sharp whistle. The Dark Iron Staff shot up into the air and clashed with the onrushing yellow flying sword and the beast fang; with a great crash they were all flung apart. He threw himself forward and rolled clear, and the other dark-red trident, hurtling after him, could not check its momentum—with a thunderous boom it struck the rock wall behind where he had stood, sending rubble flying and blasting a great hole in the stone.

By then the gray fang had swung back around and came smashing down from above, its cold-glinting tip standing out sharply in the dark. From the look of it, Zhang Qingyue needed no telling what would become of him if that uncanny weapon landed.

Zhang Qingyue clenched his teeth, slashed his hands through the air, and the Dark Iron Staff moved as his will commanded. A flash of blue light, and it appeared above his head to meet the fang. In midair there was only a low, muffled thud—and a crack appeared, stark and plain, upon the fang.

Far off, a cry rang out, full of anguish and astonishment.

But Zhang Qingyue had no time to savor that pitiful crumb of joy. The yellow flying sword came rushing at his face in an instant. He had no time to react; sweat stood on his brow. In that desperate moment he gave a great shout, his hands shook, and his whole body floated upward, merging into the dark-blue radiance of the Dark Iron Staff.

The yellow flying sword gave him not the slightest quarter. It banked in midair and came charging up again from below his feet. The fang above, the sword below—Zhang Qingyue's whole body trembled. He thought no more; he drew himself in and chanted a spell, and the Dark Iron Staff blazed with blue light, wrapping him round and round.

"Boom"—two great reports crashed out almost at once above his head and beneath his feet, and the enemy's two weapons rebounded. The Dark Iron Staff shuddered in the air. Zhang Qingyue gasped for breath, his heart all but stopping in that moment; in that fleeting haze he thought, almost by instinct, that he had seen the staff shatter to pieces.

But fortunately, this Dark Iron Staff—whose make no one knew—ugly as it was, proved unbelievably tough and wholly unmarked. The flying sword and the fang, by contrast, had dimmed; they were likely damaged. For all that, the staff had taken a heavy blow, and the blue light that had risen to shield Zhang Qingyue scattered away.