Chapter 4 — The Great Vow

To Zhang Qingyue, the clouds in the sky—white clouds, black clouds alike—had never come so close to the ground as these dark clouds tonight; the thunder had never been so deafening, nor the lightning so blinding that he could scarcely bear to look at it.

It was as if the sky itself were about to collapse.

He stood there dumbly, watching the man in black and the old monk inside the thatched temple glare at each other, each poised to unleash his magic.

Suddenly a thunderclap burst overhead, and as his ears rang with its blast, he saw a dazzling bolt of lightning split the heavens and strike the earth—landing upon the black-robed man's long sword.

In an instant the man's robes billowed up, his eyes wide open as if they would burst from his skull. Beneath the fierce glare of the lightning, the thatched temple was bright as day.

The lightning that bloomed on the sword's tip in the night was so beautiful that Zhang Qingyue held his breath—and in Puzhao's eyes, that strange fervor kindled once more.

"Is this the mighty power of the Daoist true arts?"

The man in black gave a great shout. Guiding with the sword formula of his left hand, he gathered all his strength and snapped his wrist. Thunder crashed; the lightning on the blade shot straight at Puzhao. Along its path, grass, trees, bricks and stones alike were blasted into the air—only the road down its center remained, seared with a deep, glowing scar.

Puzhao retreated three steps, dissolved his hand seals, and pressed his palms together. His face was solemn, a faint golden light seeping from his whole body, as he murmured low: "Compassion of my Buddha!"

With a crack, the seven remaining jade prayer beads before him shattered all at once, and in the space three feet before him they coalesced into a giant character—"Buddha"—its golden radiance so dazzling it could not be looked upon.

The next instant, the lightning and the Buddha character collided.

Zhang Qingyue suddenly felt his heart give one violent bound, as if all the blood in his body had reversed course in that instant. His limbs went weak, he could not breathe; he felt that in that one moment the wind had stopped, the thunder had ceased, the whole world had come to a halt.

Then, before he could even feel afraid, he was hurled backward through the air. He saw white light and golden brilliance, incomparably gorgeous, far surpassing the sun in the sky. The whole thatched temple burst asunder, blown outward in every direction—upward too—from the two men at its center.

His heart felt hollow and empty; he was aware only of the keen wind whistling past his ears.

He was frightened, and instinctively tried to curl himself up, but his will had no strength to command his limbs. He could only let himself drift toward some unknown place.

A thought surfaced in his mind: Am I going to die?

A violent terror rushed upon him all at once; he broke into a cold sweat and trembled slightly.

When death stands before you, how should you face it?

He fainted, and knew nothing more.

Puzhao came slowly toward them, tottering, Zhang Qingyue and Lin Jinghong tucked beneath his arms. He reached a somewhat cleaner patch of ground, set the two children gently down, and was at once seized by agony so fierce it felt as though his whole body would split apart. He could hold out no longer, and slumped down where he stood.

He looked at his chest. Through the scorched, foul-smelling monk's robe he could dimly make out a black vapor that had gradually encircled his chest, leaving only a small spot over his heart untouched.

He gave a bitter laugh and reached into his robe. His hand shook badly; after a long while he slowly drew out a red pill, about the size of a fingertip, smooth and unremarkable.

Puzhao sighed and said in a low voice: "To think the Ghost Physician was right after all. In the end I must still take his 'Three-Day Death Pill.'"

He hesitated a moment, then at last nodded and swallowed the pill.

Then he lifted his head and looked toward the distant mountains.

At last rain began to fall from the sky.

Canglan Mountain stood amid wind and rain, hazy and mysterious.

"Daoist arts are truly wondrous—they can command the powers of the gods themselves. If they were cross-checked with our Buddhist teachings, each making up for the other's shortcomings, we could surely break through to the mystery of immortality. It is only a pity that Daoist Master Daoyan's cultivation far surpasses mine, yet in the end he is just like my three senior brothers—unable to let go of sectarian prejudice, unable to set aside status and position. Ah!"

Puzhao gave a long sigh, withdrew his gaze, and let it fall upon the two children. The rain was growing heavier now, soaking their heads and faces. The thatched temple had been blown apart in the earlier duel, and there was nowhere nearby that could fully shelter them from the wind and rain.

His heart suddenly tightened, and he could not help but worry for these two children. He had just forced his true essence into motion, using the wondrous "Great Brahma Prajna" art of the Brahma Sound Temple and the power of the Buddhist treasure, the "Jade Prayer Beads," to summon the great demon-subduing force that had blocked that villain's incomparably powerful "Divine Sword Thunder Command"—and even wounded him in return, sending him fleeing in alarm. But his own body was gravely injured, and he had taken a blow of Daoist sorcery head-on; his lamp was spent and the oil exhausted, even the last spark of life extinguished. Now he clung to life only through the Ghost Physician's strange medicine, the "Three-Day Death Pill," which bought him three more days.

"That demon was badly wounded, but his foundation is unharmed. Once I am gone, he will surely come back to silence all witnesses. Then not only these two children, but every life in the village will be in danger. This—this—what is to be done?"

Puzhao's mind was in turmoil. His cultivation was exceedingly high, but for one thing, he knew he was certain to die, and his spirit was already somewhat disordered; for another, he feared for the lives of innocent folk. And worse, that demon seemed to be a person of considerable standing within the Canglan Sect—if he rashly went up the mountain to seek help, he might do more harm than good.

Yet what he regretted most was something else: that his life's great vow could not be fulfilled. As one of the Four Divine Monks of Brahma Sound Temple, he was revered throughout the world, his honor and glory at their peak—but to him, what mattered more was piercing the mystery of life and death, untying the knot of immortality. Yet as early as fifty years ago he had already awakened to the truth that no matter how diligently he cultivated the Buddhist arts, he could only strengthen his power and practice; he could never unravel the mystery of life and death.

He brooded on it bitterly, and decades later he had truly hit upon an unprecedented solution. In the world today, the three teachings—Buddhism, Daoism and the Demonic—stood at their height, their mastery of the arts the deepest and most profound. The Demonic Sect had a foul reputation, its wicked arts cruel and inhuman, and was rejected by all. The Daoist arts, however, were profound and wondrous, each tradition excelling in its own domain; if the two could study together, they would surely break the deadlock.

But he had never imagined that his three senior brothers, always so broad-minded, would oppose him with one voice, calling it heresy and wild fantasy, and earnestly exhorting him against it without end. Unwilling to accept it, he had paid several visits to renowned Daoist houses, climbing Canglan Mountain alone a number of times—and each time been politely refused by Daoyan, the sect master of Canglan.