Chapter 81 — Nine

Just then Master Pucheng and the others, who had been escorted to safety by Master Shuijing and his people, were brought back by Shui Yue. Master Pucheng's complexion was now much better than the deathly pallor of before—evidently, though Zhou Yin's Liren Cone was formidable, it was still far inferior to Master Pucheng's Great Brahma Prajna.

By this time Master Pucheng had for the most part forced the Liren Cone's strange piercing force out of his body. Even so, he still looked extremely weak; someone quickly brought over another chair, and with Facheng and Pukong supporting him, Master Pucheng sat down beside Daoist Daoyan.

Master Pucheng panted a few times and looked around him; seeing rivers of blood, the dead lying everywhere, and the shattered halls, he gave a long sigh, pressed his palms together, and chanted, "Amitabha!"

Daoist Daoyan gave Master Pucheng a slight nod and a bitter smile. "How are your wounds, Master?"

Master Pucheng shook his head. "This old monk will not die yet—but it is the sect master who must take great care!"

Daoist Daoyan shook his head and sighed; his gaze drifted into the distance and suddenly fell upon Zhang Qingyue, standing outside, and as though something had occurred to him, he turned to Tian Buhui and said, "Brother Tian, call your disciple Zhang Qingyue over here."

Tian Buhui's expression changed, but he dared not disobey; he could only turn and say, "Old Seven, come here. The sect master has something to say to you."

Everyone was startled, especially the disciples of Dazhu Peak. Zhang Qingyue's heart lurched, but a master's command could not be defied, and he could only steel himself and walk over.

After a moment the crowd opened a space, and Zhang Qingyue stood alone before Daoist Daoyan and said in a low voice, "Sect Master."

Daoist Daoyan looked at him for a long while, then said quietly, "Even now, you still will not reveal your secret?"

Zhang Qingyue's body jolted; he felt all eyes around him suddenly fasten upon him—some concerned, some contemptuous, but more than anything, bewildered.

Daoist Daoyan sighed and said slowly, "Zhang Qingyue, since you entered our Canglan Sect, has the Canglan Sect ever mistreated you?"

Zhang Qingyue shook his head at once. "Sect Master, no, nothing of the sort. My master and mistress treated me exceedingly well..." At these words Tian Buhui's body visibly jerked, and his face showed a most complex expression.

"But," Zhang Qingyue said, his face twisted with pain, two sets of thoughts warring endlessly in his mind, "but this disciple truly has a hardship he cannot speak of. I—I cannot..."

"Speak!"

Suddenly a great shout rang out, shaking the whole assembly like a peal of thunder and startling everyone. Zhang Qingyue involuntarily took a step back and looked toward the shouter, and his heart quailed.

The one who had shouted was no one from Qingyun, but Pukong, one of the four great divine monks of the Fanyin Temple. Among the four, Pukong ranked lowest, yet his temper was the fiercest; in his youth he had subdued demons and vanquished devils, and with the wondrous Buddhist treasure in his hand, the Golden Stupa Alms Bowl, he had slain countless evil spirits. Only as the years advanced and his understanding of the Buddha's meaning deepened did he gradually withdraw into the Fanyin Temple.

In today's bloody battle at Qingyun, Pukong had unleashed wholesale slaughter, fighting the Demon Sect with Buddhist cultivation beyond the comprehension of gods and ghosts; at this moment his monk's robe was stained with blood from top to bottom, and he looked no longer like a revered monk of the Buddha, but rather like a fiend from hell—no wonder Zhang Qingyue and the others had been startled.

This time the Fanyin Temple party had come to Canglan Mountain intent on demanding an accounting. That the Fanyin Temple's supreme, never-transmitted true dharma, the Great Brahma Prajna, should have been learned by a mere junior disciple of the Canglan Sect—how could such a thing be tolerated? Now Pukong watched Zhang Qingyue stammer and falter, and fury rose in his heart; add to that the slaughter he had already unleashed today, and an indescribable agitation, and he could not restrain himself from giving voice to the Buddha's Lion's Roar.

Zhang Qingyue, struck by that thunderous bellow, stood dazed for a moment, not yet recovered—but behind him, Uncle Wang Er, who had been standing with Lin Jinghong, giggling foolishly as he watched the water qilin, was jolted by it and turned his head to look.

A monk like a ferocious demon, covered in blood, glaring furiously at Zhang Qingyue—like a ravenous ghost about to devour him!

In the Yuheng Hall, a sudden silence fell.

"Ah—"

Suddenly a heart-rending scream rang out through the ruined Yuheng Hall.

Uncle Wang Er's face was bloodless, deathly white, and his whole body shook; with a trembling finger he pointed at Pukong and shrieked, "Ghost! Ghost! Ghost! A ghost!"

The cry was so shrill and harrowing that, though it was broad daylight, everyone in the great hall felt a simultaneous chill.

Even Pukong, furious a moment before, was startled by Uncle Wang Er in turn; his hands and feet went awry, and he stammered in haste, "What—what are you saying? How am I a ghost?"

But Uncle Wang Er seemed possessed; his whole body shook desperately, and Lin Jinghong's frantic efforts to soothe him had not the slightest effect. He slowly shrank into himself, not daring to look at Pukong again, his eyes squeezed shut in utter terror, and he could only repeat over and over, "Ghost! Ghost! He killed someone—don't kill me, don't kill me, I, I, ah! Ahhhhhhh..."

Suddenly a gloom silently settled over the place; Zhang Qingyue and Lin Jinghong's bodies went rigid at the same moment—Zhang Qingyue especially, in the depths of whose eyes a red glow seemed faintly to stir again.

Under the gaze of the whole assembly, Pukong flew into a blind fury. "I do not know this man at all! What are you all staring at?"

Lin Jinghong slowly loosened his grip on Uncle Wang's arm and walked to Zhang Qingyue's side. He did not need to look to know that Zhang Qingyue was now, like himself, straining to hold himself in check, yet the harsh rasp of their breathing already betrayed the turmoil within.

"Why... did... he... say... it... was... you?" Lin Jinghong asked slowly, one word at a time. His face was as terrible as Zhang Qingyue's, but where Zhang Qingyue's eyes held only hatred, his still kept a measure of clarity.

Pukong raged, "How should I know? The man is nothing but a lunatic!"

Zhang Qingyue and Lin Jinghong both changed color at once, and most of the Canglan Sect turned their heads and frowned. But at that very moment, a sudden cry of the Buddha's name rang out. Master Pucheng, seated behind Pukong, spoke at last, his voice low and full of anguish: "Amitabha. Sow evil karma, and evil fruit shall follow. A sin, a grievous sin!"

At these words the whole hall fell in an instant into a deathly silence. Pukong himself sat rigid as a block of wood, and only after a long while did he slowly turn to face Master Pucheng and say in a choked voice, "Senior brother, what did you say?"

Master Pucheng's face was ashen, though whether from his injuries or from the shame in his heart, none could tell. He closed his eyes and lowered his brows, and after a long silence said softly, "Facheng."

Facheng, whose face had been grim and pale ever since Uncle Wang's sudden illness, gave a start. "Your disciple is here."

Master Pucheng said slowly, "There is no need to hide it any longer. Tell them. Your uncle did a wrong thing in those years, and today we must not wrong this benefactor Zhang a second time."

A roar resounded in Zhang Qingyue's mind, and a faint voice seemed to be shrieking, tearing at his heart.