Chapter 1115: Maple Pavilion
Before the Heavenly Book Mausoleum, they had not seen each other for several years, and afterward they became strangers, even enemies. But after all, they were master and disciple, having lived together for over a decade in the old temple of Xining Town, understanding each other to the utmost. With just the slightest movement, even a change in gaze, they knew what the other was thinking—this was what was called instinct.
Shang Xingzhou sensed Chen Changsheng’s mood as he drew the sword from the flowerpot, which was why he asked that question.
But after receiving Chen Changsheng’s confirmation, he did not relax, nor did he feel triumphant. Instead, he asked another question.
“Do you know what this place is?”
Chen Changsheng was the dean of the National Academy and had lived here for many years, but he truly did not know what this red building was. The National Academy was too vast; in all these years, his life and studies had been confined to the area near the imperial city’s forest and the library tower, not even a tenth of the academy’s size.
Shang Xingzhou said, “This is the Maple Pavilion. Those two rows of maple trees were transplanted here by me from the Ecclesiastical Office back then.”
Chen Changsheng thought to himself, no wonder they looked somewhat familiar.
“Meriser was my friend.”
Shang Xingzhou looked at his face, his emotions complex. “He always admired you. I never quite understood it, but now I’m gradually beginning to.”
Hearing this, Chen Changsheng didn’t know whether he should feel proud and gratified or let the bitterness in his heart seep freely. He could only remain silent.
At a time like this, what meaning was there in saying such things? Or perhaps it was because Shang Xingzhou was certain that Chen Changsheng’s swords were nearly spent, and he thought of his failure or even death, that he felt moved to reflect? But what did the origin of this Maple Pavilion matter?
Shang Xingzhou turned to look outside the building and said, “The final battle of that year took place here.”
That year was over twenty years ago, the night of the bloodbath at the National Academy.
The Maple Pavilion was so strikingly red, perhaps because it had been stained with so much blood that night.
“That night, many people died here, many young people. They were as outstanding as you, perhaps even more so.”
Shang Xingzhou withdrew his gaze and looked at Chen Changsheng. “I have seen too much life and death in my life. I truly no longer care, so don’t expect me to soften.”
The meaning of these words was very clear.
If Chen Changsheng still refused to concede, Shang Xingzhou would not hesitate to cut him down with his own sword.
Chen Changsheng did not concede. He didn’t even speak, remaining silent.
He raised his right hand, the short sword held horizontally before his eyes. Bits of mud fell away, and the cold light grew stronger.
Shang Xingzhou understood his choice and walked toward him.
A very clear set of footprints appeared on the floor.
Each footprint glowed, then burst into flames.
In the clear sky after the clouds had scattered, the sun was extraordinarily bright, shining down on the National Academy.
The Maple Pavilion shimmered with blinding light, as if it were truly burning. The maple trees outside swayed in the wind, like tongues of fire spitting out.
This was a fire born from the burning of thick blood over countless years, giving off a faint scorched smell, carrying a sense of tragic grandeur.
The blood-fire cast Shang Xingzhou’s silhouette as extraordinarily tall, like a god or demon.
This was his life, and also the life of Wang Zhice, Old Master Tang, and others.
They would never abandon their principles and convictions for anything.
A clear, sharp cry rang out.
A fierce wind swept through the Maple Pavilion.
The maple trees shook even more violently, like flames licking toward the sky.
Shang Xingzhou gripped his sword with both hands and slashed down, bringing a trail of blood-fire.
The blood-fire was vivid, but his figure was cold and dark. The contrast between the two was starkly apparent.
With a thunderous roar, the blood-fire splattered into countless sparks, dancing wildly through the Maple Pavilion, igniting the floor and pillars.
The short sword shattered the window and flew away. Chen Changsheng retreated more than ten steps, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
Shang Xingzhou raised his sword and walked toward him again.
There was no trace of panic on Chen Changsheng’s face.
He said to Shang Xingzhou, “Concede, Master.”
From the very beginning, he had been saying this.
In the lake, in front of the library tower, in many places, every time he picked up a sword, he would say it.
Then, one by one, those swords were struck down by Shang Xingzhou.
Now, even his last sword was gone, yet he still said such things.
Shang Xingzhou’s face showed no mockery or confusion.
It seemed he knew where Chen Changsheng’s confidence came from.
Chen Changsheng raised his right hand.
There was nothing there but air and firelight.
Could he conjure a sword out of thin air?
Not far away, the sound of air being cut suddenly rang out.
With a hiss, a cold light shot through the broken window and then vanished.
The short sword returned to Chen Changsheng’s hand.
Immediately after, countless sounds of piercing air echoed from all over the National Academy.
The sound was extremely sharp, naturally carrying a sense of keenness.
The sounds grew denser, like a torrential rain, but more like a rain of arrows.
Countless gleams of sword light flared up from beneath the plum trees, from within the trees, and from the water.
The old plum trees were neatly severed, looking like incense burners that had burned for three days and three nights.
Ten holes appeared in the broken ancient trees, truly like a divine flute.
Countless ripples spread across the lake, as if hundreds of fat carps were struggling to swim up from the foul, muddy bottom.
Those swords that Tang Thirty-Six had hidden in the National Academy.
Those swords that Chen Changsheng had found one by one.
Those swords that Shang Xingzhou had struck down.
They all broke through the air.
Flying toward the Maple Pavilion.
Several dozen swords gathered around Chen Changsheng.
Shang Xingzhou looked at him and said, “Not enough.”
Chen Changsheng lightly tapped the short sword with his finger.
A crisp sword hum spread outward, carrying dozens of cold, pure, and extremely concentrated sword intents.
With a soft snap, Shang Xingzhou’s Daoist topknot broke.
That seemingly ordinary black wooden hairpin, breaking at this moment, was far from ordinary.
Countless cold lights surged out from within, like a great river, carrying a sense of joy.
A fierce wind howled, and the swaying maple trees were shredded, dancing wildly as red fragments flew in all directions.
The eaves of the building were cut into countless straight lines, and the red walls and pillars were scarred with countless marks.
Even a flame ignited by the sun needed something to cling to.
If the skin is gone, the tall building will topple—how can the blood-fire sustain itself?
The tongues of flame reaching toward the sky gradually faded, their color dimming, until they vanished into nothingness.
Sunlight spilled onto the ruined Maple Pavilion.
Thousands of swords hung silently around Chen Changsheng.
A cold and terrifying sword intent filled heaven and earth.
Among these sword intents, there was a faint sense of formation linking them, flowing and cycling, endlessly regenerating, giving a feeling that could not be broken.
Chen Changsheng looked at Shang Xingzhou and asked, “Is it enough now?”
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(Maple Pavilion, from A Better Tomorrow, Brother Mark. This scene was prepared by me over two years ago, shortly after I began writing The Legend of the Seeker. I especially like it.)