Song Qian Ji finally squeezed through the impenetrable crowd but was stopped at the door:
“Case hearings in progress. No entry for uninvolved persons.”
Song Qian Ji had no choice but to state his identity.
The sword-bearing disciple stared at him for a moment, then suddenly shouted: “It’s you! You’re the one who was carried in a sedan chair today!”
Song Qian Ji was speechless under the curious gazes around him: “…It was a lounge chair.”
“You can’t go in,” a voice suddenly said. “I’ll take you in.”
Song Qian Ji turned to see Zhao Yu Ping slowly emerging from the shadows under the eaves.
He smiled: “Thank you for waiting for me so long.”
Zhao Yu Ping also smiled coldly: “No trouble at all.”
As the two crossed the threshold, their voices were audible only to each other.
“You two show brotherly loyalty, trying to be heroes for each other. But can you save him?”
“I’ll try.”
“Last time you broke an arm to save him. What are you prepared to break this time?”
“I don’t know.”
They walked into the brightly lit hall, and Song Qian Ji bowed to the Elders at the inquiry seat.
He can only cut off his path now, thought Zhao Yu Ping.
Meng He Ze was kneeling in a shallow pool of blood.
The wounds from the day’s fights had all burst open, making him look like a gourd seeping blood from all over.
Song Qian Ji glanced at him.
He saw Meng He Ze’s head hanging down to his chest, completely unresponsive.
Meng He Ze had lost too much blood today.
He had begun to feel very cold, so cold his teeth chattered and his bones seemed to freeze, with only the string of red jade prayer beads on his wrist giving off a faint warmth.
His consciousness drifted, thinking of his hometown thousands of miles away, of the moon, of his parents.
He knew he might not survive this ordeal.
At least he had experienced one moment of satisfaction before death.
Dying on the most satisfying day of this life was better than dying namelessly at the bottom of a cliff.
In his daze, he heard a familiar voice intermittently:
“…I taught him. He didn’t know what he was practicing.”
“…This matter has nothing to do with him. This disciple is willing to take full responsibility.”
“…I have come to confess. I am willing to be expelled from the mountain, but I still have something to say.”
That voice was like flashes of lightning, finally splitting the darkness before his eyes.
Senior Brother Song!
Meng He Ze’s eyes snapped open.
He saw Song Qian Ji standing in front of him.
The thin figure blocked the various gazes and the glaring lights.
Like a small tree vigorously spreading its branches and leaves, sheltering the flowers and grass beneath from wind and rain.
“This disciple learned these techniques because of an extraordinary chance encounter. This matter is of great importance and cannot be discussed here,” said Song Qian Ji.
“How insolent! This is the inquiry hall. If not here, where else do you want to speak?”
“This disciple wishes to see the Sect Leader.”
Elder Liu, who presided over the Disciplinary Hall, questioned angrily with his pressure unleashed. Hearing Song Qian Ji’s words, he suddenly laughed: “See whom? Did I hear correctly?”
Other Disciplinary Hall disciples also began to laugh.
Song Qian Ji calmly repeated: “This disciple must see the Sect Leader.”
From “wish to see” to “must see,” he had even changed a word.