Several disciples of the Dragon Peak lineage immediately rushed onto the arena stage, helping Fang Yuan to his feet. Their eyes fell upon the immortal sword lying broken in two pieces on the ground, and every face darkened with rage. They glared at Lu Xueqi as though they wished they could devour this beautiful woman whole.
Below the stage, Daoist Cangsong clenched his fists tight and said coldly, "Junior Sister Shuiyue, your disciple is truly ruthless. Winning clearly wasn't enough—she had to go and use her Artifact to willfully destroy another's immortal sword. What kind of reasoning is that?"
Master Shuiyue's expression was one of cool indifference. "Xueqi's cultivation is too shallow, her Dao too lacking—it is only natural she cannot control a divine creature like 'Ya.' There is nothing remarkable about that."
Daoist Cangsong's rage surged and he was on the verge of striking out, when suddenly a hand came to rest upon his shoulder—it was True Person Daoxuan, who had appeared beside him at some unknown moment and given him a pat. Daoist Cangsong looked at him, and at last forced his fury back down with great effort. He let out a heavy snort through his nose and strode away.
True Person Daoxuan watched the tall retreating figure of Daoist Cangsong, shook his head with a rueful smile, and turned around, just about to speak — only to find that Master Shuiyue had already walked away as well. By this time, Lu Xueqi had descended from the stage and stepped up before Master Shuiyue. Shuiyue glanced at her, a faint smile rising on her face, and gave a small nod. Lu Xueqi said nothing, offered a slight bow, then took her place behind Shuiyue and followed her as she swept away.
Zhang Fan stood to one side, only now coming back to his senses from the heart-pounding magical duel that had just unfolded. Watching as Shuiyue and Lu Xueqi—master and disciple—walked away into the distance, he suddenly noticed how strikingly alike the two of them were: the same air of cold indifference, as though they had been carved from the very same mold.
He was lost in rapt contemplation when suddenly a voice beside him exclaimed: "To think that even a divine object like the *Ya* would emerge into the world!"
Zhang Fan was utterly baffled. "What on earth is *Xie*?"
By this point, the watching Qingyun disciples had gradually dispersed. Zeng Shushu bid farewell to her fellow disciples of Wind-Return Peak and walked off alongside Zhang Fan, saying: "Ya is the immortal sword you just saw Lu Xueqi use. I once came across a record of it in the *Ten Scrolls of Rare Treasures*. Ya first appeared over a thousand years ago in the hands of a wandering immortal called Senior Kuxin. According to the record, this artifact was forged from Nine-Variant Iron that had fallen into the mortal realm; Senior Kuxin chanced upon it on the Arctic Ice Plains and refined it through long years of cultivation. In the great battle between the righteous and demonic factions of that age, our Qingyun Sect naturally had Patriarch Qingye leading the righteous path — but Senior Kuxin was also a name of great renown, most of all for how he wielded this divine sword Ya against the demon sect's fearsome villain, the Black-Heart Elder, clashing without rest for three days and three nights, and in the end dealing the Black-Heart Elder grievous wounds, removing a great thorn in the side of our righteous path. It was said that in those days, only Ya could suppress the most sinister treasure of the demon sect — the Blood-Devouring Bead — and from then on, the name 'Ya' resounded throughout the world, becoming the most coveted divine artifact in the hearts of all cultivators. Yet after Senior Kuxin passed into nirvana, Ya vanished without a trace. I never imagined it would have fallen into the hands of Bamboo Peak."
"…it has come to this. Now that Junior Brother Fan Qi possesses such a divine treasure, I fear none of us stand any hope in this grand examination."
Zhang Fan felt no disappointment whatsoever — he had never imagined he would amount to anything anyway. It was only upon seeing the rather crestfallen look on Zeng Shushu's face that curiosity stirred within him, and he asked, "Senior Brother, weren't you also not particularly interested in this Grand Trial? Why do you look so disappointed?"
"Besides, if one could truly stand on that stage and hold out until the very end — that would be quite impressive, don't you think?"
Zhang Fan couldn't help but laugh.
Zeng Shushu found his expression rather odd and felt a little embarrassed herself. She punched him on the arm and laughed, "What are you laughing at?" But before the words were even out, she too burst out laughing.
The two walked smiling toward another arena, watching another match unfold.
In this round, of the seven disciples from Big Bamboo Peak who competed—Zhang Fan excluded—four prevailed and three fell short. Song Daren, Tian Ling'er, He Dazhi, and Du Bishu all advanced to the next round. Together with the fortunate Zhang Fan, five of Big Bamboo Peak's eight disciples had made it through—a result rarely seen in hundreds of years—and Tian Buyi was so overjoyed he couldn't stop grinning.
※※※
The next day.
The morning sun cast its languid warmth across the sea of clouds. The disciples of Qingyun Sect came to the square as they had the day before, continuing to watch the Grand Seven-Vein Martial Tournament held but once every sixty years.
The disciples of Grand Bamboo Peak stood beneath yesterday's red notice board. Half the names upon it had already been struck off, and beside Zhang Fan's name, his opponent for the day had been written in — Chu Yuhong.
From the moment he woke up that morning, Zhang Fan's heart had inexplicably begun to tighten with nerves. He knew full well he was most likely just coming along to observe, yet he couldn't help himself — his pulse quickened, his mouth ran dry, and he'd managed no more than two bites of breakfast before losing his appetite entirely.
At this moment, he was quietly asking Senior Martial Brother Song Daren, who stood beside him, who exactly this Chu Yuhong was and whether he was formidable."
Song Daren furrowed his brow and shook his head. "I'm not sure either. I've never heard of him before. According to the rankings, he's a disciple of the Chaoyang Peak lineage, but I have no idea what his cultivation level is like." At that, Song Daren glanced over at Zhang Fan, saw how nervous he looked, and smiled. "Junior Brother, don't be nervous—it'll be fine. I was terribly nervous my first time participating in the Grand Trial too. Once you're up on the stage, it gets better."
Zhang Fan murmured, "Yes."
At this moment, Du Bishu, who had been standing to one side, stepped forward with a malicious smile. "Senior Brother, why don't we make a wager and see how our junior brother fares this time?"
"Sure, sure—I'm betting Junior Brother loses!"
"Me too!"
"I got it right too — double my bet!"
"Count me in."
Song Daren flew into a rage, pointing at the crowd: "What do you think you're doing? Junior Brother's match is almost upon us—are you trying to undermine him?"
Zhang Fan was overcome with gratitude and called out, "Senior Brother!"
Song Daren: "Sixth."
Du Bishu stuck out her tongue. "Senior Brother, I was only joking just now — please don't tell Master."
Song Daren: "Whatever, you've already had your say—I'm putting in five shares on that bet you just opened!"
Du Bishu, Zhang Fan: ""
At that moment, Tian Buyi and Su Ru walked over, and the disciples of Big Bamboo Peak all went forward to greet them. Tian Buyi looked the group over and said, "Your performance has been quite good, but now that we have entered the second round, those remaining are essentially elite disciples from the various branches. You must take care."
"Yes," everyone said in unison.
Su Ru glanced at Zhang Fan and walked over. "Fan, this is your first match today — be careful in everything, understand?"
A warmth swept through Zhang Fan's heart. "Mother," he said softly.
Su Ru nodded, still seeming to have something on her mind, when all at once the bells and cauldrons rang out together — the contest had officially begun. Tian Buyi and Su Ru exchanged a glance and nodded. "You all know where the contest is being held by now, I trust — it was written clearly on that red notice board just now. Once things get underway, your Teacher's Wife and I will come watch from the stands below. Don't go and embarrass us."
Everyone assented in unison. Tian Buyi gave a nod, then drifted away with Su Ru, the two of them murmuring in low voices. Tian Ling'er, who had come along with them, swept a quick glance around and began walking toward Zhang Fan—and Zhang Fan's heart gave a sudden, sharp lurch.
Walking up to him, Tian Ling'er stared straight at Zhang Fan, then suddenly burst out laughing. Turning back to the others with a grin, she said, "Look how nervous Fan is — he's even sweating on his forehead."
Everyone laughed, and Song Daren laughed as well, saying, "I tried to comfort Junior Brother just now, but it didn't seem to do much good — looks like we still need you to step in, Junior Sister."
Tian Ling'er spat in disdain, then turned to Zhang Fan and said, "Fan, we have our own match coming up soon, so I won't be able to cheer you on. You'll have to give it your all—and watch yourself out there!"
Zhang Fan gazed at her beautiful face, so close it was almost within reach, her breath warm and faintly fragrant like orchids. His heart swelled with excitement; he nodded firmly — yet somehow, the words would not come.
Tian Ling'er, however, clearly hadn't given it much thought. She flashed Zhang Fan a smile, then walked over to exchange a few words with the senior brothers. Shortly after, everyone dispersed in twos and threes—those with matches to compete in headed toward the fighting stage, while those who didn't went to cheer their fellow disciples on. Yet not a single person thought to stay with Zhang Fan. Perhaps, in everyone's eyes, he was simply someone without the slightest hope.
Zhang Fan stood rooted to the spot, watching as his senior brothers walked away into the distance. A sudden, indescribable ache rose in his chest. He walked slowly to the red notice board and read through it once more, carefully.
He and Chu Yuhong, a disciple of Zhaoyang Peak, were assigned to the most distant platform for their match.
Zhang Fan gave a wry smile and walked on ahead. All along the way, countless Qingyun disciples came and went, chatting and laughing, and from what Zhang Fan overheard in passing, most of their talk centered on the results of yesterday's matches. In that competition, the several widely acknowledged favorites had all won with ease. Among the discussions, quite a few also mentioned that the Dragon Peak lineage seemed to have produced yet another young talent besides Qi Hao; after catching a few of their descriptions, Zhang Fan guessed it was most likely Lin Jingyu. But the name on more lips than any other was Xue Qi of Bamboo Peak. That this beautiful woman, wielder of the divine sword *Ya*, possessed a depth of cultivation far beyond expectations was remarkable enough — yet the sight of her cleaving her opponent's immortal sword clean in two before everyone's eyes had apparently left many deeply displeased. Even so, the spectacle only drew more people eager to watch her next match, and her following had risen rather than fallen. Beyond that, the long-absent *Ya* itself was a source of endless fascination. Countless people wished to see this sacred relic from the great war between the righteous and demonic sects a thousand years past, and even some of the elders of Qingyun Sect were no exception.
As Zhang Fan walked and listened, he couldn't help but recall the image of that frosty beauty, Xue Qi, from the day before, and gave a small shake of his head. Just then, a shout suddenly rang out from up ahead: "Fan."
The voice sounded remarkably familiar. Zhang Fan looked up and immediately broke into a smile — Lin Jingyu was striding over toward him. Zhang Fan went to meet him, grinning: "I've been looking everywhere for you — so this is where you ran off to!"
Lin Jingyu pointed behind him. "I still have matches to fight — I'm up on the platform, so of course I came early to prepare." He looked Zhang Fan up and down, then smiled. "It's your turn today too, I take it? Which platform are you on?"
Zhang Fan said: "Mine is about to begin — I can't go over to cheer you on. Watch yourself."
Lin Jingyu asked with a smile, "Same for you? None of your fellow disciples or senior elders came to visit?"
Zhang Fan was momentarily taken aback, then forced a smile and said: "It's not like you don't know that our lineage has few members. Besides, there are so many people competing today — Master and his wife have all gone to watch Senior Brother's and Senior Sister's matches."
Lin Jingyu glanced at him, let out a sigh, and patted him on the shoulder.
Zhang Fan pulled himself together and smiled. "It's no big deal—I only came to broaden my horizons anyway, so it doesn't matter. But you'd better give it your all. Don't let people say that those of us from Caomiao Village amount to nothing."
Lin Jingyu nodded heavily. Just as he was about to say something, the resonant toll of a bell suddenly rang out behind him. He turned to look, then said, "The match is about to begin — I won't keep talking. If I get the chance later, I'll come find you right away."
Zhang Fan gave a slight nod. "Go on, quickly."
Lin Jingyu turned and walked away. Zhang Fan watched his retreating figure grow distant, and quietly thought to himself: "It would be strange indeed if you could make it here in time, and I could still hold my ground on the stage."
With this self-mockery turning over in his mind, Zhang Fan slowly made his way to the far end of the stage. This was the easternmost corner of Cloud Sea Square, and at a glance he could see barely a dozen Qingyu disciples gathered here — most of them likely from Zhaoyang Peak — worlds apart from the crowd surrounding Lu Xueqi's Qian Stage at the center. Beneath the stage sat a single chair, occupied by a white-bearded old man. Zhang Fan glanced at him and found the face oddly familiar. After a moment's thought, he placed it: this was the elder he had spotted yesterday morning before Lu Xueqi's match, standing outside the crowd, berating the disciples for being lecherous and grumbling that the Sect never should have admitted female disciples in the first place. Which branch of Qingyu Sect the old man belonged to, however, Zhang Fan had no idea.
In the Seven Vessels Grand Martial Tournament, there were eight fighting rings in total. Under normal circumstances, Qingyun Sect would station at least one Elder at each ring — for without such oversight, the young disciples, brimming with the hot-headedness of youth, would grow difficult to rein in once the fighting took hold of them.
Zhang Fan walked over to the white-bearded old man, bent at the waist in a respectful bow, and said, "Elder, I am Zhang Fan, a disciple of Big Bamboo Peak, here to compete in today's matches."
The white-bearded old man turned his head, cast a casual glance at Zhang Fan, and said nonchalantly, "You're here. It's about to start — go up on stage."
Zhang Fan murmured his acknowledgment and glanced up at the stage. It was empty — the Chaoyang Peak disciple named Chu Yuhong had yet to appear. He hesitated for a moment, then finally did as the white-bearded elder had told him and climbed the steps onto the platform. Behind him, among the crowd of Chaoyang Peak disciples below, whispers broke out at once — clearly, he had become the subject of their gossip.
By then, the morning sun had already risen, and the first rays of light from Tongfeng fell softly upon him, carrying a faint warmth. Zhang Fan stood on the platform, gazing eastward, where a newly risen sun climbed slowly into the sky — red and round, its light gentle and unhurried, dyeing the distant clouds a warm crimson.
A wave of emotion suddenly washed over Zhang Fan. Five years ago, he had been nothing more than a country boy who knew little of the world — one who had never once imagined standing atop Tongfeng to watch the sunrise. It was not that he had lacked the dream; it was simply that he had never known such a breathtaking sunrise could exist in this world.
In the blink of an eye, life fades into the distance, as vast and fleeting as white clouds.
The heart of this sixteen-year-old boy, at this moment, bore the weight of a sixty-year-old man's sorrow.
He reached out and slipped his hand into his robe, fingers closing around that ice-cold, blackened fire stick. A month ago, without anyone knowing or paying the slightest attention, Zhang Fan had made a startling discovery: he could barely manage to control this dark, sooty stick. In that moment, he had nearly been unable to believe his own eyes. Yet after repeating the feat countless times in the dead of night, driven by his mental force, the fire stick was unmistakably, undeniably moving.
"Object Command" — these two words rang like thunder in the ears of every disciple who walked the cultivation path of Qingyun Sect. It was the hallmark of a practitioner who had advanced the Taiji Xuanqing Dao to the Fourth Layer of the Jade Purity Realm, and for every newly initiated disciple, it was a phrase repeated silently in the depths of the heart through countless years of cultivation — hoped for, strived for, yearned after with all one's being. As for Zhang Fan, he scarcely dared to imagine such an attainment except in dreams: to stand before his master, to reclaim a measure of dignity, to bring a smile to his master's face.
But, could this be possible?
Zhang Fan desperately held himself in check and breathed not a word of it to anyone. At the same time, whenever he tried to use his psychic power to move other objects—the pots, bowls, ladles, and pans in the kitchen—nothing so much as stirred, and that knocked his confidence badly. He turned the matter over and over in his mind without being able to make head or tail of it: how could such a strange situation have come about?
In the dead of night, jolted awake from a dream, he would sit up and fix his gaze upon that strange, inexplicable fire-poker — the one that seemed fated to be forever entangled with him — and each time, he could feel that faint thread of icy coldness slowly drifting through his body.
A crisp peal of bells rang out, startling Zhang Fan awake with a jolt. He turned to look—below the platform, the dozen or so disciples of Chaoyang Peak were still there as before, and the white-bearded old man still sat drowsing in his seat. But on the platform opposite him, a man had appeared at some point without Zhang Fan noticing: he looked to be around thirty, and was smiling as he gazed over at Zhang Fan.
Zhang Fan's face flushed red. He hastily bowed. "Bamboo Peak disciple Zhang Fan, here to seek guidance from Senior Brother Chu."
Chu Yuhong smiled and said, "I dare not claim such things, I dare not. Every generation produces its talents. Junior Brother Zhang may be young, yet here he stands upon the stage with the grand examination looming before him, utterly composed—not a flicker of anxiety on his face, not a shadow of timidity. He far surpasses what I was in my day. Truly admirable, truly admirable."
Zhang Fan blanked for a moment, then said haltingly, "I won't hide it from you, Senior Brother — I was actually just spacing out."
An uproar broke out. Every one of the dozen or so Chaoyang Peak disciples was laughing so hard they could barely stand. Chu Yuhong himself froze for a moment, and in the end could not hold back a laugh of his own — only to catch himself almost at once and force it down, saying with strained composure: "Junior Brother Zhang has had his laugh. The hour of Chen is upon us — I'll be seeking your pointers now."
Zhang Fan's heart gave a sudden jolt, a wave of tension washing over him. He said slowly, "Please show mercy, Senior Brother Chu."
Chu Yuhong smiled without answering. His expression suggested he already had a plan in mind. With a shake of his right hand, a clang rang out as an immortal sword—suffused with a faint golden glow—rose into the air.
"The sword is named 'Shaoyang.' Junior Brother Zhang, please."
Zhang Fan cast a glance at the Shaoyang Immortal Sword. The yellow radiance upon the blade was pure and gentle; even from a distance, he felt his spirits lift merely at the sight. It was clearly no ordinary treasure. He quietly swallowed, an unbidden warmth creeping into his face—yet in the end he reached into his robe, closed his fingers around that fire-poking stick, and drew it out.
Everyone present—Chu Yuhong and the dozen-odd Chaoyang Peak disciples seated below the stage—fixed their gazes upon that sooty, blackened fire poker.
For a moment, silence.
"Hahaha" — nobody knew who laughed first, but the sound shattered the silence. Before long the entire audience had dissolved into laughter, mixed with someone's voice — nobody knew whose — asking with apparent effort, "What was that?"
"I told you long ago — everyone from Big Bamboo Peak is an oddball. Don't even get me started. Yesterday that skinny guy with his dice Artifact was already a laughingstock, and who would've thought — today, today there's actually someone out here fighting with a fire-poker? I'm dying laughing! Hahaha!"
At that moment, even Chu Yuhong up on the stage could no longer contain himself. He laughed several times before barely managing to suppress it. "Junior Brother, this is— heh heh, it's yours— heh heh, pardon me, I can't help it— is this really your Artifact?"
Zhang Fan stood there, face burning crimson, as the laughter of those around him swelled into a roar. Not a single word would come to him. He had known all along that bringing this fire poker would look terrible—that it would inevitably invite mockery. Yet nothing else had responded to him, and deep in his heart there lingered a faint, almost imperceptible thread of hope: that perhaps this, of all things, might truly prove something about himself. And so, in the end, he had brought the fire poker out all the same.
But in the end, what this fire poker had brought him was still nothing but the contempt and ridicule of others. The people around him laughed loudly. Zhang Fan lowered his head, and in all that his eyes could see, the world had narrowed to nothing but the black, ugly fire poker in his hand.
They laughed—laughed loudly, just as his fellow disciples had laughed so loudly on the day he set out—and even Senior Sister Ling'er, whom he had missed so dearly, laughed the same.
He lowered his head and closed his eyes.
A cold sensation seemed to call out faintly from the depths of his body, drifting slowly through him.
When is it that a person feels the most alone?
Are you alone in facing the indifference of an entire world, alone in bearing all the mockery and scorn?
Is a person's blood ice-cold, or boiling hot?
He suddenly looked up, his gaze fixed on what lay ahead.
At that moment, the sunlight was falling upon his face, and no one could make out his expression.
The Shaoyang Immortal Sword in Chu Yuhong's hand blazed with a radiance that rivaled the newly risen sun—brilliant, resplendent, and suffused with an air of unyielding righteousness—all amid the laughter and cheers of the audience below. As he guided it with his spell-seal and let out a sharp cry, the Shaoyang Immortal Sword came down like blazing sunlight, upright and imposing, pressing forward in a direct and overwhelming assault.
A wave of scorching heat rushed at him, yet Zhang Fan's heart was cold as ice. He did not know why, but as he watched that surge of radiance bearing down on him, in that single instant he was suddenly carried back to a morning long ago: he and Lin Jingyu had survived a harrowing night out in the wilderness, and when they returned to Grass Temple Village they had been met by a landscape of corpses and rivers of blood. On that morning he had lost every happiness he possessed. He had even felt himself buried beneath that sea of blood, struggling with all his might, desperate to find his kin, yet utterly powerless to do so — the agony driving straight into the marrow of his heart.
The scorching heat seemed to sear his skin, yet before his eyes rose the image of that serene night—beside the jade-green pool, a beautiful woman standing at the water's edge, locked in a close embrace with her beloved.
A sixteen-year-old boy let out a low groan. The inexplicable pain was so intense that he had utterly forgotten the radiance rushing toward him — and had bitten through his lip. Crimson blood trickled down in slow, silent drops.
…landed on that fire poker — black as night, its dark jade surface threaded through with veins of blood-red.
The next moment, he was swallowed by that blazing brilliance—radiant as the sun itself.
The crowd below erupted in cheers, and every disciple of Chaoyang Peak beamed with undisguised joy—yet amid their laughter rang a single cry of alarm, jarringly out of place.
The one whose gaze had once been filled with hostility let out a loud sigh, lamenting deeply for this newly made friend. It was a pity that the rules of the grand examination forbade any interference — otherwise, judging by the righteous indignation written all over his face, he would most likely have charged straight onto the stage.
Even the white-bearded old man sitting to one side seemed to have been startled by Zeng Shushu, and cast a glance her way.
On the stage, brilliant golden radiance intertwined with the first light of the rising sun, resplendent and dazzling. A wave of pride swelled in Chu Yuhong's heart — at this very moment, even he himself felt that his cultivation had reached a pinnacle he had never before attained. And now, having bested the unsightly and thoroughly unimpressive opponent before him, he would surely forge ahead in triumph; claiming the final championship was not entirely beyond reach! After all, once today was done, he need only win four more bouts.
At the thought of this, he could not suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The Shaoyang Immortal Sword blazed ever brighter, and he watched as the young man ahead screwed up his face in agony within that scorching radiance, even biting through his own lip.
Suddenly, at that very moment, his heart gave a violent lurch — as though someone inside him had swung a heavy hammer and struck him hard. At the very moment when no one else could make out Zhang Fan clearly, Chu Yuhong — the man standing directly opposite Zhang Fan — caught a distinct glimpse through the brilliant radiance of his own Shaoyang Immortal Sword: Zhang Fan had raised his head and opened his eyes.
Those blood-red eyes, brimming with savage ferocity and murderous intent!
An invisible, unknowable chill spread outward in an instant. Chu Yuhong watched as the black fire-poking staff seemed to come alive in that very moment — black energy roiling and surging from its surface, while the round orb at its tip blazed with brilliant azure light that fell across Zhang Fan's body, making him look as though he had become an entirely different person. All of these changes unfolded within the radiance of the Shaoyang Immortal Sword, visible to none but Chu Yuhong alone.
Chu Yuhong was struck with utter shock, but before he could even react, that icy chill had already slipped beneath the radiance of the Shaoyang Immortal Sword and coiled around him. Almost instantly, he felt the world spinning and a wave of nausea roil through his entire body; a moment later, the faint cyan glow emanating from the round orb atop the fire poker fell upon him.
Below the stage, Zeng Shushu watched nervously as Zhang Fan was engulfed in that mass of radiance. The mere thought that Zhang Fan must now feel like a monkey being roasted alive made him almost unable to keep looking. In sharp contrast, the disciples of Zhaoyang Peak were clapping and cheering, beside themselves with delight.
Just then, the crowd suddenly heard a great shout from Chu Yuhong on the stage. The Shaoyang Immortal Sword shuddered and rose, its radiance instantly dispersing to reveal Zhang Fan's silhouette. Yet Chu Yuhong appeared to have suffered grave injuries; he staggered backward again and again. A moment later, to the astonishment of all present, blood began to pour simultaneously from all seven orifices of his face. Trembling, he extended his right hand and pointed at Zhang Fan, as though he wished to say something — yet no matter how he tried, he could not force out a single word.
A moment later, his body swayed several times, then collapsed to the ground with a thud, losing all consciousness.
On stage and off, a dead silence fell. Everyone exchanged bewildered glances, too stunned to utter a word.