TSBIRBV Ch 52

Chapter 52 The Beast-Faced Tiger (2)

Samrang pressed her lips together, unsure what to say.

To speak that way while their lord lived—better to believe the Thunder-Sworded Dragon naive than to hear this.

At times, Mun Yegyeol was astonishingly bold, in ways that made his supposed Kunlun upbringing hard to believe.

The man Samrang knew could not be called simply “good.” He was more complicated than that.

But this much was certain: he had never crossed the line.

Even now, he did not take his eyes off the Yangtze until he confirmed that all the flailing hostages, trapped by fire and panic, were under the Azure Sky Corps’ protection.

“In daily life, he seems unorthodox…”

He allowed his own caravan to be raided and fenced the goods, collared Green Forest bandits and made them subordinates, and casually proposed manufacturing lightning-struck jujube wood by hand.

Suspicious, just as Jinyoung had warned—yet he didn’t bother to hide it. On the contrary, that very frankness made him feel trustworthy.

“If this were said before him, he’d call me a thick-headed killer-for-hire,” Samrang sniffed.

“To think Kunlun would expel Senior Brother,” Yegyeol murmured, voice gone quiet. “So he could no longer live as a martial artist and became a merchant instead.”

Expulsion meant never using what one had learned in the sect. At minimum the dantian was sealed; in more closed sects, they cut tendons and sinews.

Such a person fell not only from the martial world—but from ordinary life.

“Luckily, Kunlun is a Daoist sect; they don’t sever tendons,” he thought.

Even so, lifelong surveillance followed. If signs ever suggested that the expelled one leaked techniques, a pursuit squad would be raised to kill them.

In the end, their fates were similar.

Suicide. Or murder.

“Perhaps Kunlun might have birthed the next Martial Alliance Chief… what a waste.”

He spoke pity, but the voice held a thin blade of irony.

It gnawed at him—still not knowing why Senior Brother had been made to shed Kunlun’s robe.

“The Martial Alliance Chief?”

For an instant, Samrang’s face twisted with a complex emotion. When Yegyeol glanced back, her expression was already smooth again.

“By the way,” he brightened, “is Senior Brother injured anywhere?”

Even twenty years postmortem, he’d found no visible aftereffects. Though Haryang must have lost all the inner force piled up by Kunlun’s methods, he looked robust. Relief mixed with a bitterness at not knowing the pain he had endured.

Yegyeol wanted to know everything.

“Hard to say,” Samrang answered softly. He searched her face, but found no crack to pry open.

“Knew it,” he thought, swallowing disappointment as he stood. The proofing for jujube wood was done; time to head back.

But he had barely taken a few steps when an uninvited guest arrived.

“Hey, kid.”

A man with hair half white and half black stood with a loose, swaggering posture and called to Yegyeol.

“Who’s been playing with fire out here?”

— — —

A maverick!

From the first glance, Yegyeol knew: a formidable master. He decided to play dumb.

“Playing with fire? I wouldn’t know.”

Not even a lie. What he used was lightning, not flame.

“Perhaps you mistook lightning for fire,” he added, gesturing at the fresh, still-warm lightning-struck jujube wood.

“…Odd. I could swear I smelled it,” the man muttered, raking his scalp.

Samrang’s eyes narrowed as she recognized that distinctive two-toned hair.

“Would you be the Tiger-Freak, Peng Munhyeong?”

At that name, Yegyeol’s eyes went round. He had heard it in his past life—one of the prodigies often mentioned alongside his Senior Brother.

A weirdo from the Hebei Peng Clan, famed for saber-art, who chose fists instead. But “freak” was no title he’d borne back then.

“So in twenty years… how did a direct scion of the orthodox Peng Clan end up with a name like ‘Tiger-Freak’?”

“What brings a Hebei Peng hero here?” Samrang asked.

“I smelled fire,” the man said, wrinkling his nose, “and came to take any injured to a physician. If I was wrong, good. But the burnt stink is thick as soup.”

His eyes rolled wildly, scanning this way and that—landing, at last, on Yegyeol again.

“You look familiar. Whose son are you?”

Before Samrang could answer, Yegyeol smiled politely.

“From a minor house. You wouldn’t know it.”

“Mm. The Central Plains are too wide; forgive an old man’s poor memory.”

Big as he was, he spoke like a child—simple and direct.

“I’m heading down the mountain now. If it pleases you, may we travel together?”

Samrang’s eyes went saucer-wide—what was he thinking? Yegyeol, pretending not to notice, kept his gaze on Peng.

After a moment’s thought, the man said,

“Even if you’ve troubles, I won’t lend money or my name. I’ll share a meal. If third parties cause a fuss, I won’t step in unless they aim at me. If that’s acceptable, we walk together.”

The well-rehearsed cadence made Yegyeol glum.

“How many times has he been burned?” he thought, as if hearing “No door-to-door sales or religious proselytizing.”

“I won’t borrow money or names. I’d like to buy you a meal as thanks. I have my own guards if trouble starts. I sought your company to hear how the martial world fares these days.”

“Oh? That so?”

“Yes. I’m a trader; I’m curious how Jianghu flows. If you like, we’ll find a fine place—good meat and good wine.”

“Well then! I’ve been rude to a man wanting conversation. Forgive me. My younger brother said if I bankrupt the clan one more time trying to save ‘poor souls,’ he’ll strike my name from the rolls.”

He laughed loud and free. Now Yegyeol understood the brother’s threat.

“A most excellent brother,” he said dryly.

Samrang narrowed her eyes, baffled at Yegyeol’s intent—but their lord had ordered to allow him freedom so long as safety was kept. She stayed her tongue.

“Let’s go,” Peng waved a hand broad as a pot lid—then paused.

“I didn’t catch your name, young sir.”

“Je Haryang,” Yegyeol said with a bright smile. “A small trader out of Qinghai.”

Samrang ducked her head to hide her eyes, suddenly too large, and stared at the floor.

“Has the brat—has Young Master Mun gone mad?”

“…A fine name,” the Tiger-Freak murmured at last, nodding.

“Come then—down the mountain. Something may be burning; we should hurry.”

He moved like his namesake, tiger-swift.

His busy back looked like a man fleeing something—yet he kept glancing back to check Yegyeol.

“Keeping up well.”

Yegyeol wiped imaginary sweat.

“Hard to match your pace, sir. Martial artists are extraordinary.”

“Oh dear, was I too fast? You’ve never trained?”

The man seemed almost flustered at the hint of weakness.

“As a child I was frail. My parents sent me to Kunlun—to learn health practices from the revered Daoists. But I barely crossed the threshold. No talent for entry, they said.”

“Kunlun, Kunlun…” Peng repeated, a bitter smile twisting his lips—the look of a man grappling with old, knotted feelings.

“Long ago, a hero I knew was from Kunlun.”

Most of Jianghu had surely forgotten prodigies from decades past—but Peng remembered Je Haryang clearly.

“He wears his heart on his face,” Yegyeol thought, hearing nostalgia ring like a bell.

He tossed bait and watched. Once they reached the village below, he would ply the man with drink.

No grand restaurant here—only a traveler’s inn, already lively with locals.

“I’ll drop our packs in a room. Please, sit and drink,” Yegyeol said.

“I’ll wait here,” the Tiger-Freak replied, settling.

Yegyeol led Samrang to a room. Once alone, she threw up a barrier of inner force—usually to block attacks, but equally good at muffling sound.

“Are you very on edge?”

“Yes. Approaching unknown masters lightly is dangerous. A hermit roaming the deep mountains isn’t guaranteed to be kind.”

“No need to worry.”

“I didn’t expect you to give our lord’s name,” she said.

“Mun Yegyeol should be on the Yangtze. I had no other identity to claim… so I gave Senior Brother’s.”

Samrang’s eyes narrowed. He could have used Jin Sam. She knew it. If he chose Je Haryang, he had a reason.

Sure enough, he confessed:

“The truth is—I know that man.”

— — —