TSBIRBV Ch 94

Chapter 94 Heaven above, Suzhou–Hangzhou below (6)

It put him in a bit of a mischievous mood to try tying a big ribbon, but when he actually attempted it, it suited him too well, so he gave up.

Swallowing his regret, Yegyeol stepped back a pace and admired his handiwork.

Je Haryang’s hair was neatly tied; it looked like a job well done.

“All done.”

“The nape feels cool. Thank you.”

Rising from his seat, Haryang ruffled Yegyeol’s hair. As his hair was tousled in that grasp, Yegyeol simply smiled in pleasure, then checked Haryang’s face.

There was a hint of bashfulness there—something of a fresh, young man about him.

Even the deliberate mussing of Yegyeol’s hair, done to hide that fact, carried a green scent of youth. Seeing a man so awkward and so pleased he didn’t know what to do, Yegyeol let slip a fragment of unguarded truth.

“Senior brother, you smell nice.”

From you comes the scent of the highest peak he knows, of snow that never melts.

For twenty years, Yegyeol had longed for everything that constituted Je Haryang.

To him, who had never once thought of the place where he was born and raised, only Haryang had become homesickness.

“Do I?”

Haryang’s gaze took in the disciple who looked at him so tenderly.

“Only from me?”

“…Only from senior brother.”

At that answer, Haryang almost smiled.

He remembered something heard a little earlier.

“Because the five senses of the Asura Blood Jiangshi r‑respond to the Heavenly Demon Divine Art!”

It had been a life laden with far too many unwanted things.

A mother’s affection, talent for the martial, a disciple’s sacrifice, the reverence of fellow sect members, a master’s devotion, wealth and power gained by surviving…

But this—

You—

“I never tried to have this…”

Haryang reached out and stroked his disciple’s cheek.

There was warmth. He was alive.

“…nor should I have this.”

His mouth went dry.

Even so, if what Yegyeol had was that which had been given to Haryang; if repeated misfortune and ill luck had made it exist solely for him—

“Senior brother?”

As the silence lengthened, Yegyeol called to him.

Haryang, pulling free of the base joy that had churned his mind, moved his lips.

“Do you covet it?”

“Sometimes… there are moments like that.”

Without denying it, Yegyeol smiled sheepishly.

“Then take it.”

At the ready words, Yegyeol’s eyes widened.

“Pardon? How can I take a scent that comes only from senior brother?”

“Come and draw it in whenever you want.”

Haryang took his disciple’s hand and put it to his own hair.

Startled, Yegyeol’s eyes went round, and his hand twitched. He wanted to touch, terribly, but his face was clouded by fretting over whether he should.

Because that look was so vivid, Haryang kept almost laughing.

His oldest heart‑devil, wearing a clear face, stood to meet him.

“No self,” indeed.

In any case, the fellow’s hypothesis was nonsense.

Even the master, the demonic physician, had not completed the Asura Blood Jiangshi.

So perhaps—perhaps his disciple was not some Asura Blood Jiangshi at all, but only one who had been lucky enough to survive and return to him.

“If, even so, I am the only one for you—Gyeol.”

Haryang would give him everything.

“There is nothing I have that I would not give you.”

Even if that were the last scrap of flesh, the final drop of blood—if it could ease his disciple’s hunger and slake his thirst, what could be begrudged?

“Ask as much as you like, and take whatever you want.”

A deliberately pared‑down truth hovered on his tongue; but Haryang swallowed it with difficulty.

Too soon—still too soon.

He wanted his disciple to know nothing yet.

Though he did not know what to do with the reprieve that Yegyeol’s ignorance had brought him, he needed even that brief grace desperately.

“I shouldn’t be too greedy. With the clothes we bought today alone, the manor will burst at the seams.”

Not knowing Haryang’s heart, Yegyeol was busy hiding the black depth of his own belly.

“If the manor is an issue, I can simply buy another.”

“No.”

“If you don’t like buying, shall I just build a new one?”

Even as he teased Yegyeol on and on, Haryang wished—

That the young disciple would not know the source of this boundless, blind devotion.

So that days like today might stretch on, even one more.

“Senior brother!”

At Haryang’s feigned ignorance with a sly air, Yegyeol stamped his foot.

A bright, ringing laugh broke forth—clear as spring water.

With no thought of fleeing, the man moved as if in flight; his steps were like a dragon sporting among the clouds.

The bluish silk ribbon Yegyeol had tied fluttered lightly down Haryang’s back.

After a childlike game of chase, Je Haryang took Yegyeol to the restaurant he had mentioned beforehand.

The five‑spice pork—famed indeed—was delicious. But that was not all. Even the Dongpo pork, counted among the very best in Hangzhou, and the savory namige said to be by a chef from Guangdong, delighted Yegyeol’s tongue.

For most people, hunger is the best side dish; for Yegyeol, the senior brother sitting prettily beside him worked even better.

“Ah—didn’t buy senior brother’s clothes.”

Sipping his tea, Yegyeol murmured sadly at the sudden thought.

At the clothing shop, he had been too busy stopping Je Haryang to think that far.

“This is senior brother’s fault.”

When one looks, one thinks to fill what is lacking—but Je Haryang, appearing from behind, had been too perfect. He had known he was handsome; under Hangzhou’s sky, there was a freshness about Haryang somehow.

“It must be because I remember seeing him here as a child.”

“My clothes?”

Giving a glance to his disciple’s dejection, Haryang answered,

“You need not worry about me. What I’ll wear is already prepared in the manor where we’re staying.”

Learning where the new clothes his senior brother wore today had come from, Yegyeol’s lips parted in regret.

“But… we came all the way to Hangzhou.”

If possible, he wanted to choose them himself.

Silks worn by wealthy officials, long robes for grown men, martial garb favored by Jianghu men; the ghost‑light robe would feel a bit tight at the neck, so skip that—fox‑fur attire would suit him well, too.

“A suit… I want to put him in a suit.”

That heaven had birthed Je Haryang into this world but not granted a tailor was all too unjust.

“There are good dyeing workshops here—the cloth is fine.”

In a pleading voice, Yegyeol tried to persuade Haryang.

“Dyeing workshops, hm—do you know one?”

At the question, Yegyeol paused, then nodded frankly.

“When I was young, I occasionally lent a hand.”

He recalled the name bandied about by the shopkeeper.

Seonye Workshop.

One of the dyeing workshops near the back alleys. Yegyeol had often hidden there from crooked‑ear or pit vipers.

The workers at the dyeing workshop knew Yegyeol hid there, but turned a blind eye.

It had been a kind of transaction. Yegyeol needed a place to hide from heterodox martial men; they, by turning a blind eye, replaced wages with a child’s labor at no cost.

Shrewd from childhood, Yegyeol had thought that fair enough.

Still, one elderly worker sometimes brought Yegyeol food, saying it was leftovers.

Because he feared he might, without meaning to, ask “nothing for me today?”, Yegyeol had never even attempted a proper conversation with the old man.

Do not hope too much.

If one attached one’s heart to another’s passing glance or gesture, the one hurt in the end was always Yegyeol.

Pity is given easily—and reclaimed just as easily.

“Do you not want to go?”

“Twenty years have passed.”

The old man who had shared food with Yegyeol would already be dead.

Revealing such detachment with ease, Yegyeol then added, with a start,

“We came all the way to Hangzhou, and there’s nowhere I want to go, no one I want to see—that’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

Most people show attachment on returning to their hometown after long absence; since Hangzhou did not feel like a hometown, he had forgotten.

“It couldn’t be odd.”

Haryang lowered his voice to a whisper.

“I’ve never told anyone, but I too do not especially yearn for my hometown.”

“Ah…”

“I didn’t know—but you and I share that.”

Haryang smiled kindly. Sneaking a look, Yegyeol felt his unease dissolve.

“I lost ten years off my life, and yet this turns out a blessing in disguise.”

“Still, there is someone I am curious to hear news of.”

At Yegyeol’s words, Haryang asked with a drawn‑on smile,

“And who is that?”

“There’s a dyeing workshop—I used to help there now and then as a child. There was an old man who shared food with me.”

“…Is that so?”

Somehow, his senior brother’s voice seemed softened.

“He’s likely passed, but if I could find where his grave is, I thought to offer incense. Would that be all right?”

“Let me go with you.”

“Pardon?”

“If he looked after you as a child, then this elder brother also wishes to offer thanks.”

“Then—let’s go to the workshop first.”

The owner likely wouldn’t know, but as a long‑time worker, there might be dye artisans who remembered him.

Leaving the restaurant, Yegyeol took the lead and guided the way. Because Haryang was so tall, he walked slowly to match Yegyeol’s pace; which, oddly, made him seem like a well‑fed beast.

Even in the labyrinthine alleys of Hangzhou, Yegyeol found the way without difficulty.

“Some memories, they say, settle deep in the mind.”

Casting off stray thoughts, Yegyeol explained,

“Because Hangzhou is such a bustling city, the workshops are a little away from the markets. They have to be close to the water, but also built where land is cheap, so close to the back alleys.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Seonye Workshop was close to where I stayed, so I went often. But…”

As he went to say more, Yegyeol paused. The dyeing workshop he had aimed for came into view just then.

The signboard, once aged to antique charm, was slightly askew; one door was completely broken, lying on the ground.

A familiar scent of ruin.

“Oh, dear.”