TSBIRBV Ch 102

Chapter 102 Heaven above, Suzhou–Hangzhou below (14)

Yegyeol spoke in a voice that trembled.

He himself could not tell what he had been thinking to say such a thing; the terror of nearly dying in the place he thought safest had driven him out of his senses.

Even so, there was a feeling that overcame that fear.

“They’re looking for that naive young lord.”

Why would assassins hunt someone at this hour of night?

If they met the real Haryang, they would not hesitate; as they had with Yegyeol, they would not threaten him for information but achieve their goal at once.

“I don’t want that.”

Death was frightening; yet if Haryang were to cease to exist in this world, somehow that felt unbearably sad.

If a cold fire were burning in the mind, perhaps it would feel like this.

“Haryang? You, of all wretches, are our target?”

A vile laugh came from the assassin. Yegyeol drew his shoulders back and met his gaze. The straight posture, the unwavering eye—all of it was an imitation of the Haryang he had watched.

The assassin’s eyes, exposed between his hood and mask, scanned him coldly.

The beggar boy in whom both cringing and fear had vanished as if washed away.

For a moment, he looked convincing enough to make one think he might be the “real” one.

“If so, what is your surname?”

Surname?

The question came from nowhere; back‑alley children were not called anyone’s son.

As if expecting this, the assassin slapped Yegyeol’s face.

“Insolent brat.”

His head snapped aside, too weak to resist; the taste of blood filled his mouth.

He only regretted not lying more cleverly.

“So the young lord really does trail drippings of himself everywhere—seems it wasn’t a lie. Maybe he’s got a hobby of collecting wretches more pitiful than himself.”

At that, Yegyeol glared, eyes wide.

“Will you kill me with a look? Insulting your precious young lord angers you that much?”

Lowering his voice, the assassin asked softly,

“Ever think this? That your so‑called young lord treated a beggar well to make a sacrificial lamb to die in his place?”

A base curiosity colored his tone; intending to kill, yet wanting first to watch Yegyeol suffer a little more.

Assassins were said to be fearsome, given their dangerous trade; seen like this, they were not so different from Crooked Ear or Pit Viper.

“I…”

As Yegyeol’s lips moved in a thread of sound, the assassin bent closer to hear.

“Go on—what are you?”

Ptui.

Yegyeol spat into eyes full of expectation. The man recoiled, cursing.

“You little—!”

Dodging the flailing hand was not so hard.

Hurling himself, Yegyeol rolled across the floor. The one standing beside him seized his hair as if waiting for that very moment.

Yet the boy was smiling.

He had not meant to run anyway. Just before his mouth was sealed again, Yegyeol shouted with all his might,

“Fire! Fire!”

If he cried for help, people would hide like turtles meeting a natural enemy. But if there was a fire in an inn, they would move for fear of damage to their purses.

“Wh—fire?”

“Fire! Fire!”

From far off came a rumbling clatter. People rushed out; beyond the dim sliding doors, a bright yellow shone.

Yegyeol grinned.

“You… you…!”

“Enough. Finish it, then move at once.”

A blade touched his throat. Yegyeol moved quickly; with a slice, hair fell away. The next would truly be death—when the door crashed down and men with sabers burst in.

Behind them stood Haryang, ghost‑pale. Bandages stained with blood wrapped his arm; his gaze, relentless, was fixed on Yegyeol’s face.

At a swordsman’s strike, the assassin holding Yegyeol lost his arm; blood splashed, weapons clashed in confusion, yet Yegyeol could not look away from Haryang.

“Why… where did he get hurt? These assassins didn’t seem to have met the young lord…”

His neck bleeding, too much blood seemed to be flowing; dizziness muddled his thoughts.

A throwing blade from the surviving assassin whisked past his ear. As darkness crowded his sight, Yegyeol slowly crumpled to the floor.

—

When he woke, he was lying in a modest room. Startled by the unfamiliar place, he tried to rise, but his limbs were heavy as water‑soaked cloth used for dyeing.

“Oh? Awake.”

A man who seemed a server entered with a basin of hot water.

“Where… is this?”

It was not where he had stayed with Haryang.

“This is the Songwol Inn.”

Yegyeol jerked upright.

“I have no money for board and lodge.”

He wanted to be thrown out—thrown out so he could scour Hangzhou to find Haryang.

“He looked hurt.”

He bit his lip.

The assassins seemed to have met only the nurse—then how, and where, had Haryang injured his arm?

“A young master paid three months’ room and board; stay without worry.”

The open‑faced server stepped out for a moment, then returned with food. After the meal, a respectable tea was prepared.

It was not the premium tea he had shared with Haryang, but the boy still knew little of tea; the sight alone of the liquor ripening to gold brought back the time with Haryang.

“What back‑alley stray drinks tea cup by cup,” he muttered—and no sheepish smile came back.

He was alone again.

Dipping a finger into the cup he had surely been told to drink, then pulling it out, Yegyeol traced the characters Haryang had written:

“崑崙”

Just two characters threw him into turmoil.

What did it mean? Did he remember it right?

He regretted not asking what it meant—out of a half‑baked possessiveness.

In truth, he wasn’t even sure he remembered correctly. And even if he wanted to grab Haryang and ask—the young lord had gone to a place unknown.

“This… won’t do.”

He kept moving his hand to clear the mist from his eyes; it was no use.

Perhaps he was the graceless orphan people said didn’t know gratitude; he found himself resentful of Haryang.

All he had done was feed a beggar boy who caught his eye—and leave when it was time.

“Cold.”

The boy curled in on himself. In the space left by Haryang’s departure, the briny, damp sea wind knifed in.

The day after Yegyeol woke, the physician who had seen him while he stayed with Haryang came.

“Did the young master send you?”

“He paid in advance.”

Hopeful against sense, Yegyeol greeted him—and was disappointed.

With the same brusque face as the first time, the physician examined him.

“The wound at the neck was quite deep, but at this rate it will heal quickly. Be glad your youthful recovery is strong.”

Enduring the careful hands binding his neck, Yegyeol rushed to ask as the physician packed up,

“Do you know where the young master went?”

“How would I know what you don’t?”

The physician clicked his tongue, for once sounding pitying.

“I thought you bright—did you give him your heart?”

Though he knew it wasn’t an inquest, Yegyeol’s head bowed of its own accord.

“You know as well as I—such fine young lords dispense a little pity, then return to their own.”

“I know.”

Mumbling, Yegyeol lowered the sleeve he had raised for pulse‑taking.

“Still, you’re lucky he’s a young one and naive. I’ve seen more than a few like you give heart and body and end up broken.”

Hangzhou was a city of pleasure. People from all over the Central Plains gathered; the wealthy who came to enjoy a season of delight would take wine and delicacies, the scenery—and fleeting ties—and go.

When summer passed, there were children born or abandoned without fathers.

“…He wasn’t like that.”

Weakly, Yegyeol answered. He knew the words were hollow, abandoned as he was, but he could not help saying them.

Giving him a sidelong glance, the physician left without a word of comfort.

In the end, he would endure alone.

As all who passed this summer had done.

Not long after the physician left, the server brought decocted medicine. With swollen eyes, sunk into the bed, Yegyeol saw the dish of sweets placed beside the bowl.

Fruit candied in sugar water gleamed like jewels.

“Wh‑why this?”

“The young master said the guest won’t take the medicine without this.”

Liar.

“…Thank you.”

With a face twisted on the edge of tears, Yegyeol swallowed the medicine and gazed at the glittering red fruit.

Like jewels.

Knowing it wasn’t real, yet finding his gaze drawn—that made it worse. Haryang was not here; this was not a fruit skewer he had brought himself; and yet the lingering trace of that terrible kindness left Yegyeol adrift.

What would happen when the reprieve Haryang had purchased for him ran out? When the money he had left with the inn was spent?

“…Back to the alleys.”

The thought, slow to rise, was worse than nothing; it was only a return to the bleak, squalid reality—and yet why did it feel so hard?

Alone again that night, the boy curled on the bed and held his breath through sleepless hours.