TSBIRBV Ch 144

Chapter 144 The Oldest (6)

“Nightmares?”

Jinyoung murmured as though the words sounded utterly foreign.

“I suppose it could look that way.”

“Then what is it?”

At Yegyeol’s question, Jinyoung gave a wry smile.

“They are not nightmares. They are heart demons.”

Unexpectedly, he gave up Haryang’s secret without a struggle.

Yegyeol, who had come prepared with all manner of persuasion and threats, widened his eyes.

“Heart demons?”

If one were to name an incurable disease unique to martial artists, it would be possession by one’s inner demons.

Humans who bore the immense power called martial arts often fell into this state: their qi and blood twisted, their bodies beyond control. Ninety-nine out of a hundred met death; of those who survived, countless became half-cripples.

Though heart demons had many causes, three typical ones were named:

being attacked while circulating qi, learning a demonic art too great to withstand, or suffering a shattering event that broke one’s will, leaving them unable to overcome their inner demons.

And now—Haryang had them?

“I… didn’t know.”

“He has hidden it with such desperate care. Lord Mun must not know.”

“How did it happen?”

“…Before I tell you that, I also wish to know something.”

Jinyoung fixed him with a sharp gaze.

“How did you learn of this?”

Yegyeol confessed smoothly.

“Yesterday afternoon I went to see Senior Brother. It was so dark and empty I was startled, but thought perhaps he was napping. I only meant to leave my gift and go, but… the candles were lit.”

Half-truth, half-lie.

“I thought he must have fallen asleep and forgotten to blow them out, so I snuffed them and turned to leave—but then he groaned.”

Yegyeol lowered his eyes. His face showed sorrow and worry too heavy to hide.

This was no flimsy disguise—it was wholly his truth.

“He seemed in such pain. Truly, terribly so…”

The man who had strangled him had not taken pleasure in it.

Rather, he had looked like someone writhing helplessly in chains of suffering.

“…Damn.”

Jinyoung muttered low, almost inaudibly. Yegyeol pretended not to hear.

After rubbing his face dry, the man lifted his head.

“I heard you went to Seonyong early this morning. I should have warned you sooner. I must report this to my lord.”

“Don’t—don’t tell him.”

Yegyeol stopped him.

“He’s gone to such lengths to keep it secret. Even if it was an accident, I don’t want him to know I’ve found out.”

“Were you unharmed?”

Jinyoung’s voice was hard.

“What?”

“I asked, were you unharmed.”

His expression was that of a man who wished to tear open his shirt and check for himself.

“If I had been hurt, I’d have been carried out that day. He only tossed and turned in his nightmares, that’s all.”

Yegyeol shrugged, lying with practiced ease.

“The servants here are trained never to approach my lord’s quarters without leave. Do you know why?”

Jinyoung muttered bitterly.

“Because when tormented by heart demons, he sometimes strikes out at friend and foe alike.”

Strikes out…

He had chosen his words carefully, but how many others had been as lucky as Yegyeol?

Yegyeol held his tongue.

“You were of the orthodox sects, were you not? From the same school as my lord.”

“Yes.”

Yegyeol nodded readily.

“I was from Kunlun.”

Jinyoung’s lips twisted. In his eyes, which looked scholarly and frail, a red gleam flickered.

“Do you know? I met my lord in the Demonic Cult.”

The last Yegyeol had seen of Haryang, Kunlun was aflame—though he had survived. It was only natural he had been dragged to the Demonic Cult.

Even so, Yegyeol’s heart plummeted.

“They… captured martial artists from across the Central Plains for their experiments. Not only warriors—children too, those young enough their values had yet to form.”

Yegyeol listened in silence.

“My lord was one of the few test subjects to live long. The Cult, impatient at their lack of results, forced him to learn demonic arts.”

“Demonic… arts?”

Yegyeol’s lips trembled.

“Demonic arts?”

They granted swift progress and overwhelming strength—but most who practiced them died young. The side effects were unbearable. Those who survived lived with demonic energy steeped into their marrow, suffering wretched ends.

In the orthodox world, before one could ascend from the peak of martial cultivation to a realm beyond, called Transcendence, one who practiced demonic arts would be trapped in torment.

Worse, those who walked that path almost never advanced further. As their realm rose, breaking through to the next stage became near impossible.

Many demonic practitioners, as they aged and could no longer bear the agony, ended their own lives.

The higher they climbed quickly, the sooner they reached a ceiling.

That was the greatest flaw of demonic arts.

“Senior Brother practiced demonic arts? Why?”

It was not contempt that filled Yegyeol, but dread—for he knew what such a choice would cost him.

Seeing desperation, not disgust, in his gaze, Jinyoung answered in a low voice.

“To return the corpses of the fellow disciples who had been dragged with him to their sects.”

Yegyeol clenched his teeth.

“Then… the reason he was expelled was…”

To return, whole, even those who were no longer alive. That was why.

“Because he had learned demonic arts.”

His fists tightened unconsciously, nails digging into his palms.

He had never cared much for sects. He had climbed Kunlun only to meet Je Haryang.

But he knew what Haryang had done for them.

All the martial world had spoken his name. Every member of the sect had piled their hopes and burdens upon his shoulders. He had been regarded as the pillar that would revive the declining Nine Great Schools from their rusty corner in Cheonghae.

Haryang had borne all of it silently.

And yet he had been cast out—merely for learning demonic arts.

Yegyeol’s breathing grew ragged.

“In any case, my lord suffers heart demons as a side effect of the demonic arts. He cannot sleep without medicine, and even then, when something living approaches, he lashes out.”

“What degree of lashing out?”

“I am still wondering whether you stand here alive before me.”

Even in Jinyoung’s curt tone, the truth rang clear.

Yegyeol stayed silent.

“…You seem troubled.”

“How could I not be? Senior Brother suffers heart demons, and was expelled for practicing demonic arts. How could I chatter on as usual?”

Pressing his fingers to his eyes, Yegyeol answered. He tried not to sound sharp, but his voice kept twisting.

“You don’t seem intent on leaving his side.”

Jinyoung muttered.

“Why? Do you wish I would?”

“I think it would be best.”

He answered honestly.

“I suppose I am useless to Senior Brother.”

Yegyeol muttered bitterly.

“Useless?”

The man frowned.

“That is not it. Do you not realize how dangerous your situation is?”

At his pressing, Yegyeol blinked.

Beside his guide was the safest place for an esper. Jinyoung’s warnings about danger rang hollow to him.

Even after being strangled, what lingered in him most was the memory of stealing a kiss from Haryang.

His sense of scale was warped.

“Have you never thought that what my lord lavishes upon you—his affection, his care—might be something else?”

When Yegyeol gave no answer, Jinyoung pressed harder.

“Do you truly believe that is affection?”

Yegyeol did not answer.

After all, wasn’t “affection” itself just a word humans had invented?

There was no measuring stick that said depth of feeling ran from zero to ten, with friendship up to three, love from six onward.

Affection was not pure affection; hatred not pure hatred. Yegyeol respected Haryang, loved him, obsessed over him, longed for him.

Which of these was strongest even he did not know. He lumped them all together under the word affection.

His feelings were jagged, fierce, without moderation.

Some said an esper’s feelings toward his guide were obsession. Some said love. Others called it desperate faith in a savior.

But just as a rose by any other name still smelled as sweet, however one named it, the feeling was fervent, searing, desperate, tender.

So what use to ask about definitions, or who had the right to use the word?

…So long as we can be together forever, what else matters?

After a silence, Yegyeol asked,

“And you—you think it’s something else?”

Jinyoung answered without pause, as though repeating a truth he had long turned over.

“Heart demons are born of traumatic events. My lord endured many trials, and always overcame them. Yet there was one he never could.”

Yegyeol murmured, counting off Haryang’s past.

“On his first quest, the Battle of Ilrim Valley—he escaped unharmed. No… if the standard is the martial tournament, then was it the Pungyeo Village incident?”

Weariness crossed Jinyoung’s face. Pressing his temple, he said quietly,

“He who protected all, who bore the duty to protect—lost before his eyes the one person who had protected him.”

“Ah…”

“Now, what do you think became his heart demon?”

Yegyeol felt as if his body sank into sand.

“You.”

Jinyoung’s voice was a judge’s pronouncement.

“You are his oldest heart demon.”