TSBIRBV Ch 145

Chapter 145 The Oldest (7)

Yegyeol’s lips moved faintly.

“The oldest…”

The words pooled in his mouth, heavy with the weight of twenty years.

Twenty years.

Two whole decades had passed.

They say even rivers and mountains change in ten years. Time enough for even searing hatred and rage to fade into nothing.

Yet Haryang had welcomed Yegyeol as though they had parted only yesterday and met again today.

Hearing that the inexplicable tenderness he had shown was born of heart demons, Yegyeol finally felt the pieces fall into place.

For how else could the feelings of the living, held for one long dead, remain unchanged across twenty years—unless one had gone mad?

“Why tell me this?”

Though his tone sounded calm at a glance, barbs could not be hidden from Yegyeol’s voice.

“Are you telling me to leave?”

“I know you won’t believe it, but… it is for your sake, Lord Mun.”

Jinyoung answered with a cold face.

When Yegyeol only stared in silence, he added quietly,

“And beyond that, it is also for my lord’s sake.”

“Now you’re being honest.”

“It may be presumptuous of me to say, but… my lord is a madman.”

A madman.

That such words came from the mouth of the man who served Haryang with utmost loyalty made their chill sink all the deeper into Yegyeol’s skin.

“If, because of his heart demons, my lord were to harm you… what would become of him afterward, even I dare not guess.”

Though Jinyoung said he could not guess, the meaning was clear enough—Haryang would surely descend into true possession by inner demons.

In other words, Yegyeol’s death would mean Haryang’s death as well.

But…

After dwelling in grim thought, Yegyeol suddenly grew confused.

Is that really a bad thing?

When it came to the range of emotions called love, Yegyeol was broad and generous.

If Haryang’s affection had been swallowed by his heart demons, then so what? Within it might dwell obsession and resentment, but surely also love and brotherhood.

Even in deserts, there are oases. Even if one must walk endlessly over sand that swallowed one’s steps, body salted white with dried sweat, Yegyeol could throw himself into it willingly.

Even if the burning sun seared him, so long as the desert never ended, he could accept it all gladly.

Even the threat of death.

If I should die, but die with my guide…

At the sudden, tempting thought, Yegyeol smirked.

This was why espers were all damned from the start.

“How dangerous is the demonic art Senior Brother practiced?”

If he truly wished for Haryang to live long and happily after Yegyeol’s death, then these words were nothing but a lie.

The only thing Yegyeol feared now was this:

That his heart demons would worsen, and Haryang would die before him.

“It is a demonic art so dangerous it is without precedent in the history of the Heavenly Demon Cult.”

Jinyoung’s expression was grave.

“What about external shocks? Duels with experts, battles that could shake his stability?”

“…Did you even hear what I said? My lord’s heart demon is you. So long as you remain unharmed, there is no problem. That is why I told you—pack your bags, flee to the far side of the Central Plains. Then you live, and my lord lives—”

Yegyeol cut through Jinyoung’s irritated words.

“So he’s waited twenty years.”

Jinyoung’s face froze as he stared at him.

“You could have just stopped waiting. But you didn’t.”

Where once he had laughed easily while chasing Jinyoung around for answers, Yegyeol now wore an expression so cold it was frightening.

“And now you would have him wait another day, another year, perhaps many years more?”

Perhaps, perhaps.

Across the martial world, the only one who could understand Haryang’s waiting was Yegyeol himself.

Just as Haryang had once longed endlessly for someone who was already dead, Yegyeol, reborn, had scoured this world for a Haryang who no longer existed.

Ceaselessly, endlessly, he had turned the pages of dusty records, delving into histories and even novels, convinced that somewhere, traces of his past life would remain.

Even if someone had told Yegyeol outright that unless he returned to reality he would die tomorrow, he would not have left the Central Plains.

Better to die beside Haryang, whom he had searched for twenty years, than live without him.

“I can’t.”

He would not be alone again.

And surely, Haryang felt the same.

“…Understood.”

Jinyoung muttered as though swallowing a groan.

In that moment, he was overwhelmed.

The desolate resolve etched on Yegyeol’s face was something he had no right to judge.

Strange.

By all accounts, Yegyeol should have been a twenty-year-old youth. One who had spent twenty years in unknown slumber, awakening grievously wounded, only then to reunite with his old bond.

Yet standing side by side with Haryang, he did not seem out of place.

One’s weight did not overwhelm the other’s.

That was strange indeed. For wherever Haryang stood, he was overwhelming.

He was a white heron among crows, a pearl among black stones.

Like a wrongly cut piece of art, or oil floating apart from water, Je Haryang had always seemed destined to live apart from others, alone.

Yet Yegyeol clung to his side with ease, as though that place had always belonged to him. Watching him fit so seamlessly, even Jinyoung’s resolve to keep watch blurred.

For Je Haryang—his lord—looked at peace.

“Lord Mun… may I take it you truly have no intention of leaving my lord?”

“I won’t go. I have nowhere to go.”

The young man, who had grown up in the back alleys of Hangzhou with neither parent nor kin, grinned.

“I see.”

Jinyoung exhaled what was not quite a sigh and waved his hand.

“Then, if you’ve said your piece, leave.”

“I haven’t even finished my tea.”

Feigning innocence, Yegyeol rose at once, ignoring the dismissal, and strode off.

Watching his retreat, Jinyoung wondered how such a venomous thing had ended up clinging to his lord.

But then again, without such venom, how could one endure by Haryang’s side?

“By now, my lord should have finished his tasks and be strolling in the rear garden. If you don’t mean to—”

But Yegyeol’s robe had already vanished through the open door, swishing like the tail of a weasel.

No fire had been lit under his tail, yet he darted as swiftly as any martial artist. Impressed despite himself, Jinyoung lifted the lukewarm teacup to his lips.

With this, I’ve done all my lord asked of me.

Yegyeol had found out.

Haryang, clutching the fragment of a nail, was trapped in that thought, unable to move an inch.

Slowly, he retraced the moments, recalling the scene in the bathhouse.

Indeed, Yegyeol had acted as if nothing had happened.

Haryang had driven into him, grasped his desire between his thighs, shaking it to rattle his composure, desperate to pierce through his thin restraint and see his true heart.

He had known, dimly, that he was crossing a line he never should have while wearing the face of Senior Brother. But he had been consumed by the need to confirm whether he truly meant to kill Yegyeol.

Even when pushed to the brink of climax, Yegyeol had shown fluster and shy avoidance, but no fear, no disgust.

Had Haryang not noticed the broken nail at the very end, had he not scoured the bedchamber on returning, he would have left it buried.

Because it must not be true.

He had wanted to fall into a trap meant only for fools blind to what lay before them.

For if Yegyeol knew of his murderous intent, surely he would leave—flee.

Clutching the nail fragment, Haryang summoned Jinyoung.

“It is time to return to Ten Thousand Mountains.”

His voice was calm, but his eyes gleamed with faint madness.

The long-worn, near-inseparable insanity whispered to him: Yegyeol must not be lost.

If he were brought there, he would never escape.

No one had ever left Ten Thousand Mountains alive.

Not even Haryang himself, bound as its jailer.

“What of Lord Mun?”

Though the schedule had been moved up, Jinyoung voiced not the slightest complaint. Still, knowing well what lay ahead, he asked.

“…We shall transplant him.”

Haryang’s tone was casual, as though speaking of withered flowers.

But his gaze drifted far away.

“Wherever he is planted, he will grow.”

Even if he were to wither, Haryang would never release his disciple.

Jinyoung bowed silently.

“Still, he must be soothed at leaving what he has grown attached to. Bring a bottle of wine. Something sweet.”

“As you command.”

Jinyoung withdrew, memorizing the order. How that sweet wine would be used was not his place to ask.

When the loyal retainer left and the door closed, the bedchamber once more sank into darkness.

The bright lights of the bathhouse, its steamy air, Yegyeol’s presence, his soft skin, the sounds that had muddled Haryang’s mind—all now seemed distant.

Only an hour earlier, his disciple had lain against him, moaning. Skin that bruised at the lightest touch, cheeks flushed scarlet—looking for all the world as though he had surrendered wholly to pleasure.

Yet Yegyeol, who had hidden excitement and desire so well, could not possibly have failed to hide fear or disgust. He could lie for Haryang’s sake.

Still… soon, I shall let you hate me as much as you wish.

Imagining that beneath his serene face Yegyeol’s heart was rotting black, Haryang gave a faint smile.

So long as you do not leave.

It had been such a fine dream—he regretted only that he must now wake.