TSBIRBV Ch 162

Chapter 162 An Offer That Cannot Be Refused (8)

“Ah… the gods of heaven and earth truly lent their aid.”

“…Perhaps.”

The words, so heavy with meaning, banished any tears of sentiment that had been about to fall. The physician’s eyes widened.

“The Daoist hesitated. To project the shadow of his former disciple onto this boy would not be right. And yet, little by little, he opened his heart. Like cherishing a grandson, he grew fond of the boy, and in time asked him to become his disciple.”

In the martial world, there is no tale more beloved than that of bonds between master and disciple.

“The boy confessed that from the moment they met, he had respected the Daoist as though he were a grandfather. Gladly, he offered the Nine Bows of obeisance. The Daoist believed, at last, he could be happy with his disciple. But then…”

Namgung Un’s voice grew bitter.

“One of the men from the bandit gang that had once attacked the temple targeted it again. Whether out of poverty, or resentment that the temple he had trampled had revived, no one could say. This time he came alone. So unlike before, he did not burn the temple or steal its wealth. No… he stole only one thing—the old Daoist’s final happiness. He took the disciple.”

The physician murmured faintly.

“…Surely not…”

“The Daoist searched everywhere, desperately, for the one who had been stolen from him.”

Namgung Un fell silent.

“And then? What became of him?”

Realizing the tale had ended, the physician pressed him urgently.

“The rest, I do not know. It is only a story passed on to me.”

And of course, it was. Namgung Un too had only heard it from another—Baekyang Jin-in of Kunlun.

The elder had told of the disciple he had lost twenty years ago during the Kunlun Blood Calamity, and of the new disciple he had taken in more recently. Namgung Un had simply adapted that story for the physician’s ears.

“But perhaps, physician, you might complete this tale.”

“Me…? This old man?”

Namgung Un nodded solemnly.

“The Daoist entrusted me with the task of finding his disciple. If you could only search your memory a little further, it might aid me.”

The physician sighed deeply.

“I truly… I have nothing to say.”

He was plainly wavering.

“My memory is not what it was in youth. Even for the smallest consultations, I must rely on my records. Forgive me, young lord—I cannot be of use to you.”

He rose abruptly, went to the bookshelf, pulled something free, then quickly shoved it back in.

“It is time I sorted my herbs. I can no longer play the host. Please see yourself out.”

“Be well.”

But the physician had already fled.

Namgung Un drained his cup. Cold liquor, burning hot within—always an odd sensation.

He stood, steadying himself with inner force to sweep away the haze of drink, and reached for the shelf. He checked the very book the physician had withdrawn and then hastily hidden again.

It was indeed a record—a physician’s journal. Namgung Un flipped quickly through its pages.

Most of it was mundane: rising at regular hours, receiving patients, arranging herbs and prescriptions.

“Apparently I fell asleep sorting herbs during the hour of the Hare. They say the old have little need for sleep, yet my frail body was tired, it seems. But when I awoke… it was no longer in my clinic.”

Between the pages lay a torn slip of paper, scrawled hastily. The handwriting was near-illegible, but the meaning could still be discerned.

The words suggested the physician had been abducted.

Namgung Un’s pulse quickened as he read.

“The patient I saw there was a young man, barely past twenty. His body was covered in wounds, and signs showed attempts had been made to staunch grave bleeding. His meridians were utterly distorted, beyond repair by acupuncture alone. Even if heaven itself intervened and he rose again, he would be plagued by lifelong aftereffects. If he were a martial man, he could never again wield a sword.”

Aftereffects?

Namgung Un thought of Yegyeol—those smooth palms without calluses, dull to killing intent, shrinking from violence before his very eyes.

Baekyang Jin-in had said much the same: the newly taken second disciple could not practice martial arts.

“Burns as though seared by fire.”

That line was underlined twice in black ink.

“Clear signs of brutal assault.”

Namgung Un’s mouth tightened grimly.

“Should I even save him?”

Another phrase, struck through in black ink.

His eyes darkened.

Baekyang Jin-in had told him that a demon cultist had abducted his old disciple’s lookalike—Yegyeol. Was this what had followed? Torture this terrible?

And yet… he always smiles so brightly…

No wonder he had hesitated. When he first met Qinghai’s Master, Moon Yegyeol, he had suspected he might be Kunlun’s lost second disciple—but he could not reconcile the cheerful exterior with the image of one so broken.

But now all the pieces fit.

Closing the journal and sliding it back into place, Namgung Un clenched his eyes shut.

At last he understood why a boy with no scars on the surface, who should have returned to Kunlun, instead wandered the world as the master of Qinghai Trading Company.

He had been beaten so savagely, his spirit so crushed, that even with Kunlun at arm’s reach, he could not return.

His head reeled, his stomach churned. But—

Namgung never turns from righteousness.

And Yegyeol was not only his friend, but his benefactor.

The resolution seared into his chest.

Namgung Un did not realize he had mistaken the order of events.

From the record tucked within the journal, he assumed Yegyeol had been abducted after leaving Kunlun, tortured and brainwashed by a demon, and only then treated by the physician.

Thus, to him, Yegyeol was pitiable beyond bearing—the Kunlun second disciple torn from his master, brutalized and deceived until he followed another man, calling him Senior Brother.

Unconsciously, his nails dug into his palm. The sting steadied his mind.

Now was not the time to despair.

First, I must find this so-called Senior Brother.

All signs pointed to him being the demon lord who had awaited Kunlun’s fall. To force Yegyeol to call him Senior Brother—what grotesque cruelty.

And so, yet another crime was unjustly laid upon Haryang’s shoulders.

Yegyeol. Just wait a little longer.

Grinding his teeth, Namgung Un’s heart blazed. In his eyes, Yegyeol was nothing less than a friend bound by fate, a Kunlun disciple cruelly ensnared by demons.

Yegyeol was on his way to Haryang’s residence, with Samrang in tow.

After the sudden ambush, he had returned to the manor to wait. He had prepared a gift for Haryang during his journey to Sichuan, and Samrang had arrived at dusk carrying boxes from the trading company.

Pressed by Yegyeol, she had gathered a pile of gifts for Senior Brother, and now they headed out together.

So many parcels had been prepared that not only Samrang but three servants from the residence were needed to carry them.

“Wouldn’t it be better to go later?”

Samrang, her hands full, pouted as Yegyeol dragged her along.

His nerves were iron, she thought—even after facing assassins, he had only pestered her about the gifts.

Come to think of it, during that ambush in Xining as well, he hadn’t seemed afraid at all…

Perhaps it’s because Kunlun disciples melt snow for drinking water. Does that somehow harden their guts?

She was still turning over such nonsense when Yegyeol’s voice broke her thoughts.

“What?”

“My intuition.”

“Then it’s dismissed.”

“…Why?”

Her fleeting hope was doused by his blunt refusal.

“Your instincts work only in your favor, Samrang. They have nothing to do with me.”

“If only Master Moon had ears a little softer.”

Samrang grumbled as they walked down the corridor.

From Haryang’s quarters, they overheard him speaking with Jinyoung. Yegyeol hushed his steps and listened.

“To think they would send jiangshi among the assassins.”

At that weary, darkened tone, Yegyeol’s eyes widened.

So in the end, the one whose eyes turned red—that assassin was no man at all, but a jiangshi?

“Since the Demon Physician’s death, the true method of making them should have been lost. That they tried so desperately to mimic it… they must have wanted my attention.”

“Narrowing the suspects will not be easy. After Mo Shan Sect’s annihilation, the secret method of crafting jiangshi spread in shadow.”

Demon Physician?

Yegyeol carefully tucked both words into his memory—jiangshi and Demon Physician.

“Silence.”

Haryang’s voice made Yegyeol stiffen. Though his Senior Brother sat behind that sliding door, it felt as though his hand had closed tight around Yegyeol’s heart.

Had they been discovered eavesdropping?

“Yegyeol is coming.”

At once, his tone softened, like a breeze in spring. Yegyeol quickened his steps—but not too much—and approached.

The door before him was ajar.

No wonder it was so easy to overhear.

“Senior Brother. It’s Yegyeol. May I come in?”

“…Not today.”

An unexpected refusal. Yegyeol persisted.

“I have something for you.”

Fortunately, the refusal came only once.

The door slid open. Cold air rushed in, as though it had been opened the instant Yegyeol approached. The smoke of burning medicinal herbs had been swept clear.

Haryang’s hand held a pipe.

I thought it might look out of place.

It was the first time Yegyeol had seen him with such a thing.

Always, he had thought his Senior Brother’s hands best suited to a sword—straight, disciplined. But now, with the long, well-shaped fingers wrapped around a pipe, there was a strange, decadent charm.

“Leave us.”