TSBIRBV Ch 182

Chapter 182. Pillow-Side Litigation (9)

Yegyeol blinked his eyes open and shut.

A red car rolled along the road beside the playground. Behind the laughing figure of a man stood a paint-chipped slide. A swing set, bright with children clinging to it, creaked forward and back, and the shoes on Yegyeol’s feet bore neon teddy bears.

He lingered on each color, savoring them.

It was like that moment in the old film The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy opened the door and the world suddenly bloomed into color. In Yegyeol’s world too, saturation had returned. He felt as though the more he grew attached to this reborn life, the more hues seeped into it.

Everything struck him as wondrous, extraordinary. The architectural forms and electronic devices he had never seen in the Central Plains—yes, those were strange—but above all, what touched him most was the presence of family.

Though he remained a boy of few words, he grew up more or less ordinary.

There was but one unusual thing: he excelled at all things of the body.

It was difficult to say this came from his past life as a martial artist. Among Kunlun’s disciples, there had been many smaller and slighter than he, hauling water-buckets up and down the snowy slopes in little more than single robes. It was not training; it was simply daily labor.

Even as one who had barely clung to the lowest rank, deemed dull-witted, he now found his body strangely light.

How much should I hold back?

This was his greatest worry of late.

Being slower than the other children was not difficult, but then his mother fretted. Being faster was worse—grown in spirit already, accidents were inevitable. Then his mother looked at him with unfamiliar eyes.

Thus, being an ordinary child was the hardest task of all.

The man before him—his father—waved his hand.

“Yegyeol! Over here, throw the ball this way.”

Throw it?

Yegyeol cocked his head, then flung the ball toward him.

“Oof!”

It happened too quickly. Expecting nothing more than a light toss from his son, the man froze at the unexpected speed. He reached out belatedly, but the ball swept past his hands and struck him squarely in the face.

He staggered, barely catching himself.

“M-my son should be a basketball player!”

The man forced a laugh, oblivious to the blood trickling from his nose.

Is it because this world has no inner force, no martial arts? Everyone feels so fragile, Yegyeol thought, mistaken.

With one hand clutching the ball and the other his son’s hand, the man returned home. There he fell into his wife’s arms, feigning tears.

“Darling! I’m hurt!”

“Good heavens—your face! A nosebleed! Look at the bruise around your eye—how will you go to work tomorrow?”

“What is work? Our Yegyeol may become a pro basketball player, and then—ah, we’ll be set!”

He spread his arms wide, boasting of his son’s swift throw, claiming he was born for dunks.

“You clumsy man. If you insist on playing with him, at least dodge properly.”

Yet even as she scolded, the woman fetched an ice pack and pressed it gently to his eye.

“Ow, ow!” The man exaggerated his pain, winking at Yegyeol.

“My son, when you succeed, don’t forget your father’s sacrifice—buy me a house in the Safe Zone near the Gate, hm?”

“Oppa! You’ll say anything.”

His wife pinched him, and the man cried out louder than when struck by the ball. Startled, she withdrew, only to realize she had been tricked; with a huff, she smacked his back.

It was somehow… foolish, yet tender.

On days when they visited his father’s family in the countryside, the story became a source of laughter among distant relatives.

But that year was the last they could laugh about Yegyeol being “special.”

Half-dreaming, Yegyeol stirred. His lips shaped Senior Brother, but no sound emerged.

He should have just given me a sedative…

That would have worn off quickly. Instead, he had been struck at an acupoint. The cramped space told him he was in a carriage. The jolting of the unpaved road—or the point strike itself—left him dizzy.

Was that why he had dreamt of the past? Was this dizziness a kind of motion-sickness?

A hand entered through the open door. Yegyeol quickly closed his eyes. He felt Haryang lifting him, cold air brushing his face as they left the carriage. Just as he considered feigning wakefulness, Haryang checked his pulse again.

The world slipped away.

I don’t want to sleep…

His vision wavered. Through the haze he glimpsed Jinyoung, Samrang, and Yaryul Hongye bowing before Haryang. Samrang’s movements were more formal than ever.

Well… a workplace is a workplace, I suppose.

That was his last stray thought before Haryang’s thunderous voice filled his ears:

“We return to the Sect.”

“Yes, my lord.”

And Yegyeol sank once more into darkness.

Working at his puzzle, Yegyeol glanced toward the kitchen. Their neighbor, who visited twice weekly to chat with his mother, had dropped by again.

She spoke of her daughter’s new baby, of cousins buying land and its rising value. After idle chatter, his mother sighed deeply.

“I think it’s time to send him to kindergarten. But everywhere is full—it’s dreadful.”

Her face clouded as she explained her husband’s leave was finished and she must return to work.

“Did you at least get a waiting number?”

His mother shook her head.

“Even those are full.”

Worry furrowed her brow.

The neighbor eyed her thoughtfully. Turning her head slightly, Yegyeol quickly scattered a puzzle piece and pretended to focus on fitting it back.

“It’s only because I know what a good person you are that I say this…”

Cautiously, the woman leaned closer. Her daughter was a kindergarten teacher, she said.

“They don’t take… special children.”

Special.

Yegyeol blinked.

“What do you mean, special? There’s nothing unusual about my son!”

His mother bit her lip, her voice edged though she quickly softened it.

“There’s nothing like that written anywhere. It’s not on the forms—how could they know?”

“You know how it is. Principals, teachers, mothers—they all talk. There’s a network.”

The woman whispered:

“They’ll accept the form up front, then quietly set it aside. They don’t want trouble later.”

“My Yegyeol has never caused trouble. He’s just a normal child.”

“I know. I do. But what others think—that’s another matter.”

His mother’s face froze, grim.

“…Ah.”

When Yegyeol woke again, he realized he was still in the carriage. His head rested on something firm. Looking up, he saw that he was pillowed on Haryang’s knee.

His Senior Brother’s hand hovered just beside his face, withdrawing smoothly as Yegyeol’s gaze focused.

“Senior… Brother…” His voice rasped, parched from enforced sleep.

“You’re thirsty.”

Haryang opened the window and held out his hand. Someone passed him a flask. He raised Yegyeol to a recline and tilted the bottle to his lips.

“Cough—cough!”

Yegyeol sputtered, half drinking, half choking. With a quiet sound, Haryang caught the spill, then took water into his own mouth and bent down to press his lips to Yegyeol’s.

“Mmh—”

It was tender, yet relentless. The guiding energy, sweet as life itself, flowed in with the water. Yegyeol swallowed both eagerly.

Even limp, he was held steady in Haryang’s arms as the kiss lingered. At last, when Haryang drew back, his lips were as wet as Yegyeol’s.

“Do you want more?”

As if nothing of the encounter with Namgung Un had ever happened, Haryang’s face was calm. Too calm—so much so that Yegyeol felt anew that none of this was dream.

“…No.”

Without regret, Haryang capped the flask and put it away.

He watched in silence as Yegyeol slowly rose, slipping from his arms.

It was as composed a response as he could hope for.

“We’ll arrive soon. You woke at just the right time.”

“Arrive where?” Yegyeol asked, though he already knew.

“The Shishan Range.”

The words were spoken as lightly as if he had said, to the corner store.

Yegyeol pointed to the window.

“…Open it.”

He needed to see.

Haryang, untroubled, opened it wide.

Outside, riders on horseback formed a ring around the carriage. Of the three retainers Yegyeol recognized, only Samrang was visible, clad in black, keeping close.

It must have been her who handed him the flask.

They were nearly there. Beyond the carriage stretched jagged rocks and scrub; not the white snows of Kunlun, but a harsher barrenness than any mountain of the Central Plains. Like a mountain of stone, with weeds stubbornly sprouting between cracks.

And ahead—stood nature’s fortress.

A black, shadowed massif, so vast it seemed to darken the sky. Though it was broad daylight, the slopes loomed dim, spiked with cruel stone peaks like the fangs of a demon’s castle.

Between sheer cliffs lay the only entrance: a gorge sealed by a colossal iron gate, so massive one could scarce believe it built by human hands of this age. Strange characters were engraved upon its corners, unreadable, awe-inspiring.

So this is the Shishan(100 mountain) Range…