TSBIRBV Ch 193

Chapter 193. The Venomous Viper Will Not Endure (4)

Yegyeol thought it fortunate that his Senior Brother’s hands had been quicker than his own desires.

Had Haryang prepared all this only for his disciple to drag him back to bed without even a glance, it might have been too great a shock for his innocent Senior Brother.

“Here, no—how, I mean…”

This was the Ten Thousand Mountains, the very heart of the Demon Sect. Those before him were mere common folk, at best versed in trivial arts like Iron Palm, hardly martial adepts.

Their gaudy colors, so bright they hurt the eyes, only proclaimed more loudly how ill-suited they were to this place. The raucous music, dizzying enough to steal one’s wits, was the same.

And yet, before the troupe stood seats prepared for Haryang and Yegyeol, with wine and simple delicacies already laid out. Crimson pomegranates split with ripeness, clusters of grapes bursting with fruit—such vivid offerings drew the eye.

Yegyeol opened and closed his mouth, unable to form words, while Haryang, amused, replied:

“I brought them blindfolded. It seems some lofty nobles sometimes demand such performances, unwilling to mingle with commoners.”

He shrugged lightly, as though it had been nothing at all.

“With enough silver, there was no trouble. In truth, it was all too easy to bring them here.”

“But… even so. Is this really all right?”

Even bold Yegyeol felt his chest pounding.

If one were to line up the villains of the Central Plains, there would be many names, but none disputed who stood foremost: the Heavenly Demon.

Even in eras when the Demon Sect lay dormant, the Heavenly Demon remained a byword for terror, the nightmare that robbed even the Nine Great Sects and Five Great Clans of sleep.

And yet here, before his dwelling, a troupe was permitted to perform?

“One good thing about being Heavenly Demon,” Haryang answered softly, “is that there is no one left who dares forbid me.”

At least, not to his face.

He left the rest unsaid, swallowing it before his disciple who clutched his arm in anxious innocence.

“They all shrink from me as if I were some monster. Yet at times like this, it is convenient. Come, let us sit before they grow uneasy.”

Yegyeol’s eyes were spellbound by the troupe; he could not look away.

Haryang sat easily in his place and, rather than set his dazed disciple down, pulled him onto his lap. There had been two seats prepared, but he had no wish to release him.

Besides…

He wanted to see his disciple’s astonished face from closer still.

The acrobatics began. Believing themselves at the villa of some eccentric noble, the troupe performed with all their might, unaware of where they truly were.

One balanced on his hands and walked a tightrope; another spun about with only a single hand grasping the cord.

A bright-feathered bird, trained to bring dried meat to its master, instead cheekily stuffed it into its own beak.

A man rolled twice forward, then blew out a stream of flame that leapt into a ring set ablaze.

“Wow, wow! He breathed fire—fire from his mouth!”

The S-rank esper who could call lightning from clear skies clapped like a child, his delight ringing out.

In the modern world, even the most innocent of guides would have grown weary of such antics. But this was the Central Plains. And his only guide was a man who would gladly be deceived by anything his disciple offered.

“How can they do such a thing?”

“Who knows.”

Haryang trailed off, smiling faintly. He seemed on the verge of comparing it to some mystical fire art, but his words faltered.

Sensing this, Yegyeol turned, only to find his Senior Brother propping his chin in one hand, a wine cup in the other, and gazing fixedly at his profile.

The pretense was thin—each time the performance changed, Haryang feigned attention, yet his eyes lingered on his disciple.

Unable to escape that gaze, Yegyeol at last surrendered, lips parting.

“Why… why a troupe, of all things?”

The question slipped out without thought, for want of anything better.

To a martial man, feats like walking fire or swallowing blades would hardly seem remarkable—any half-trained fighter could do as much. Why, then, summon them across mountains and deserts to the Demon Sect’s stronghold?

Unless… they are some hidden informants? A secret meeting under cover of performance?

The thought was absurd, yet Yegyeol’s eyes fixed on his Senior Brother’s lips, waiting.

At last, Haryang answered, as if it were nothing at all:

“Because it was my promise to you.”

He drained his cup with unruffled composure.

Promise.

To Yegyeol, that word was unbearably heavy.

Haryang had never once found joy in survival, yet he had clung always to Yegyeol’s promise. Samrang’s dry recounting of his past had already torn Yegyeol’s heart to shreds.

Would the day ever come when Haryang himself spoke of those times?

He thought of the hands that had closed around his throat, of the guiding force that had poured from his Senior Brother into his very being. While awake, he had never let slip a trace of those thoughts.

In truth, the one Haryang had most wished to kill was not Yegyeol at all—but himself, bound to a life he could not end.

That frail heart, split wide by agony, Yegyeol had never dared resist. He bit back a sob.

And what right have I, to weep?

When Haryang turned his head back, Yegyeol’s face was wet. Startled, he called out.

“Yegyeol? Why suddenly… why are you crying?”

The troubled face blurred in Yegyeol’s vision. He blinked, dumbfounded, and let out a foolish sound.

“Huh…?”

He lifted his hand from his knee. His knuckles were wet.

“I never meant to make you weep. Yegyeol, Yegyeol?”

He had not even realized he was crying. Dazed, he could only listen as Haryang called him anxiously again and again.

“Why such tears? Do you dislike the troupe? Was I too selfish, too thoughtless?”

Haryang clenched his teeth.

All he had wished was to recreate a perfect day. But from Yegyeol’s side, what had it been? The day he learned his revered Senior Brother was Heavenly Demon. The day he was dragged here without chance to resist.

Fool that I am.

Because Yegyeol had shown no great rejection, had even tried to adapt, Haryang had grown careless.

Yes, he had seen his disciple’s cheeks wet before—moistened by sweat, flushed with fever, trembling with pleasure. But these tears were different. They fell long-suppressed, silent and inexorable, like sorrow finally breaking free.

From childhood Yegyeol had not been prone to weeping.

When he returned at last to his hometown of Hangzhou, the old man he had longed to see was dead—yet his face had remained dry. When he punished the man called Jagwi who had made his youth a hell, he had laughed, but not wept.

So seeing him cry now, Haryang panicked. No matter how he wiped his eyes, no matter how he held him close, the tears would not cease.

“If I had known it would distress you so, I would never have brought a troupe. Never again.”

His words stumbled, broken.

Yegyeol shook his head, hiccuping, unable to speak otherwise.

I must say it is not that, he thought, but could not.

The awareness of weeping only made it worse. He had not sobbed like this even as a newborn, yet now he could not stop. Not with wails, but with endless tears. If he did not shed them all, he felt he might burst.

“Why… why…?”

What was a promise worth? Why endure such torment to keep it?

He had told him only to survive, not to bear every torment and humiliation for his sake.

Why must this man be so stubborn, so graceless in his fidelity?

Samrang’s voice echoed in his mind, dry, unyielding, describing Haryang’s past. In his heart, Yegyeol painted it in crimson, his imagination filling the gaps until the weight crushed him.

“Stop keeping promises.”

To Haryang, it must sound like senseless petulance.

“They’re useless. If you are Heavenly Demon, then be so. Do as you will.”

Why was it so hard, to tell him to play the villain as he was meant?

“All right. I will. No more promises. So stop crying, or you will collapse.”

Flustered, Haryang nodded at once, eager only to soothe.

When at last his disciple’s tears began to slow, his gaze flicked to the heap of red fruit. Perhaps if he put something in his mouth, it might ease him.

“Here—don’t cry. Taste this.”

He split a ripe pomegranate, its seeds spilling out like jewels.

As he offered those translucent rubies, Yegyeol’s mouth went dry.

He recalled, strangely, that the fruit Persephone ate in the underworld was also a pomegranate.

And how like her plight was his own.

Hades had abducted the daughter of Demeter, goddess of the earth, carrying her to his realm—as Haryang had carried him to the Demon Sect.

Persephone had wept for her lost days, but when she ate the fruit of the dead, she was bound forever to the depths.

She must have despaired, dreaming only of the sunlit earth.

But Yegyeol was not Persephone.

If remaining at his Senior Brother’s side meant chains, he would take them gladly.

“…Give it to me.”

His tear-stained face bent forward, and he accepted the crimson seeds without hesitation.

Twenty years ago, he had already cast away earthly life when he leapt before a blade for one man’s sake.

“Ah.”

The taste was sweet.

The seeds burst upon his tongue, tangy, faintly bitter, tinged with salt from his tears.

Whatever else he ate in this lifetime, he knew he would never forget this flavor.

“Well done…”

Juice dripped scarlet from his lips onto Haryang’s fingers.