TSBIRBV Ch 227

Chapter 227 Star Instructor of the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains (4)

Heaven had set down a gatekeeper to keep the Demonic Sect bound within the Taprimoq Desert, sealed so tightly none could escape—yet here he was, kicking it open. Truly absurd.

“Such… such things. Gyeol-ah, you overestimate this Senior Brother far too much.”

Haryang was uncharacteristically at a loss, looking troubled. The man who always exuded composure now faltered, and that alone delighted Yegyeol. Without mercy, he pushed his Senior Brother straight into a prison of praise.

“But as you yourself said, it’s not merely about imitating a form after seeing it once. It’s about understanding the intent housed within that form. And not just anyone can grasp that, can they? One needs a discerning eye, knowledge of martial arts, and above all, the experience to imagine how it would apply in true combat.”

Yegyeol, after all, had once belonged to Kunlun. He had at least learned what mattered in martial arts, if only from watching over others’ shoulders.

Carrying it out had always been difficult—reciting it, however, was easy.

“And you, Senior Brother, possess all of that. To then teach it to someone who knows nothing is even harder. It means you have to understand martial arts so intuitively you can lay it bare for another. If you aren’t remarkable, then who is?”

“…Mm.”

Haryang averted his gaze, the nape of his neck peeking through his hair, faintly flushed.

What a strange man. Perfectly aware of his own brilliance, yet so weak before a compliment.

Has he… rarely heard such words before?

The thought struck Yegyeol suddenly, and he quickly curbed the sharp temper rising in him. Instead, he fixed bright, clear eyes on his Senior Brother and asked,

“Why are you so good at teaching?”

“…Perhaps it’s because I wished to help you, and so I studied the Thunder Spirit Fist thoroughly.”

If only the martial world had even half as much humility as his Senior Brother, the endless disputes across the Jianghu would surely be cut to a tenth.

Yegyeol thought so with deep sincerity and gently countered,

“Normally, studying a manual wouldn’t make one such a teacher…”

The fact that even Baekyang Jin-in, greedy as he was, had given up on Yegyeol the so-called dunce proved just how rare this was.

But there was something Yegyeol himself did not realize: no matter how skilled a teacher Haryang might be, it was meaningless if his pupil could not absorb it. Yet Yegyeol’s present ability to learn was hardly that of a dunce.

Embarrassed to be credited when the merit was all his disciple’s, Haryang deflected awkwardly.

“I also referred to a few other fist manuals. Since I mainly use the sword, I wished to better understand the characteristics and strengths unique to fist techniques.”

Yegyeol clicked his tongue.

This was, after all, the man rumored to have read every martial text in Kunlun’s Martial Hall before even reaching his twenties. When he won the grand martial tournament, it was no secret among Kunlun’s admirers that instead of asking for a prize, he requested access to every martial manual guarded by the Martial Alliance.

Yegyeol’s gaze, tinged for a moment with heaviness, quickly softened again. He shoved the rising welter of emotions back down and turned the topic.

“By the way, is it normal to physically adjust your disciple’s posture so directly?”

The question caught Haryang off guard, his earlier shyness halting his movements. He asked, puzzled,

“Normal… you mean?”

“I mean, before. Back then.”

Yegyeol had nearly spoken without thinking but clamped his mouth shut, his eyes darting. He did not wish to sour the atmosphere with mention of Baekyang Jin-in. Yet Haryang’s wordless insistence weighed on him, and so Yegyeol spoke.

Why not indulge in a little mischief again?

“When I first entered Kunlun… Master said to simply watch the other seniors and mimic their movements.”

“…To learn martial arts, by mimicking?”

Though Haryang’s expression barely shifted, the storm beneath it was plain. His eyes had turned terribly frightening.

“Yes. Supposedly by mimicking, one could broaden one’s knowledge of martial arts and strengthen one’s vision as well.”

Thanks to this new life, Yegyeol understood at last that Baekyang Jin-in had never been a true teacher.

That man had handed a freshly arrived disciple—barely literate—a mental cultivation manual, demanding he memorize its formulas and meridian points. Words Yegyeol could hardly read.

At the time, he thought it normal. As a street beggar once working odd jobs, he had heard of brothers who learned cooking and arithmetic simply by watching from behind.

So rather than doubt Baekyang Jin-in, he painstakingly recalled the characters the Red Tiger had once taught him, struggling to comprehend the incomprehensible manual.

Falling behind would mean being cast out of Kunlun, that heavenly realm. He dared not beg anyone for help, much less trouble his master.

“Well… that was merely because this disciple was so lacking.”

Feigning awkwardness, Yegyeol tied off the words quickly, feigning humility but fully aware he was striking true.

And this much is only the truth.

Though Haryang’s eyes narrowed dangerously, Yegyeol pretended not to notice, continuing to unfold his forms.

Perhaps Haryang sighed, perhaps it was just a brush of breeze against his nape—but Yegyeol did not turn. Haryang gathered himself, resumed his composure, and returned to teaching, guiding his stance silently, then demonstrating once more while explaining the nuances.

“The Thunder Spirit Fist—its fists are for decisive strikes, its palms are for driving the enemy back.”

“Meaning after using the palm, there’s an opening?”

“Indeed. But that opening exists because the opponent has been repelled, and time has been bought.”

They exchanged words lightly as master and student, until Haryang clicked his tongue.

“A fine golden staff would suit this well…”

“You’re far too greedy, Senior Brother.”

Yegyeol shot him a side glance, his lips curved with a faint smile.

“Only because you follow so well.”

Realizing his own excitement showed, Haryang muttered as if to excuse himself,

“I never thought I would take on a disciple in this life… but teaching you martial arts brings me such joy.”

Even after all these long years, Kunlun still lived in his memory.

There, for once, he had not needed to be someone’s son. He had simply been someone’s disciple.

To outsiders, such words would sound spoiled, but Hwangbo Gaju’s generosity had saved him from death. He had even treated Haryang as a son, permitting every morsel eaten, every garment worn, every lesson taken.

Until the day he left for Kunlun, Haryang had not known he had been breathing underwater. He had not known how heavy and suffocating it was.

When at last he set foot on dry land, he drew his first true breath of air—it was sweet, it was freedom.

He was still marked by others’ eyes, but no longer as an odd beast among fish. He stood out only because he could run further, leap higher.

He once thought he might remain rooted in Kunlun like a tree, become its pillar, raise disciples of his own, and spread the roots of the sect deeper still.

But those were dreams long since laid to rest.

“Gyeol, you bring me such joy.”

Je Haryang smiled—a clear, open, and gentle smile.

It was a face both strange and achingly familiar. Yegyeol’s Senior Brother was at once distant beyond measure and impossibly near.

Enraptured, Yegyeol sank to his knees on the dirt floor of the training ground.

“Gyeol?”

Once. Twice… and nine times in all.

He bowed nine times, then lifted his head.

Receiving the nine obeisances, Haryang stared at him, dumbstruck.

“My greetings were long overdue. Please guide me well…”

Yegyeol’s lips curved in a mischievous smile.

“…Master.”

For a moment, Haryang could not utter a single word.

What could he call this being who filled him with such overwhelming emotion?

To him, Yegyeol was always precious, always lacking—like a few drops of water granted to a wanderer in the desert.

He had seized him because he could not bear to lose him.

He had taken him because he could not let him go.

Sometimes, when he wondered how fate had bound them together, even breathing felt unbearable. Joy so heavy it crushed the chest was not unlike pain.

And yet, he could never despise it—only fall deeper into love.

“Will you not accept me as your disciple?”

Yegyeol tilted his head playfully, urging him on. Haryang, overwhelmed, raised a hand to cover his mouth and turned sharply aside.

Yegyeol’s heart sank.

Ah. Perhaps I’ve pressed too hard. Perhaps taking on a disciple truly is a heavy matter for him.

Watching closely, Yegyeol caught sight of the ear revealed beneath Haryang’s long hair. From the rim to the lobe, it glowed steadily red. Yegyeol’s eyes wavered.

Even if he had not died that day, perhaps they would still have sinned against each other. What did doctrines of annihilation matter? He was certain—however clumsy, however raw, they would still have remained together in the end. Death alone had divided them.

Struggling to master himself, Haryang finally turned back to face the disciple who waited so earnestly.

Yet when he met Yegyeol’s face, he faltered again—for the flush there mirrored the very embarrassment burning in his own.

“This Senior Brother… no, I…”

He bit his lower lip, then raised his eyes slowly to meet Yegyeol’s.

“I will be a very strict teacher. Even so, do you still wish to be my disciple?”

The weight in his voice was undeniable. That low tone carried more dignity than ever before. Yegyeol answered firmly,

“This disciple is reckless and curious. Precisely why Master must be strict, to keep the balance.”

Though his cheeks were still flushed, he shone with confidence and resolve.

“Then you are my first disciple.”

Haryang smiled faintly and reached out his hand.

“Do not revere me, nor serve me. If learning proves difficult, say so without hesitation. If your body aches, then rest. What I desire of a disciple is not accomplishment, but happiness. Not renown, but survival. If you never forget this truth, then I shall forever be your teacher, your guardian, and your companion.”

Yegyeol took his hand and slowly rose to his feet.

It was but the forming of a bond between master and disciple, yet it felt like a wedding vow.

There was no clear water set out, no witnesses present. Only the two of them, deep beneath the mountains that the martial world would scorn, exchanging their promise in secret.

Other masters demanded their disciples chase achievement and pursue fame. Across all history of the Jianghu, none had ever issued such a carefree decree.

And yet, Yegyeol understood the gravity behind Haryang’s words.

“This disciple is impetuous and often causes trouble, but Master, I pray you will look upon me kindly.”

Without reservation, Yegyeol stood and smiled brightly.