TSBIRBV Ch 229

Chapter 229 Star Instructor of the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains (6)

It was no idle boast. Had the dagger not been thrown but instead swung in hand, the wielder would have been electrocuted.

Yet Yegyeol’s words could easily be taken as provocation.

Two masked men closed in from both flanks, their blades converging. Yegyeol barely slipped between their strikes, his bangs shorn by the edge of steel. His heart did not plummet in fear—rather, it raced with exhilaration.

Only days ago, he had recalled the memory of his rampage. Now he laughed in earnest at the thought of snuffing out lives. That suppressed ferocity, always tamped down, had thrust its head into the light. The liberation he had once tasted when he loosed the reins still lingered within him.

When the ambush first fell upon him, it had been masked by a blaze of fury and the suffocating weight of despair.

Dodging the sword from the left, Yegyeol seized the wrist of the foe surging in from the right and yanked. The black-clad fighter, unprepared for such strength in Yegyeol’s slim body, stumbled forward. In that instant he slashed his own comrade with his blade.

“Ugh!”

With a crash, he toppled. Yegyeol had hooked his shin at the last moment, ensuring he could not regain his balance. The blade sank into the thigh of the man to the left.

The guttural groan of agony was music to Yegyeol’s ears. His lips curved upward faintly.

Moving as Haryang had taught was surprisingly easy. Following the principles of the Thunder Spirit Fist naturally guided him to strike at the exact vital points. It was clearly designed for fighting men—particularly many men at once.

He knew nothing of the Thunder Spirit Fist Master’s nature, but the man must have brawled endlessly to rise to the pinnacle of the world.

He must have been very lonely.

To fight many at once meant no comrade ever fought beside him.

With two men disabled, Yegyeol sprinted for the one at the rear who had been casting hidden weapons. He could not channel inner energy, so his steps were not as effective as a martial artist’s footwork. But he was an Esper—fast beyond measure, even without a dantian.

Crash!

A fist wrapped in golden lightning lashed for the enemy’s face. The man barely twisted aside, but a few strands of hair beneath his mask sizzled and burned. A breath slower and his face would have been destroyed. Yegyeol’s chest tightened at the thought.

But he gave no respite. Anticipating his foe’s evasion, he planted his foot firmly and spun, pivoting into another strike. He seemed too quick to topple, yet his movements bent fluidly, seamlessly.

The enemy thrust in to seize the opening left by Yegyeol’s failed attack, driving a blade toward his side—only for pain to burst down from the crown of his skull. Not a mere strike, but a numbing shock that seized his body, leaving him rigid. Trembling, he collapsed where he stood.

Though danger had brushed close, Yegyeol’s face showed no trace of fear.

The sixth attacker, who had watched without moving even as his comrades fell, now charged at last. His blade arced for Yegyeol’s shoulder. Yegyeol leapt back like a wild beast, nimble and light.

He had meant to dash forward—when suddenly, the man he had earlier floored by sweeping his shin grabbed his ankle from the ground and yanked.

Yegyeol’s heart thumped—not with terror, but delight.

His body lurched. In that fleeting instant, he made his decision, kicking his assailant aside into the wall. Yet relief was brief. Another attacker, taking advantage of the chance, hurled a round iron projectile at him.

He raised his arm to swat it aside—when a long strip of cloth unfurled before him, fluttering.

“Careful.”

The whisper slipped into his ear as if spoken right beside him.

He thought fleetingly that the white veil was like a fairy’s winged robe. The iron disk struck it—and a dark shadow bloomed with a muffled boom.

A choking odor spread through the air.

Poison?

Had it touched him, it would have been disastrous. Yet no sooner had he thought it than the cloth ripped apart. Through the tear, a man pressed in with a sword aimed for Yegyeol’s heart.

Haryang was suddenly there. He drew Yegyeol into his arms and flicked the blade aside with his fingers.

The motion was as casual as brushing aside a curtain—yet with a metallic crack, the weapon clattered to the floor in two pieces. The blade, darkened deliberately, had been sheared in half.

Even with his keen eye, Yegyeol had not seen how Haryang broke it. He only thought, awed, remarkable. He kicked the disarmed foe into the lingering cloud of poison. The man choked violently before collapsing.

Expressionless, Haryang swept a hand. The black miasma filling the chamber flowed into his sleeve like mist borne away by the wind.

“That was dangerous.”

Clasping his hands behind his back to hide the sleeve that had swallowed the poison, he stroked Yegyeol’s hair with his free hand.

So that was why he had finally intervened—because of the poison. Yegyeol clicked his tongue.

“I thought it was just a blunt projectile, didn’t expect it to explode.”

He nudged a fallen body aside with his foot. Haryang replied:

“Assassins always come with varied tricks. If you cannot finish them swiftly, caution is best.”

“Yes.”

Yegyeol answered brightly, smiling.

He was overjoyed to be fighting openly before Haryang, without concealing his strength. That Haryang stood aside with minimal interference, worried but allowing him room, felt like recognition itself.

Even being chided to take care left his grin unshaken. Watching him, Haryang pressed his lips shut, deep in thought.

“Again? If you have more to say, please don’t hold back.”

After a pause, Haryang murmured:

“You revel in danger.”

“Ah.”

Too obvious, perhaps. Yegyeol averted his gaze.

“There are such men.”

“Should I be more cautious, then?”

“No. Taking joy in danger can be strength. When cornered, you will not easily collapse. You can adapt with flexibility others lack. But—”

His face grew stern.

“Do not throw yourself into peril for the thrill alone.”

Listening meekly, Yegyeol flushed faintly. He had felt it, clear as day—the exhilaration. In battle where no path forward could be seen, every nerve alive with sharp sensation. It was a thrill unlike even guiding.

Next time, I’ll rein it in—at least in front of Senior Brother.

Resolute, Yegyeol glanced at the fallen.

“Seven in total… This is all they sent to ambush the Heavenly Demon?”

Though highly trained, they had been manageable even alone. Against Je Haryang, they would not have left a scratch.

“To mount such a feeble assault against the Demon Lord?”

“Of course not.”

Haryang swept back his hair.

“It must be distraction. To stir chaos elsewhere.”

It was a feint. Bind the Heavenly Demon’s feet, draw guards to one side with an assassination attempt, while accomplishing the true objective elsewhere.

The loss of these men was expected, their lives spent like coin.

“Should we really play along?”

Yegyeol’s tone soured. If it was clear as day, then better for Haryang to leave him here and see to the greater danger himself.

“Ah.”

Haryang smiled gently.

“As it happens, we lack leads. Let them hand us the thread themselves. I was waiting.”

As he spoke, he pressed his foot upon the broken blade he had snapped. Rubbing away its surface, faint watery patterns shimmered.

“White-lotus steel mixed with black-iron. Less enduring than cold-forged steel, but light, and durable enough.”

He had shattered hundreds such. Crafted blandly, to erase all trace of maker or wielder. Both metals were common throughout the Jianghu.

Yet their very anonymity betrayed them. Only a limited force could orchestrate such schemes within the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains.

Haryang’s gaze shifted past the wide-open doors. A pungent scent stung the air. Yegyeol wrinkled his nose.

“Smells like fire…”

The poison mist was gone. This was clearly smoke.

Jinyoung’s disguise will be ruined.

Yegyeol clicked his tongue. Barely had the Blue Pavilion collapsed, and now flames would consume the annex.

Outside, shouts rose. Judging from the clamor, others had spotted the fire and were rushing over.

Haryang’s lips curled faintly.

“Well now, we’d best be off.”

His voice carried no haste, no dismay. He clicked his tongue lightly, then glanced at Yegyeol and murmured as if to himself:

“Even if my martial arts are unmatched, if my poor disciple inhaled the smoke and fainted… what am I to do?”

Yegyeol instantly tugged his sleeve up to cover his mouth.

“Cough, cough…”

The hoarse, dying rasp was more than convincing.

“Seems we cannot pursue the culprits after all.”

Haryang offered his hand. Yegyeol, eyes brimming with tears, staggered into his arms.

“Senior Brother… it hurts so much…”

Haryang stroked his feigned-ailing head, not to soothe but to commend.

“A grave matter. We must hurry to Samrang.”

The two of them were a swindler’s troupe unto themselves.