TSBIRBV Ch 232

Chapter 232. Biheeyeon (2)

Though she had already erased her own clan, whenever a chance arose to seize the throats of the demonic noble families, she would forget her habitual indolence and transform into something fiercely combative.

This time was no different.

Pretending to focus solely on Cheonghyeongjeon and the death of Lord Gong, she would root out those who dared to craft ghouls, a practice expressly forbidden by Haryang.

Her heart beat faster as she imagined how many families she might entangle in the snare.

“And, Jinyeong.”

Haryang gestured to his subordinate. At his summons, Jinyeong lowered his eyes and stepped forward, his expression grave.

“You will find yourself rather busy. This seat intends to remain behind closed doors on account of my disciple’s injury…”

It was the same reasoning as when he had spent long periods away, wandering through Xinjiang, Qinghai, and Sichuan.

Whenever the impregnable Cheonma exposed even the slightest gap, the enemy would always seek to strike.

“Leave it to me. I shall ensure they perceive clearly what it means to think there is a vacancy in their lord’s seat.”

Isn’t it usually said that one ensures no void is felt, not that the void is made plain…? Yegyeol thought so, but still he quietly marveled at how smoothly the gears turned.

It was like watching a finely tuned orchestra. Haryang drew the great design, and beneath him Jinyeong and Samrang spun like cogwheels. Even without receiving step-by-step orders, he trusted they would carry out their duties flawlessly.

“For the time being, it would be best if Hongyeo assumed responsibility for guarding Taehyangjeon.”

The man standing firm like a gatekeeper saluted with stoic fists.

“As you command.”

With Yao Hongyeo stationed there, even those ignorant of the deeper matters would see at a glance how gravely the Cheonma regarded this situation.

“May I ask how my lord himself intends to move?”

Before withdrawing, Jinyeong posed the question. Haryang tapped lightly upon the desk before him, then smiled faintly.

“…I shall cultivate my disciple.”

His gaze alighted upon Yegyeol.

Though forced into an accelerated course of “Esper-to-Martial-Artist Conversion” against his will, Yegyeol only smiled back with unshakable confidence.

“I’ll do my best.”

Since it had come to this, he would flaunt the prowess of an S-rank Esper in full.

…You lunatic.

Yegyeol cursed himself inwardly. Though he had not spoken aloud, his mouth tasted of blood and iron.

“One interval’s rest.”

The moment Haryang’s words fell, Yegyeol collapsed onto the floor. The sky swam yellow before his eyes.

The heaviest thing of all was his body itself.

His limbs, weighted as though with lead, sank helplessly under gravity.

He was, at this very moment, experiencing firsthand the limits of an S-rank Esper under Haryang’s guidance.

Their training ground was a secret chamber beneath Taehyangjeon. Somehow, the luminous pearls set in the ceiling radiated light akin to sunlight, while a cool breeze drifted in from unseen vents so that no sense of oppression lingered. When Yegyeol marveled at it, Haryang explained that he had adapted and applied formations for this effect.

He said it was a place known only to the Cheonmas, passed down through generations. Yet Haryang had opened it without a flicker of hesitation—for Yegyeol’s sake.

“You adapt quickly.”

At his Senior Brother’s praise, Yegyeol swallowed back tears.

Over the last four days, he had endured every kind of training in this chamber. Though it had begun with something as simple as running, before he knew it, he was wholly ensnared by Haryang’s designs.

The beginning had been light, but the end was immense.

Yet Yegyeol could not bring himself to refuse. For when he looked up, Haryang was smiling down at him with deep satisfaction.

“I thought I had driven you to the brink, yet again you keep pace… At this rate, I shall exhaust every trick up my sleeve.”

His murmur, close to talking to himself, carried a note of amusement.

The common thread between Je Haryang, the great disciple of Kunlun—“Dragon of Kunlun”—and Je Haryang, Cheonma, master of the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains, was that both set their standards impossibly high.

And therein lay the problem. Rarely in his life had Haryang encountered anyone who could meet those standards. But Yegyeol, though untrained in martial arts, still managed to keep up with his instruction.

His physical ability far outstripped even the most disciplined martial artists. His situational instincts were almost beastlike in sharpness. Though he possessed no inner energy, he wielded lightning, a power that belonged more to mythic creation tales than to mortal men.

It was extraordinary.

Half compelled, half by choice, Haryang had wandered the demonic world, passing through Tibet’s Potala Palace, India’s Great Thunder Sound Temple, the Small Thunder Sound Temple, even the Sandstorm Temple of the deserts. Yet never had he seen, nor even heard of, a power as destructive and anomalous as Yegyeol’s.

Thus, watching his disciple flushed and determinedly keeping pace stirred his own desire.

I want, once more, to cross hands with him.

Haryang licked his lower lip.

In his later years at Kunlun, the Dragon of Kunlun’s sword had often been mocked as disliking blood more than a gentleman’s brush. In truth, however, his nature was more combative than many supposed.

It was simply that worthy opponents were so scarce he had seldom felt the urge to fight.

From the very first moment he grasped a sword, his accomplishments had outstripped his peers. Yet to raise his blade against seniors in the sect was unthinkable. Nor had he sought renown.

Indeed, his entry into Kunlun had never been out of lofty ideals. He had merely wished to live quietly, unseen, as far from Shandong as possible. Kunlun, remote in the far west of the Central Plains, was perfect.

Though some claimed Kunlun had fallen behind the current of the martial world, it still held one of the Nine Great Sect seats. Even Lord Hwangbo could not have restrained him there.

“I don’t mean to drain every resource from my Senior Brother.”

Yegyeol’s cheeks puffed in a pout. For all his words, once given tasks he tackled them with a tenacity like a bulldog. Truly a commendable disciple.

“It seems I was drawn in by your earnestness and pressed too hard. Was it terribly difficult?”

Haryang reached out a hand to help him rise. As his hair slid down and he tucked it behind his ear, his smiling eyes shone with gentle joy. Yegyeol could not bring himself to resist further, shaking his head instead.

“Each time I think I’ve hit my limit, somehow I find strength again.”

Yegyeol clung tightly to Haryang’s hand. Once he had worried about the smell of sweat; that seemed an eternity ago.

The moment their skin touched, guiding energy surged into him, and he let out a quiet moan.

As their hands clasped, the guiding energy seeped through his body, restoring him. Though he felt he had truly reached the end, each time his body crossed the unconscious boundaries Haryang had set.

And so, though mentally cornered, physically he became refreshed.

As now.

Besides, Senior Brother looks so happy like this.

Yegyeol could feel the joy saturating Haryang’s guiding energy, and it buoyed him up as well. He had learned during the reverse-guiding incident that a guide’s emotions could transmit through their energy, but most of the time when he lay in Haryang’s arms those emotions had been overwhelmingly carnal, leaving him little chance to sense anything else.

Now, however, pure joy streamed through him, light and fluttering. It was like standing beneath the slender branches of willows by a riverside, swaying in the breeze.

Some espers feared becoming too swayed by their guide’s emotions. Yegyeol was not one of them. He wanted only to be swept along wherever Haryang led.

“Still, with this brutal training, I’ve learned to apply the forms of Thunder Spirit Fist in all sorts of ways.”

As Haryang lifted him up, Yegyeol tugged at his hand. With his body swaying, he thrust out a fist—and the towering man cast a vast shadow over him as he spun gracefully, as though in dance, and fell into his grasp. Rather than support him, Yegyeol released him, stepping back.

A sudden lurch forward, and when Yegyeol glanced down he realized Haryang had seized his sash, holding him fast. As Yegyeol’s hand swept across the cloth, it cut with a blackened scorch mark, silk parting as if burned.

He felt no hesitation. After all, this was the man who, when Yegyeol had brought down Cheonghyeongjeon itself, had merely asked if he had enjoyed himself. What was a mountain of silk torn and burned, to make him so much as twitch an eyebrow?

“I did say that if you succeeded in a single ambush, I would end training for today… but you adapt swiftly.”

“Senior Brother… you don’t seem to be watching me as much as I hoped.”

Feigning tears, Yegyeol murmured in a bitter tone. To a stranger it would seem he had been mercilessly pushed, leaving him with such a tragic face.

“And so I can only give it my all…!”

With a resounding crack, he stomped the ground and launched himself upward. Normally, one exposed oneself to danger the moment one leapt into the air—but Yegyeol, unwilling to concede even that instant, was wreathed in golden lightning.

The chamber, already bright as day from the countless luminous pearls embedded in its walls, now blazed still brighter, dazzling to behold.

Haryang did not close his eyes, but gazed steadily at his disciple hurtling toward him.

Like iron that grows harder the simpler it is forged, Yegyeol grew swifter with every bout of training.

No ordinary human could become stronger in this way. It was as though he were finally learning, for the first time, how to truly use his own body.

Haryang caught the incoming wrist and pulled. Through their exchanged blows he had learned: if he layered his protective qi carefully, he could repel the current. But the moment a blade touched the lightning that shrouded Yegyeol’s body, the wielder would be struck.

Haryang, master of his own inner energy, could redirect the lightning’s power at will. But the average martial artist, touched once, would be rendered unable to fight.

In the instant they thrust a blade into his body, their limbs would lock as though struck by heavenly thunder.

And Yegyeol would not miss such a chance.

His disciple recovered swiftly and had a dulled sense of pain. Hardly a blessing, but if it raised his chances of survival, it was something to be grateful for.

Clasping the fist Yegyeol had hurled at him, Haryang smiled brightly.

“Let yourself rampage as you please.”

Even through the protective qi, he could feel the tingling. This was raw physical strength.

“I shall match you—however long you wish…!”