TSBIRBV Ch 235

Chapter 235. Biheeyeon (5)

Boom. Boom-boom.

The thunder of drums resounded as though to encompass the whole of the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains. It echoed like the heartbeat of all who had awaited this day.

The Biheeyeon had begun.

“They say the Great Lord of Gamak is stepping forth.”

“Truly? What was his demonic art again?”

“I heard it was one that accelerates the circulation of inner energy, allowing him to unleash explosive force in an instant.”

“And whom has he challenged?”

“The Blood Rakshasa.”

“That… is quite the peculiar pairing.”

“Indeed. The Blood Rakshasa’s iron cudgel pulverizes his enemies’ limbs. If the Great Lord of Gamak has not achieved mastery in footwork, it will be difficult for him.”

“But the cudgel, for all its power, is ponderous. No matter its destructive might, if it cannot strike, it is useless.”

“And that, my friend, is precisely why out of more than a hundred such as you ten years ago, only one remains today. The Blood Rakshasa shattered the skulls of the other ninety-nine.”

Questions and debates over victory and defeat flew hotly back and forth. Faces speculating who would rise and who would fall bore expressions mingling envy and longing.

“And the Mado Six Families?”

“They never challenge. The noble clans of the Demonic Path are always the ones to be challenged.”

Their murmuring ceased at once as a distant disturbance swept closer, compelling every head to turn.

Where countless banners fluttered, beneath them stood a man clad in black dragon robes.

Even from so great a distance, without a word spoken, none could mistake who he was, or what he represented.

The cultists raised their voices to their god:

“Cheonma’s return! Ten thousand demons prosper!”

“Cheonma’s return! Ten thousand demons prosper!”

Voices that had moments before been divided, wishing for this one’s victory and that one’s downfall, now united as one. Straining their eyes to their utmost, they beheld the Cheonma’s visage, noble and unyielding.

Among the throngs screaming themselves hoarse, tears streamed down more than a few cheeks.

Tens of thousands of voices, their worship pouring forth as one—and still the Cheonma walked calmly across the arena, unbowed by the weight of it.

Following behind his black robes was the palanquin. Before even taking the seat prepared for him, he flung open its door and drew forth a slender figure.

From that lavish palanquin emerged a youth clad in white.

Eyes widened, alight with fire, as the crowd realized that this white-robed youth was the Cheonma’s favored consort of rumor.

Hair of pale brown that glinted gold beneath the sun, skin white as snow, arms draped weakly about the one holding him, a body that seemed doll-like small in Je Haryang’s embrace.

Looking around with hunched shoulders, he seemed as frail as his delicate appearance suggested.

He is beautiful, no doubt, but to stand at the Cheonma’s side, he seems lacking.

This was the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains. Here, strength was all. To these cultists, outer beauty meant little; power was what mattered. In their eyes, Yegyeol looked far too fragile to deserve the Cheonma’s favor.

Yet no matter their thoughts, the Cheonma’s attitude toward his consort was astonishing.

Stopping one who hurried to prepare a seat with a mere wave, he set the youth upon his own knee. Eyes widened nearly out of their sockets. They had heard he was cherished, but not that he would be indulged so.

Unlike the previous cult leader, this new Cheonma was ascetically severe. In public he had never so much as sipped wine, had shown no interest in women or men alike. Other than his three closest subordinates, none had ever entered his private quarters.

It had seemed strange enough that he returned from a lengthy journey through the Central Plains with a youth at his side as though abducted. To hear of it was one thing; to see it was like the difference between heaven and earth.

And now—this Cheonma, who could crush that delicate skull with one hand, pressed his palm to the youth’s forehead again and again to check for fever, tenderly caressing his pallid skin.

So it was true: the consort had been gravely injured during the Cheonghyeongjeon ambush, and since then had not emerged from Taehyangjeon.

“They say he threw himself in harm’s way in the Cheonma’s stead, and was wounded for it.”

“To think, one so slight he seems barely able to lift chopsticks dared to protect the Cheonma—foolish, indeed.”

Yet though they clicked their tongues, their demeanor softened.

The drums began again, washing away their shock.

With the Cheonma’s arrival, all were now present. Stepping forward to take Lord Gong’s place, the head of the Myeong clan—Pale Ghost Demon Myeong Jinyu—raised his banner high.

The Cheonma rose from his seat.

Having alighted from the palanquin, Yegyeol swept his gaze around.

On the morning of the Biheeyeon, fully prepared, he had followed Haryang to another valley within the mountains.

Smaller than the basin usually used by the cultists, it was yet spacious enough to hold this sea of demonic practitioners.

So that’s all… the arena.

The vast square martial stage was immense, designed so that challengers could display the full range of their skills.

Around it, seats had been carved into the surrounding cliffs, making it resemble a coliseum. Looking over the layout, something about it struck Yegyeol as strangely familiar.

Those are the standing seats, there the VIP section, that must be A section… Ah, and obstructed view seats too.

He recalled a senior who once begged his guide for a date and dragged their juniors, even Yegyeol as the youngest, into a bloody ticket war for concert seats. That senior had lectured them on concert seating as if giving a seminar, only to end up fighting with his guide on the day itself and taking Yegyeol in their place.

Looking back, those people truly knew how to live life without boredom.

“You keep glancing everywhere. Find it all so strange?”

“Very much. To think so many people would gather solely to watch martial skill—it’s astonishing.”

A tournament of this scale—his chest pounded even before the first match began. The fervor of the gathered cultists lent the air a heady thrill, intoxicating merely by sharing the space.

“It isn’t simply about dueling.”

Just then, the drums resumed, having briefly fallen silent during their arrival.

A middle-aged man raised and swung a banner.

Haryang slowly rose. The great seat was wide, so Yegyeol leaned against its armrest, gazing up at his Senior Brother.

Though every gaze in that arena pressed upon him, he stood arrogant and unshaken, imperious without a trace of faltering.

“The Biheeyeon begins.”

His voice, infused with inner energy, spread far and wide.

Behind the great seat, flames surged upward. Startled, Yegyeol hunched his shoulders—but the flames were white.

So this is the Sacred Flame of the cult…

He knew fire changed color with heat, but he felt no warmth from it at all. At such nearness, sweat should have poured and flesh should have blistered—yet there was nothing.

As the fire blazed, the great cloth draped behind the seat was consumed. In its place stood revealed a massive structure.

A sandglass?

But no ordinary one—its size so great that two men together would be needed to lift and turn it. The clear glass encasing it was far beyond the craft of the Central Plains.

If glass were made here, they would surely have proper mirrors.

Only after coming to these mountains had Yegyeol seen mirrors resembling those of the modern world, made with mercury.

Haryang spoke.

“It is called the Salugye, the Sandglass Device. Brought from Tianzhu. It takes half a shichen for the sand to run through.”

The fact that the cult, rooted in these mountains, had dealings with distant western lands struck Yegyeol anew.

“If no victor is decided by the time it empties, the match is stopped. It is a draw.”

At his gentle explanation, Yegyeol nodded.

“I understand well enough.”

“Watch the banquet carefully today. You will learn much.”

Yegyeol nodded again. If he meant to live in Murim, he needed to understand martial folk. And what better place to study their ways—full of trickery and viciousness—than this banquet of the Demonic Cult?

His eyes shone as he gazed at the arena.

The contests began.

The Biheeyeon proved even more fascinating than expected. Some fought until death claimed one. Others, at the instant their blades crossed, declared forfeit and descended. Some did not even exchange a single strike, merely glaring until victory was conceded.

Through it all, the cultists gave neither jeers nor censure, but roared themselves hoarse with unrestrained cheers.

It was proof enough: here, no death was mourned.

Yegyeol realized anew why this event was called a banquet. Their madness swelled, a tide threatening to engulf the whole arena.

“This time, I think the one named Seo-ung will win.”

Saying so, Yegyeol offered Haryang a slice of fruit, neatly cut. To eat a ripe peach in this season atop the mountains was astonishing. Yet before it reached him, Haryang caught his wrist and lowered his own head to take it with his mouth.

Gasps rose, sharp intakes of breath from those watching.

As Haryang released him, Yegyeol’s sleeve slid down, revealing the bandages on his wrist.

Any onlooker would conclude he was injured—never guessing it was a ruse.

“Conserving himself now,” Haryang remarked at the match, and Yegyeol offered him another peach slice.

This time, as his Senior Brother turned, he pressed the pulp deliberately against his lips, smearing it.

“Ah…!”

Feigning fluster, he fluttered his lashes.

“It’s fine. Your wrist isn’t paining you?”

“Still… Just a moment.”

Resting one knee on the ground, Yegyeol lifted his head, licking the juice from his lips. From those who watched, trying to mask their sighs, a faint ripple of suppressed groans spread.

This is amusing.

Blinking, Yegyeol thought so as he felt their agitation.

[Mischievous one.]

Haryang whispered by sound transmission, brushing back his hair with teasing fingers. Unable to use sound transmission himself, Yegyeol traced letters firmly into his palm:

〈It’s a banquet, there should be something to watch.〉

Shaking his head at the dullness of the contests, he pouted. But the mischief ended there.

For just then, a new voice rang from the stage.

“I challenge Yao Hongyeo!”