TSBIRBV Ch 237

Chapter 237. Biheeyeon (7)

Yegyeol now understood why Haryang had told him that watching Hongyeo fight would be instructive.

His grappling style contained none of the refined forms or cultivated grace that orthodox martial artists sought in their techniques. Those from the so-called noble families of Murim would frown to see him fight.

Yet that was precisely its beauty—it was free. His unbound, fluid attacks carried an unpredictability that pierced through an opponent’s defenses, and with the sheer power that followed, Hongyeo seemed almost inhuman.

More than anything, it’s clear he trained his external body rather than his internal energy.

There was no aura enveloping his fists or legs—only raw, solid strikes. He simply blocked when struck, and endured when pressed.

That unflinching endurance shifted the tide of battle. If this were a game, it would mark the start of Phase Two.

Unlike before, Na Yeongya of the Sacheol Tanglang became defensive, while Hongyeo began his relentless advance.

His long limbs extended in broad, forceful arcs, but since his opponent still wielded a crescent blade, he could not easily gain the advantage of distance.

Yet to strike at Hongyeo, she too had to approach within his reach. It was nearly impossible for her to endlessly evade him. They were not clashing in an open field but upon the arena floor, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of demonic followers.

Hongyeo pressed her mercilessly, precise and steady, driving her step by step into a corner until she would have no choice but to err.

Na Yeongya, wielding her shortened and unbalanced crescent blade, flinched as its broken tip was seized in Hongyeo’s solid grip.

Should I let it go?

That brief hesitation proved to be her final chance.

Gripping the sharpened edge that faced him, Hongyeo pulled back sharply. The weapon’s broken end no longer posed any great danger.

“Ugh—!”

The overwhelming force threw Na Yeongya off balance. Her stance faltered, her footwork crumbled.

The hunter had become the prey, dragged helplessly into the beast’s den. Hongyeo was pulling her directly into his own striking range.

His hand slid past the blade, releasing its edge only to grasp the weapon closer to the center. Yegyeol drew in a sharp breath.

“He’s… grabbing the blade instead of the hilt?”

Perhaps he had hardened his hands with internal energy, for not a drop of blood flowed. Still, even watching it made Yegyeol’s own hands ache—a visceral, instinctive reaction, like flinching when a magician thrusts his hand into fire. You know they will not burn, yet every instinct warns otherwise.

But Hongyeo did not stop at disarming her. With pure strength alone, he wrenched the weapon from her grasp and swung it through the air several times. It wasn’t a display of dominance, but a methodical test—adjusting to the feel of his new weapon.

The sight of him wielding that gleaming, deadly blade upside-down, like a staff, was nothing short of shocking.

Na Yeongya, momentarily dazed after losing her weapon, stared wide-eyed as Hongyeo turned the crescent blade—no, now a staff—and thrust it toward her.

Unable even to react, she took a solid blow to the chest from her own weapon. It was like watching someone impaled by a charging ox.

Hongyeo took a step forward.

“Kh… ugh…”

Her legs dragged as she tried to remain standing, scraping long marks into the arena floor.

Hongyeo, his expression cold and detached, took a second step.

Her trembling hands clawed for the returning hilt of her weapon, knuckles white, veins bulging, but the crescent blade did not move an inch.

Her breath caught painfully in her throat.

Hongyeo lifted his foot for the final step—the third.

Na Yeongya, her vision dimming to yellow, lowered her head and murmured faintly,

“I… I concede.”

The words came clearly even as blood gushed from her lips. She had suffered internal injuries.

Hongyeo wordlessly withdrew, the broken crescent blade still in hand. Na Yeongya’s eyes lingered on it, a mix of despair and resignation crossing her face. It was almost fortunate, she thought, that what he held was her weapon and not her severed head.

A servant waiting at the edge of the arena hurried forward to help her away.

Yao Hongyeo turned and strode back out, his steps measured and even. Only then did the onlookers realize—since stepping onto the stage, he had taken merely three steps in total.

All the footprints scattered across the arena floor belonged not to him, but to Na Yeongya.

Retracing his path exactly as he had come, Hongyeo advanced toward Haryang. Adjusting his clothes briefly, he knelt on one knee and raised his hard-won trophy, the shattered crescent blade, high above his head.

“I dedicate the first victory to the Cheonma.”

His deep, resonant voice fell into a silence so complete it seemed to swallow the entire arena.

Without flowery words or servile flattery, one could feel his unwavering reverence for his lord.

“I receive it gladly.”

At Haryang’s calm reply, Hongyeo bowed low and shouted,

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

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

At the victor’s cry, the crowd roared as one.

Even Yegyeol, usually unshaken by such displays, looked down at the sea of demonic cultivators with a dazed expression.

All of them were drunk on the overwhelming glory of Yao Hongyeo’s victory.

The earlier matches weren’t nearly this wild, he thought.

Apparently, the significance of one of the Cheonma’s closest aides being challenged—and dedicating his triumph directly to Je Haryang—was monumental.

Yegyeol smacked his lips. After witnessing a battle of that caliber, it would be hard to find the next one satisfying.

The demonic martial arts were certainly fascinating… but honestly, Yegyeol preferred being holed up alone with Haryang, admiring his Senior Brother’s face.

Lately, since training in martial arts, he had spent much time in the practice hall—but that had its own pleasures.

Normally so reserved, Haryang had claimed he needed to observe muscle movements, removing his outer robe and rolling up his sleeves and trousers. Each time he did, Yegyeol’s eyes were delighted beyond measure.

At first he had been embarrassed, but by now he’d grown shameless—boldly asking to see this or that, under the pretense of “learning.” Opportunities to see Haryang’s bare skin without the prelude of intimacy were rare indeed.

He’s surprisingly modest—never bares himself unless they’re in complete privacy…

Amused, Yegyeol drummed his fingers lightly on the armrest of the grand seat, his spirits high.

He was already daydreaming about asking Haryang for another lesson after the Biheeyeon ended.

For some reason, sensing Yegyeol’s good mood, Haryang’s expression softened.

Like a young beast, he thought.

One that sometimes leapt at fallen leaves, or barked at its reflection in water—or chased its own tail out of curiosity.

A gentle warmth seemed to flow through the space surrounding the great seat.

Then, unexpectedly, someone stepped forward.

“The atmosphere seems ripe enough now.”

The next challenger, who had just risen for his own match, turned toward the new arrival in disbelief. Realizing who it was, he immediately lowered his head.

The man’s voice boomed across the arena, laced with inner energy. It was none other than Myeong Jinyu, head of the Myeong Clan—the Pale Ghost Demon.

Drawing his sword, he leveled it at Haryang.

“I request a duel of life and death with the Cheonma.”

The arena fell utterly silent. The quiet was so intense it seemed one could hear the blink of an eye.

A duel of life and death?

Yegyeol’s pleasant expression froze into disbelief. What a way to ruin the mood.

A duel of life and death meant just that—a fight that would not end until one side was dead. Only the victor would walk away alive.

“…A duel of life and death.”

Haryang’s voice spread low and heavy, and the murmuring ceased instantly.

Such weight lay in his tone that none dared to speak.

“Lord Myeong, are you prepared to bear the consequences of those words?”

“The Biheeyeon was once founded on life-and-death duels,” Myeong Jinyu answered firmly.

Yegyeol frowned. There was no way this man could defeat Haryang. To challenge him so was tantamount to inviting death.

He wasn’t merely mad. As the head of one of the six noble families that had ruled the Demonic Cult for generations, such a man wouldn’t act without purpose.

Does he seek to accomplish something through death itself?

Yegyeol’s eyes narrowed.

A man who stood to gain so much in life—what did he hope to achieve by losing it?

“I merely wish to restore the discipline that has grown lax of late.”

His voice was calm, resolute—one who had come to die, yet without regret.

Haryang’s lips curved faintly.

“Indeed, the Ilwol Cult does have its rules.”

A quiet acknowledgment.

“But it seems you’ve forgotten that those rules serve the Cheonma.”

Myeong Jinyu’s jaw trembled.

Unperturbed, Haryang shrugged off his black robe.

The garment, embroidered with golden dragons, was magnificent—so grand it seemed only Je Haryang could possibly wear it without being consumed by it.

If it were anyone else, that robe would’ve swallowed them whole, Yegyeol thought.

“Stay here and keep watch.”

Before he could respond, something heavy and soft fell over Yegyeol’s head—Haryang’s robe. It was like a pair of black wings descending.

As Yegyeol wriggled free and peeked out, Haryang adjusted the robe around his shoulders and playfully ruffled his bangs.

“Senior Brother…”

His voice trembled before he could stop it, but Haryang’s reply was light, almost cheerful.

“I’ll be back.”