TSBIRBV Ch 238

Chapter 238. Biheeyeon (8)

Yegyeol grasped the heavy black robe draped across his shoulders, but he did not tell Haryang to stay.

The man stepped off the dais, his figure descending lightly through the air before landing upon the arena floor.

Before a master of the Heogongdapbo—the art of walking upon air—the head of the Myeong Clan looked as fragile as a candle flickering in the wind.

He was, by all accounts, a weathered warrior—an old tiger of Murim who had fought and survived countless battles, a man who had carved out his place within the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains as a demon among demons.

And yet, beside Je Haryang, he seemed pitifully small.

“Oh dear. I appear to have forgotten my weapon,” Haryang murmured lightly, as though to himself.

He extended his hand, and one of the swords held by Yao Hongyeo flew through the air, settling neatly into his grasp. With a light push of his foot, he rose effortlessly onto the arena.

Shrrk.

From its sheath emerged a blade engraved with the flowing patterns of waves, glimmering faintly under the sun like ripples upon a sea of clouds. It was beautiful yet terrifyingly cold—so dark it seemed capable of devouring all light.

Haryang dropped the scabbard carelessly. What moments ago appeared a work of art rolled unceremoniously across the floor.

The casual gesture sent a chill through all who watched.

He had not unleashed his aura, nor spoken a single threatening word, nor even released killing intent.

All he did was discard the scabbard.

Some men must lie in their graves before they realize it is their resting place, Yegyeol thought, clicking his tongue.

If the man wished to die, Yegyeol would not stop him. Instead, he absently toyed with the robe Haryang had left him. It carried the faint, subtle scent of its owner.

His gaze, filled with anxious affection, followed the broad back moving farther away.

“It seems the Lord of the Myeong Clan favors tradition,” Haryang said, his tone smooth as silk. “Then I too shall honor the customs of the martial world and grant you three moves.”

One hand folded behind his back, the other lightly holding his sword, Haryang looked almost leisurely.

It was an ancient custom of Murim—that a master would allow an inferior, or a senior would allow a junior, to strike first. A gesture of courtesy.

But this was not a friendly spar—it was a duel to the death.

Myeong Jinyu had stepped forward fully expecting to die, and thus he would fight with the desperation of a cornered beast. Even a rat, when driven to the edge, bites a cat.

In such a situation, to “grant three moves” was not mercy—it was contempt. A deliberate humiliation.

And that’s the problem, Yegyeol thought, sinking deeper into the grand seat with a crooked smile.

The other man has no choice but to accept.

“…This humble one, Myeong Jinyu, is deeply moved by the Cheonma’s generosity,” the clan head said, bowing low.

Even from this distance, Yegyeol could see the veins bulging along the man’s clenched hands. He was bowing to hide his expression.

“He’s actually doing it,” murmured a familiar voice.

Yegyeol turned his head and spotted Samrang—her hair now paler than usual, her features subtly altered. Her nose was slightly higher, her cheeks rounder, her languid eyes sharpened into foxlike slits.

That’s… basically a different person.

It didn’t seem like she had used a transformation art that altered her entire form, like Heukgwi had once done. Rather, she had adjusted small details—enough to feel like someone else while retaining her core self.

Instead of greeting her, Yegyeol promptly turned back to the arena.

“The Lord of the Myeong Clan has despised the Cheonma for years,” Samrang said, her voice lilting with amusement. “When he first became clan head, he tried to earn merit by threatening our lord—only to be crushed instead.”

A playful lilt crept into her tone. “It was… quite the pitiful defeat.”

Usually, her voice carried a languid drawl, but now it trembled with the giddy delight of a child recounting a favorite story.

If Haryang had trampled on Myeong Jinyu’s pride without malice, Samrang’s tone was worse—it made him sound like a toy.

“He’ll win again, won’t he?”

“Of course.”

The question needed no answer, yet Yegyeol couldn’t tear his eyes away from the stage. When Yao Hongyeo had fought, curiosity had stirred him; now, unease gnawed at him instead.

Haryang, however, looked utterly at ease—as if he had come for a casual stroll. His sword hung loosely in one hand, the other resting behind his back.

After a brief bow, Myeong Jinyu took his stance. He exhaled deeply and imbued his sword with energy.

What at first spread outward soon began to condense upon the blade, the air around it warping under the pressure.

That concentrated power—the manifestation of Sword Qi—was far more dangerous than any wide blast.

He’s reached at least the threshold of the Flower Realm, Yegyeol noted grimly.

He was preparing a finishing move. Yegyeol tapped his foot in frustration, wanting nothing more than to smack the man across the head.

If Haryang just hit him now, he’d fall straight into Qi Deviation…!

It was agony, watching someone aim a sword at his guide, powerless to intervene.

Unlike the earlier match—when the fiery Na Yeongya had charged wildly with her crescent blade—this duel was eerily still.

Even so, Yegyeol didn’t dare blink. The sheer precision with which Myeong Jinyu controlled his terrifying energy betrayed long experience.

From that distant spot, Yegyeol could see the gleaming, violet-blue light surging at the tip of his sword—radiating killing intent so sharp it felt like it could slice the air itself.

The murderous will behind it, the obsession to slay Je Haryang—the Cheonma himself—sent a chill through Yegyeol’s chest.

At last, Myeong Jinyu whispered:

“Simjeukcham.”

The moment the heart wills it—strike.

The name of the technique suited its merciless ferocity.

A burst of violet sword energy erupted from his blade, roaring toward Haryang. The power rampaged across the arena like a beast unleashed from its master’s leash.

Crack!

Four deep gouges split the ground, as though a monster’s claws had raked across it. The earth gaped open, raw and red beneath.

And in the center stood Je Haryang, his black robes fluttering gently, like the swaying branches of a willow in the wind.

Even within the storm of sword wind, not a speck of dust touched him.

He hadn’t even raised a defensive barrier. It was as though the very space around him had been cut away from reality and placed untouched amid the chaos.

Yegyeol saw Haryang’s sword tip lightly brush against Myeong Jinyu’s attack.

At that instant, the raging sword energy veered aside, sliding harmlessly past him—as if a floodgate had been quietly closed.

He had read his opponent’s energy flow and twisted it just so, collapsing the structure of the technique. The net that should have devoured him came apart at the seams, missing its prey entirely.

Standing serene amidst the aftermath, Je Haryang looked like a moon untouched by eclipse—radiant even in shadow, untouchable.

The realization struck Myeong Jinyu, his face twisting in humiliation.

Cowardly bastard, Yegyeol thought, though relief washed over him as he saw Haryang unharmed.

Traditionally, after being granted three strikes by a superior, one was expected to demonstrate their full skill with honor. To use such a lethal killing move instead was disgraceful.

Leaning back in his seat, Yegyeol steadied his trembling legs. Sweat beaded down his spine.

No one present doubted Haryang’s victory. Yao Hongyeo, Jinyoung, Samrang—the thousands of demonic followers—all looked upon him with awe and reverence. Even Myeong Jinyu’s own eyes betrayed the certainty of his defeat.

Yegyeol alone harbored genuine concern.

He too believed Haryang would win—but while the others revered a god, Yegyeol saw a man.

Don’t get too wound up, he told himself silently.

He stroked his wrist, and Baembaem, unusually subdued, rubbed its head against his finger.

Glancing around, he realized he had already drained the cup of water before him.

Only liquor remained on the table.

“Huh?”

Looking for someone to fetch more water, Yegyeol tilted his head. His gaze fell upon a young errand boy nearby.

Such helpers were not uncommon at the Biheeyeon. Since it wasn’t a formal tournament and fatalities were possible, attendants were needed to coordinate and maintain order.

During this duel between the Cheonma and the head of the Myeong Clan, not a single soul spared the boy a glance.

Except Yegyeol.

Though the boy had approached audibly, not a trace of light emanated from him.

Yegyeol instinctively glanced at the boy’s chest.

Still.

…His chest isn’t moving.

No rise or fall. No pulse of life.

Electrical signals belonged only to the living. Which meant—

“That one. Bring me water,” Yegyeol ordered, tilting his chin slightly.

The boy did not respond immediately. After a brief, unnatural pause, he began to walk forward.

To anyone else, it would seem merely a slow reaction—obedience delayed by hesitation.

Yegyeol flicked his gaze toward Samrang.

She caught his signal instantly. Though her attention had been on the duel, the shift in his focus alerted her. She too sensed that something was wrong with the errand boy.

Obstacle ahead, Yegyeol mouthed silently.

Understanding, Samrang flicked a small throwing knife toward the boy’s path, nudging a rough stone directly before his foot.

Good thing this robe Haryang left me is so long—it hides my movements well.

The boy didn’t avoid the obstacle. Or rather—he couldn’t.

He stepped squarely onto the stone, stumbling hard before regaining his balance and standing upright again. Then, as though nothing had happened, he continued walking forward.

Even with his ankle twisted at an unnatural angle, he made no sound of pain—just dragged the crooked limb behind him as he moved.

Well now, Yegyeol thought, his lips curling slowly into a smirk.