TSBIRBV Ch 243

Chapter 243. Thunder Dragon Ascends (3)

“Another… Cheonma?”

Jinyoung’s expression twisted in disbelief. Hongyeo’s eyes widened like those of a startled rabbit, as though such a thought had never once crossed her mind.

Samrang shook her head firmly. “Impossible. The previous Cheonma is dead.”

Everyone had seen the last cult leader fall beneath Haryang’s blade.

“And what of the next candidates?”

“All eight Magun were killed as well,” Samrang replied.

At Yegyeol’s question, Jinyoung’s jaw tightened. “I personally confirmed each of their corpses.”

His voice was ice—cold, detached.

“But you weren’t a Magun either, were you, Senior Brother? Anyone strong enough to surpass all others could become Cheonma. If a demonic master of unmatched strength had emerged, it’s not impossible.”

Yegyeol’s tone remained calm; he wasn’t simply guessing.

“I’m listening,” Haryang said softly. “Go on.”

He alone showed no shock, no irritation—only quiet attention.

“But since no one can truly reach Senior Brother’s level, the only way to challenge you would be to tarnish that symbol of perfection,” Yegyeol continued.

Reaching the state of Transcendence was no child’s game; unable to surpass him through skill, they aimed instead to leave a stain on his divine image.

“If, during a grand event held for the first time in years, the sacred flame fell, explosives detonated, and countless cultists died right before the Cheonma’s eyes—wouldn’t that make people question if the Cheonma is really a god at all?”

“In other words, they seek to incite division,” Haryang murmured.

The unity born from the Cheonma’s authority—this collective madness of the demonic cult—was precisely what had sustained the Ilwol Cult for millennia. If that faith began to crack, the damage would be profound.

“An interesting perspective,” Jinyoung said quietly.

“But whoever wishes to claim the title of Cheonma and rule the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains must still defeat our lord in combat. That is the one law that cannot be broken.”

He spoke with firm conviction.

“There cannot be two suns beneath the same sky.”

His tone made it clear—no one could even imagine a god other than Je Haryang.

“Well, that’s true,” Yegyeol admitted.

That was the problem. The Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains were one; the Cheonma could only be one.

Even if division took root, it would not be enough to bring Haryang down.

“But whoever’s behind Lord Myeong will keep trying to provoke you,” Yegyeol added.

His Esper intuition whispered it—an unshakable sense of looming danger. And when it came to threats against his guide, Yegyeol’s instincts were never wrong.

“From the attack on Cheonghyeong Pavilion to the chaos at Biheeyeon—it’s all been targeting you, Senior Brother. Whether it’s invading the Cheonma’s residence or sabotaging one of the cult’s rare ceremonies, neither was an easy feat.”

Jinyoung slowly nodded, unable to deny it.

“When an operation demands such resources and manpower, it’s not mere vengeance—it’s an investment. And investments,” he said grimly, “are made with profit in mind.”

To Yegyeol, there was only one possible return on that investment.

His gaze drifted toward Haryang.

The man stood exactly as always, unbothered by the storm of suspicion and turmoil swirling around him. Watching him, Yegyeol silently vowed to protect him—to be the one who would never let that unshakable figure fall.

“Don’t worry too much,” Haryang said gently. Then he turned toward Samrang.

“The matter I told you to investigate earlier—how did it go?”

Samrang straightened. “I have the report ready.”

She produced a ledger. “I traced those who purchased the materials you requested—Sevenleaf Herb, Polygonum Root, Guja Grass…”

Each entry listed names and regions.

Stepping forward, Samrang unfurled a large map of the Central Plains upon the table. She pulled out colored strings and small markers, securing them as she spoke.

“No single person purchased all the ingredients at once, so tracking them was difficult at first. Eventually, I grouped the deliveries by region, focusing on overlapping transport routes.”

Thin threads—red, yellow, white, and blue—crossed the map like veins.

Each line traced a different origin, but all converged at one point.

“Shanxi Province,” she said.

“…Shanxi,” Haryang repeated, expression unreadable.

“It’s far from the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains—and dangerously close to the heart of the Orthodox Sects.”

To the east lay the Peng Family of Hebei and the Jinju Clan; to the south, the Shaolin Temple; to the west, the Mount Hua and Zhongnan Sects.

And not far beyond, the Murim Alliance’s base in Hubei.

They had built their nest right in the center of enemy territory.

“But Shanxi’s desolate,” Yegyeol murmured.

“I think I know why they chose it,” he added quietly.

Haryang turned to him.

“They must believe you won’t come,” Yegyeol said.

There was something haunting in those words.

“Shanxi is surrounded by the enemies of the Cult. In other words, the very people who would most fear the Cheonma discovering the creation of the Asura Blood Jiangshi are the ones protecting them—though unintentionally.”

They likely had no such alliance, yet the result was the same. If the Cheonma appeared in the heart of the Central Plains—in Shanxi—what would happen?

The moment he was discovered, it would mean open war.

“So they gambled everything on an impossible fight,” Haryang murmured. His eyes lingered on the single, multicolored point marked on the map.

“Mobilize the Muwooldang and the Amya Unit. Have them join forces with our informants in Shanxi. I want every inch investigated.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Later that night, after changing Baembaem’s water bowl, Yegyeol quietly glanced at Haryang.

Ever since the mention of Shanxi, the air around him had been heavy. It wasn’t the threat of enemies that weighed on him—it was the place itself.

What’s in Shanxi?

Scanning the map again, Yegyeol noticed that Shanxi bordered Hebei—and just beyond that was Shandong.

Je Haryang’s birthplace.

The illegitimate son of a concubine, hidden away by the Huangbo Clan of Shandong.

Though Shanxi and Shandong did not share a direct border, they were close enough that any conflict there could draw the Huangbo into it.

No—almost certainly will.

Yegyeol’s chest tightened. He thought he understood now what troubled his guide.

He felt foolish for not realizing sooner. He had never bothered with Central Plains geography—his old life had revolved around Hangzhou and Qinghai, and in this one, all he had ever known was Kunlun.

So of course I didn’t remember where the Huangbo Clan was.

He tried to recall how other guides had been comforted in times of distress—but none of their lives compared.

After all, how many guides had been born as unwanted bastards, cast aside, sent abroad to study, kidnapped by enemies, clawed their way up from the bottom in a foreign land, and ended up ruling their captors?

Only one. Je Haryang.

His ties to his family were faint now. Even if they still claimed him, Haryang would sever them without hesitation.

The Huangbo were one of the Five Great Clans. If their connection to the Cheonma were revealed, the predators of the martial world would descend to tear them apart.

And Je Haryang would never sit idle while that happened.

Most of all… the current patriarch of the Huangbo Clan—Huangbo Yakrin.

Namgung Un had once told him: the man had made his name during the “Rebellion of the New Moon.”

Back then, Yegyeol had thought the Huangbo were heroes—fighting against the villains who had kidnapped his beloved teacher. Now, he realized the bitter truth.

That must’ve been the battle where Senior Brother and his half-sister clashed head-on.

Though only half-related by blood, Yegyeol knew Haryang well enough to guess—he must have cherished her deeply.

Why else would rumors of romantic entanglements between the “Rain Dragon of Kunlun” and the “Azure Phoenix of the Huangbo” have spread across the entire martial world?

If she once called him a traitor to the orthodox sects… then even Senior Brother must have been wounded by that.

The thought alone ached in his chest.

“Gyeol-ah.”

Yegyeol snapped his head up.

“Yes?”

Instead of scolding him for spacing out, Haryang spoke gently.

“There’s something I’d like to show you.”

“Okay. Should we go now?”

Anywhere away from this heavy room would do. Anywhere that might ease Haryang’s heart.

Without thinking, Yegyeol reached for his hand, their fingers intertwining. When Haryang turned his head, a faint smile softened his lips.

It wasn’t deliberate, but seeing that rare, visible warmth made Yegyeol’s chest flutter. Embarrassed, he fidgeted with his fingers and followed in silence.

Their destination: Cheonghyeong Pavilion—or rather, what remained of it.

Everything the lightning had burned away was cleared out, leaving only the sturdy pillars and beams behind. The framework still stood, though bare.

Yegyeol pressed closer to Haryang, feeling oddly shy.

“The reconstruction seems to be going well,” he murmured.

“Hm? Ah, yes,” Haryang replied, a small smile playing on his lips. “I added a few selfish requests, but they said it shouldn’t be too difficult. It will be complete within half a year.”

“So soon?”

Yegyeol’s eyes widened, momentarily forgetting his embarrassment. Haryang chuckled softly.

“Even carpenters in the Ten-Thousand-Great-Mountains train in martial arts, you know. Ah, this way.”

He said it so casually it sounded absurd. Leading the way through a narrow passage, he guided Yegyeol into a courtyard bathed in white.

Though it was not yet winter, the garden seemed dusted in snow—tiny white blossoms blanketing the earth.

And at its center stood an ancient tree, gnarled and bare, yet filled with the weight of countless years.

“You remember our promise, don’t you?”

Against the pale backdrop, the charred bark stood dark and stark—etched with a vivid scar of lightning.

“Wait… this is—”

Yegyeol’s breath caught. Even blackened, he recognized it instantly.

“I’m embarrassed to show you only a half-dead remnant,” Haryang said quietly, “but… I had it transplanted anyway.”

When reconstruction began, he had ordered the courtyard restored first—just so he could show this to Yegyeol as soon as possible. Though the pavilion’s skeleton was all that stood, the garden was nearly complete.

Yegyeol stepped forward without hesitation.

The shape of the branches, the knot on the trunk, even its height—every detail was familiar.

The tree from Mount Kunlun…!

The cherished tree of his late master, Baekyang Jin-in. He had completely forgotten that he had once begged for it to be saved.

“Did I… really cause this?” Yegyeol asked softly, laying a hand upon the trunk. Baembaem poked its head out, sniffing curiously.

“The day you blew the roof off Cheonghyeong Pavilion, this tree flew with it,” Haryang replied wryly. “I should’ve stopped it.”

Regret tinged his features.

“I tried to revive it, but… there was nothing to be done.”

His shoulders sank slightly. He had even tried channeling sword energy into the withered bark, but the lightning had scorched it to the core, erasing every trace of life.

He had promised his disciple he would grant any wish, yet reviving the dead was beyond even him.

He had at least restored its form, but the loss lingered.

And then Yegyeol clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes shining.

“Holy crap,” he breathed.