TSBIRBV Ch 260

Chapter 260. The Audacious Impostor (9)

Perched on the edge of the Grand Preceptor’s chair, Haryang gazed down upon the grand hall. Only Jinyoung remained, kneeling before him with his head lowered.

Barely half an incense stick’s time ago, several others had filled that space. It had been a meeting to conclude the matters of Biheoyeon.

Then, without warning, Haryang had asked,

“In the last report, it said the disciple encountered the Flood Dragon King, didn’t it?”

He asked the same question countless times a day—though he remembered every answer.

“Yes. They’re traveling along the Yangtze River now, likely on their way to Wuhan.”

Jinyoung’s tone showed no trace of fatigue.

He, Hongyeo, and Samrang—who had once conspired to hide the disciple’s actions from their lord—were now doing their utmost to report Yegyeol’s every movement.

Hongyeo’s messages reached Samrang, who passed them to Jinyoung, who then relayed them to Haryang.

“This time of year, the river route is faster,” Haryang murmured. “And if he’s traveling with the Flood Dragon King… Yegyeol won’t be in any danger.”

He’d said that same line three, maybe four times before. No—five, perhaps.

He picked up Yegyeol’s neat travel itinerary, then set it down again and took the long-stemmed pipe between his lips.

Without even lighting it, pale smoke began to curl upward like drifting clouds, shrouding him in a soft haze.

In Yegyeol’s absence, Haryang had returned to relying on medicine.

The madness that once receded simply by having Yegyeol nearby had resurfaced—untamed, devouring the emptiness left behind.

The demonic obsession had waited patiently, and the moment the disciple was gone, it reclaimed its throne.

The strange part was that now, in his hallucinations, the image of the boy Yegyeol and the grown man alternated—both vivid, both unbearably real.

Unlike the young Yegyeol, always slipping through his grasp, the adult apparition met his gaze—calmly, quietly—nestled within his arms.

Yet no matter how he reached out, he could never feel him; no matter what he whispered, he could never hear him. What filled that void were memories.

The feel of that body’s warmth. The gentleness of that low, murmuring voice. The brush of his breath, close enough to stir the fine hairs on his cheek.

Even without trying, it all came back—so vivid it hurt.

There was no room left for longing; his entire being was already consumed by the disciple.

You said, ‘Just wait and see.’

Haryang smiled bitterly.

He wasn’t lonely—but he was in agony. The pain, at least, reminded him he was still himself. Before he lost what little restraint he had left, before it was too late, he needed to go to him.

“My disciple… persuades my subordinates to accompany him to the Central Plains, meets the Reclusive Tiger, and now the Flood Dragon King…”

Haryang’s voice trailed off, each word laced with dark amusement.

He remembered Peng Munhyeong well—a martial artist from the Hebei Peng Clan who’d once mingled with him during the Yongbong Gathering, now a famed hero across the martial world.

When Samrang first reported that Yegyeol had met the Reclusive Tiger, Haryang hadn’t thought much of it. He hadn’t expected that Yegyeol would use that acquaintance so effectively.

With Peng Munhyeong, Hongyeo, and now Yeon Sosho by his side, Yegyeol’s safety was as good as guaranteed.

Only what awaited in Wuhan—the very heart of orthodox martial society—gave Haryang pause.

“So many connections,” he murmured, almost fondly. “I thought I’d only let him wander for a while, but he’s already tangled himself in so many threads.”

He sounded half proud, half displeased—and likely both.

“Well. At least that brings an end to the affairs within the Ten Thousand Mountains.”

He longed to run after his disciple immediately, but leaving the demonic sect in disarray was unthinkable.

With Biheoyeon concluded, two of the six Demon Noble Houses’ patriarchs imprisoned, and the current head detained for questioning, the sect needed time to stabilize and purge the traitors within.

When impatience clawed at him, Haryang would review the designs for Cheonghyeongjeon—the project Yegyeol had insisted on.

He left to return, Haryang reminded himself, though he knew it was a hollow comfort.

Now, it was time to fill that emptiness.

“Bring me the item I asked Samrang to prepare.”

Jinyoung left and soon returned, carrying a flat wooden box.

When Haryang undid the lock, the lid clicked open, revealing a scarred leather mask inside.

He traced the dark surface of the Black Ghost’s mask with slow fingers. A faint smile crossed his lips.

It felt like just yesterday he’d fretted over how to confess this deceit to his disciple—yet now, before he could atone, he was donning deception again.

But there was no hesitation.

“Jinyoung,” he said softly, “I’ll need your cooperation.”

“You needn’t request anything of me, my lord,” Jinyoung replied at once. “Just give the order.”

Haryang chuckled quietly.

“I’ve done some terrible things lately. I’d rather you keep them to yourself.”

Jinyoung fell silent. He knew exactly what those “terrible things” referred to.

The Patriarch of the Gong Clan had confessed everything before his death. The Myung Clan’s head awaited execution.

The Gong Clan was eradicated; the Myung Clan collapsed. The Hyeon Clan still remained, but their patriarch had returned half-mad, and with the blame for Biheoyeon placed upon them, their foundations were crumbling.

When Haryang had first returned to the Ten Thousand Mountains, his intention had been to punish only the Gong Clan. Yet half of the Six Demon Houses had perished in the Heavenly Demon’s wrath.

For the first time in the cult’s centuries-long history, the Eight Demon Houses had been reduced to six—and now, only four remained.

How long before that number became three, only Haryang knew.

“…I won’t tell Young Master Mun about the matter of the Demon Houses,” Jinyoung said quietly. “He likely wouldn’t care to know anyway.”

“Ah.”

Haryang laughed softly.

“I see I misled you. That’s not what I meant by ‘terrible things.’”

Yegyeol would never judge him for something like that.

“I meant… skipping meals, not sleeping—things like that.”

There were, of course, other matters he felt faintly guilty about.

“I understand,” Jinyoung said solemnly.

If Young Master Mun found out, he thought, he’d likely see that sharp-tempered weasel rise again—fangs bared and furious.

“How strange,” Haryang murmured, almost amused. “I never used to worry about such things.”

He had transcended human limits—food, rest, even exhaustion were meaningless to him. There had been times when he went a full month subsisting only on Samrang’s narcotic smoke.

Not dying easily meant not feeling alive.

He knew hunger only as an abstraction; thirst as a memory. Each time he closed his eyes, he feared opening them to find blood on his hands.

It wasn’t that the weight of a life had grown heavier. It was simply bothersome—this endless erosion of what little humanity he had left.

And yet, despite everything, there were things Haryang refused to forget:

His foster father’s last request.

His disciple’s sacrifice.

His master’s dying words.

“…It’s time to see him.”

He lifted the mask.

“At last—Wuhan.”

The line at the city gates stretched long. People waited with bundles and carts, voices blending into the hum of the crowd.

Peng Munhyeong glanced around. “Busier than usual. The martial tournament must be drawing near.”

“This way.”

Hongyeo caught Yegyeol by the arm, pulling him out of the path of a passing wagon. The sweating driver glared back, but one look at Hongyeo’s calm, unflinching expression made him pale and hurry off.

An excellent bodyguard indeed.

“It would’ve been nice if Captain Yeon had come with us,” Peng mused.

“We would’ve parted ways at the docks anyway,” Yegyeol replied.

It wasn’t as if the leader of the Yangtze Water Alliance could simply walk into Wuhan—the stronghold of the Martial Alliance.

Right now, the Flood Dragon King Yeon Sosho remained in Yeogok Village.

After discovering the connection between the poisoned river and the villagers’ disappearance, she’d decided to stay behind to investigate personally. Yegyeol hadn’t expected someone of her standing to involve herself so directly.

Still, her presence there was reassuring. Even if “Master Hwang” returned, he could no longer harm the remaining villagers.

For now, Yegyeol, Peng Munhyeong, and Ya Yul Hongyeo continued on to Wuhan for the martial tournament.

It was already too late to track the missing youths—they had vanished days ago.

Before leaving, Yegyeol had promised to use his network to find them.

Naturally, that meant contacting the Black Ghost.

The method was simple enough: have Hongyeo send a letter to a “friend in Sichuan,” addressed to Samrang, with the name “Black Ghost” written on the seal.

That message would go straight to Je Haryang himself.

When he sees that, he’ll hurry to me for sure.

For once, fortune was on Yegyeol’s side.

From Haryang’s perspective, if he heard that Yegyeol was searching for the man he’d once shared a bed with—the Black Ghost—he’d come running.

The thought made Yegyeol’s lips curve into a bright, unguarded smile.

“You seem quite excited,” Hongyeo remarked. “Were you truly looking forward to the martial tournament that much?”

Even for the stoic Hongyeo, Yegyeol’s good mood was striking enough to draw curiosity.

“Well, let’s say I was,” Yegyeol said lightly.

They chatted as they passed through the gates. When Yegyeol presented the identification token under the name Je Haryang, a flicker of tension passed through him—but Samrang’s forgery skills proved flawless. They were waved through without question.

He led the group confidently toward an inn that the Tang Clan’s young master was known to frequent.

“I’m here to see Young Master Tang,” he told the attendant.

The servant bowed low and led them through the courtyard to a secluded guest wing that the Tang Clan had reserved entirely.

Crossing the inner garden, Yegyeol spotted a figure standing amid the greenery and waved brightly.

“Young Master Tang!”

The man turned from the flowers—and froze.

He wasn’t Tang Se-gi.

“…Yegyeol?”

Namgung Un stood there, surrounded by sunlight and shade, his eyes wide with astonishment.