TSBIRBV Ch 265

Chapter 265. Yongbong Gathering (5)

To face a disciple of the Nine Great Sects—what a thrill it was. It felt as though he had finally taken a real step toward his goal of winning the tournament. The thought that he was beginning to draw the attention of those lofty figures above him filled him with a quiet delight.

I wonder how it feels to face an old fate buried in the Ten-Thousand Mountains after over a decade.

Smacking his lips at the thought, Yegyeol returned to the barracks where the contestants waited between matches.

Hongyeo, who had been standing by, handed him a damp towel the moment he entered.

“You’ve worked hard again today.”

“Thank you. I thought I’d finish quickly since you’d be waiting, but my opponent turned out to be sturdier than expected… I might’ve gotten a little too serious.”

His tone was gentle, pleasant. Right now, Yegyeol was deliberately imitating the mannerisms of his late Senior Brother—especially when there were many eyes watching.

Of course, his true temper would occasionally slip through. But he had made a firm vow: as long as he fought under his Senior Brother’s name, he would never dishonor it. So far, that resolve had held.

He took a sip from the water flask Hongyeo handed him—then froze. From the far corner of the tent came the sound of snickering.

If they were simply joking among themselves, he wouldn’t have cared. But the way they kept sneaking glances his way was unmistakable.

They look right at me and still pretend they aren’t?

Yegyeol was no stranger to people like that. He’d dealt with more than enough of them in his past life.

As a high-ranking Esper from a young age, he’d always drawn attention wherever he went. Mockery, envy, and petty malice—they were all too familiar.

Such people were always easy to spot: they wanted to be noticed. Give them a single glance, and they would seize it like blood in the water, clawing at you to feed their own fragile pride.

Just like that old schoolmate who’d once tried to elevate himself by dragging Yegyeol down.

Let’s see what kind of trash this one is.

He turned his gaze toward them. The faces were vaguely familiar—he’d seen them around before.

The reason Yegyeol even remembered them was simple: over half the contestants sharing this barrack had already been eliminated. Only a handful remained—the battle-hardened veterans, the sons of noble families who reeked of tonics and privilege, and the prim, disciplined disciples of the Nine Sects.

And among them, this one clearly belonged to the “pampered noble brat” type.

“As I thought—so he’s not even a contestant, just a servant.”

“Savage barbarians, everywhere these days.”

Yegyeol’s keen hearing caught every vile word they spoke.

Ah… so that’s what this is about.

His head tilted slightly.

They’re talking about Hongyeo.

Even though they were being watched, the men grew bolder, encouraged by his lack of reaction.

“My family once had a barbarian servant too,” one of them said with mockery curling his lips. “Ran off one night after stealing money, of course.”

“Truly a scandal,” another replied with a laugh.

“Savages will be savages. Only way to teach them is with the whip.”

Yegyeol’s eyes sharpened, his smile thin.

“You’d best watch your mouth,” he said evenly.

The man who seemed to lead the group turned toward him, smirking.

“Oh? I’m only warning you out of kindness. Those barbarians pretend to be obedient now, but they’ve no loyalty, none at all.”

The false sincerity in his tone grated against Yegyeol’s nerves like sandpaper.

He opened his mouth to speak—but before he could, Hongyeo’s voice brushed softly against his mind.

[It’s all right. They’re only picking a fight because we bumped into each other earlier. Please ignore them.]

Apparently, those men had been idly chatting when one of them accidentally brushed shoulders with Hongyeo.

Startled by his imposing presence, they had muttered an apology—only to realize afterward that Hongyeo wasn’t even a contestant, merely an attendant. Embarrassment turned swiftly to resentment.

So that’s it. If he’d said he was a servant from the start, they’d think there was no need to apologize at all.

Eon Chaegwol’s eyes glinted coldly.

He already disliked the arrogant contestant named “Je Haryang” who’d accepted the apology so stiffly, making him look foolish.

Of course, a man who brings his servant all the way here must be exactly that sort.

“Eon Chaegwol of the Jinju Eon Clan! You’re up next!”

A call came from outside. Eon Chaegwol rose and deliberately brushed past Yegyeol, his shoulder striking his on purpose.

Just before stepping out, he arrogantly ran his hand along his sword hilt—then suddenly hissed in pain.

His hand stung sharply, like it had been shocked.

“A martial artist who drops his weapon makes it all the way to the main rounds? The Martial Alliance’s standards must be slipping,” Yegyeol said mildly, clicking his tongue.

“You—!”

There was no question who’d caused it. The brown-haired youth hadn’t even tried to hide it.

“You dare lay a hand on me, a direct descendant of the Jinju Eon Clan? You must have nine extra lives to spare.”

“Hmm.”

Yegyeol looked him up and down, then gave a faint laugh—mocking, effortless, cutting deeper than any insult.

Eon Chaegwol’s face flushed crimson. His shoulders trembled with rage.

“What’s that look supposed to mean?”

“I was just wondering,” Yegyeol said calmly, “how many lives one would need to face a swordsman who can’t even hold his sword.”

Hongyeo closed his eyes tightly.

He already knew Yegyeol was pretending to be “Je Haryang,” the persona of his Senior Brother, but honorifics alone couldn’t hide that biting tongue.

“Fine then!” Eon Chaegwol barked. “You’ll regret that!”

He drew in a breath, about to unsheathe his sword—when the voice of the tournament official cut him off from outside.

“Eon Chaegwol! If you don’t come out now, it will count as a forfeit!”

“…I’ll deal with you when I return,” Eon snarled.

Yegyeol turned away without even pretending to listen.

“Hongyeo, let’s go eat braised pork. Shall we have some wine too? That ‘Girl’s Red’ we had last time was quite good.”

The words dripped with provocation wrapped in casual charm.

At that moment, Yegyeol was the very picture of a devil dressed as a saint.

“Eon Chaegwol!”

The call came again, and with a final glare, Eon clenched his trembling fists and stormed out. His companions made threatening gestures, but Yegyeol ignored them entirely.

Picking a fight inside the contestants’ barracks would do them more harm than good. If they tried anything afterward… well, he could deal with them one by one in the shadows.

It’ll be a hassle, but maybe I’ll blow off some steam.

He’d been restraining himself too long—playing the dignified Senior Brother on the arena stage. Perhaps heaven, moved by his efforts, had kindly sent him a few punching bags to unwind with.

“Shall we, Hongyeo?”

Yegyeol gestured playfully. Hongyeo sighed deeply but rose to follow.

It would’ve been better to have Samrang or Jinyeong accompany him—less conspicuous, less trouble—but both were occupied with their own tasks.

“You don’t have to trouble yourself for my sake,” Hongyeo said quietly.

Yegyeol glanced back. “Why not?”

“Words like that aren’t worth responding to.”

Yegyeol blinked, his brown eyes calm and clear.

“I’ve tried that,” he said softly.

The look he gave—open, unguarded, reflective—was like a still lake mirroring Hongyeo’s expressionless face.

“It didn’t work.”

People like that never stopped. No matter how much you ignored them, they’d just talk louder. And the words you swallowed always echoed back inside you later.

Turning forward again, Yegyeol strode ahead.

Really, his Senior Brother and those loyal to him—too kind for their own good.

Under the moonlight, a young man was practicing his sword.

His blade traced a graceful arc that captured the silver glow of the moon, every motion flowing smooth and steady, elegant yet proud—like the ceaseless current of the Yangtze River.

When the final stroke faded, a figure emerged from the shadows—an old Daoist, his presence calm but commanding.

“Master,” said the young man, quickly sheathing his sword and bowing low. “You’ve come.”

“I stepped out to share the company of the boundless moon—and found a most delightful sight instead.”

The elder’s face was kind, his eyes warm with approval.

“The dragon that draws the Taiji with its sword… your movements were beautiful enough to make me lose track of time.”

The young swordsman’s face flushed crimson.

“You overpraise me, Master. I still have far to go before I can compare to you.”

His voice brimmed with sincere respect.

“But tell me,” said the Daoist, stroking his beard with a gentle smile, “your match is tomorrow, and yet here you are—still training under the moon. Shouldn’t you be resting?”

The disciple, Cheongyong, shook his head. “I can’t. My next opponent weighs heavily on my mind. I must refine my sword further.”

“Ah,” murmured the old man. “Now that you mention it, I’ve heard rumors of a remarkable newcomer this year.”

“Yes. A young fighter with an astonishingly domineering fist technique. I tried to learn where he was trained, but he seems to belong to no sect at all.”

“The martial world is vast,” the elder said with a chuckle. “It’s only natural that the occasional prodigy appears—perhaps one blessed by fate.”

Still smiling, he asked, “And what title does this opponent of yours go by?”

“He has none, Master. Only a name.”

“Oh?”

The old man’s brows rose. For one with no reputation to have reached this far in the Yongbong Gathering—it was no small feat.

“What is his name?”

“Je Haryang.”

At those words, the middle-aged Daoist—once known throughout the martial world as the “Wudang Azure Dragon,” Yong Hyeon—froze.

His eyes widened. His lips parted soundlessly once, twice, before a rough, trembling voice escaped him at last.

“…Je Haryang?”