TSBIRBV Ch 268

Chapter 268. Yongbong Gathering (8)

“Are you all right?”

Cheongyong Dojang’s expression was one of startled concern. His sword, raised mid-strike, had halted in the air.

Yegyeol ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek—no wound. The blood had vanished. He’d bitten the inner flesh of his cheek deliberately.

A trick as old as deception itself: the art of dirtying the water to hide what swims beneath.

“Let’s continue,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The outer robe he had set aside earlier was ornate, but the inner garment beneath was pale sky-blue, and the splattered crimson stood out vividly against it.

Coughing up blood after fighting a Wudang disciple—one who was known to have no use for poison techniques—would raise questions.

At the very least, rumors would spread: perhaps the Wudang disciple had used poison. Cheongyong would no doubt protest his innocence and attempt to uncover the truth, and in the process, Wudang would drag the Jinju Eon Clan into the light and grind them to dust for Yegyeol.

And the evidence? I’ve kept it safe, Yegyeol thought.

He was certain the powder Eon Chaegwol had thrown at him had been poison. But he hadn’t avoided it.

Not only were Espers naturally resistant to most toxins, but even if it had been something potent, he had the antidote Peng Munhyeong had given him—the Blood Venom Brew.

Without his Senior Brother present, the fever from the antidote’s reaction had been troublesome, but for now, it brought him peace of mind.

When the contestant who had been pressing his opponent so thoroughly suddenly vomited blood and staggered, the spectators erupted into a murmur.

“Was it poison?”

“An internal injury, maybe?”

“No, no—how could it be an internal injury? He wasn’t even struck! Wudang’s arts are refined, sure, but it’s not like he used the Hundred-Step Divine Fist!”

“And what would you know of the Hundred-Step Divine Fist or Wudang’s inner arts, eh?”

Their bickering rose to an almost comical pitch.

“Who’s to say it didn’t happen when they first clashed? Plenty of techniques look harmless but strike the organs directly. Just look at Wudang’s Cloud-Piercing Palm—”

They were confused, of course. The scene didn’t match anything familiar, so they groped for explanations.

“Poison, though? From a Wudang disciple?” someone muttered incredulously.

“Quiet!” hissed another. “You’ll get yourself in trouble saying that here!”

A hush fell over the crowd.

The chaos wasn’t quite as great as he’d hoped, but it was enough. Yegyeol schooled his features into calm composure.

It wasn’t time to celebrate yet. There were still too many obstacles to cross.

First and foremost—the man standing before him.

Despite Yegyeol’s offer to resume the match, Cheongyong still hadn’t recovered his composure. His sword trembled faintly in his grip, as it had when he’d first started losing ground.

He was distracted by the noise, the whispers—the insinuations of poison. Coincidence and malice intertwined beautifully.

Yegyeol couldn’t have asked for more.

He released a surge of energy. Golden currents sparked around his body, forming unstable rings that crackled in the air.

To the eye, it looked like his qi had gone wild, spiraling out of control. But his gaze remained fixed, cold, unshaken.

“It seems I’ll have to finish this quickly.”

His words, low and hoarse, made Cheongyong’s face harden. Yegyeol wasn’t surrendering—he was declaring intent to end this, right here, right now.

“How arrogant,” Cheongyong spat.

“I only said what must be done—and what I am fully capable of doing,” Yegyeol replied evenly.

As he stepped forward, the stone floor of the arena cracked beneath his heel, scattering fragments into the air.

Cheongyong’s eyes twitched. He knew what kind of reinforced stone the martial arena was made of—strong enough to withstand even high-level techniques.

For someone to shatter it with a single step meant only one thing: terrifying strength.

Golden arcs danced around Yegyeol’s body, crackling and sparking with violent brilliance.

To the untrained, it was awe-inspiring—to some, even holy. Cheers and murmurs rose among the crowd.

But to Cheongyong, standing face-to-face with him, there was only silence.

The longer he remained within that field of golden light, the more the crushing weight of Yegyeol’s power pressed upon his skin.

I must evade.

If he took that head-on, his body would never withstand it.

Sweat streamed down his back. If he’d met such an opponent on a true life-and-death battlefield, perhaps it would have been enlightening. But here, now, all he felt was powerlessness.

There’s nothing to learn from him.

There was no opening, no flow to study or counter. His mind screamed for a solution, but the pressure crushed all thought. His body wanted nothing more than to flee.

His heart pounded violently. His legs trembled beneath him.

Still, Cheongyong forced himself into the Taechung Sword’s opening stance—feet apart, right leg forward, sword held in both hands.

His gaze locked on his opponent.

And in the next instant, golden light filled his vision.

It was like staring into lightning at arm’s length. His eyes burned, seared by the brilliance.

Instinctively, he raised his sword to block, but a jolt of electricity crawled through the metal and into his flesh, and he gasped in silence.

The sensation was excruciating.

A sharp, living current flowed from Yegyeol’s body into his blade, down his arms, searing him from within.

He might have fared better if he’d dropped the sword—but what martial artist abandons his weapon?

That would be tantamount to death.

His palms burned as if branded by molten iron. His muscles spasmed, fingers locking.

Clang! Clang!

Yegyeol’s fists hammered against the blade again and again.

Each impact sent a burst of blue fire scattering through the air.

Had Cheongyong not gathered all his inner qi to protect himself, he’d be the one coughing blood right now.

“Hah… haah…”

Barely holding himself upright, Cheongyong stared at Yegyeol with wide, trembling eyes.

The golden arcs of lightning that danced over the man’s skin filled him with a fear he had never known.

He was used to pain—from blades, from clubs—but this… this was different.

Every touch was agony. And every time the lightning brushed his skin, his muscles seized uncontrollably.

The grace of Wudang was gone. His steps faltered. His legs no longer moved like those of one who walked the clouds.

Yegyeol reached out gently. His hand moved toward the sword.

And before it could even touch him—Cheongyong dropped it.

Clang!

The treasured blade hit the stone floor with a hollow cry.

His eyes widened. He felt as though he’d just woken from a terrible dream.

The cheers, the gasps, the crowd’s noise—all sounded distant, muffled, as though he were underwater.

“W-what… what have I done?”

He hadn’t even been struck. He had simply… yielded.

Yegyeol gave a polite bow, his tone calm and unhurried.

“A fine match.”

It was the courteous acknowledgment one offered to a worthy opponent—not the pity one gave to a defeated man.

That composure, so at odds with the arrogance he’d shown earlier, made Cheongyong’s face burn with shame.

He had wanted to be magnanimous in victory. Now he was humiliated in defeat.

Without Namgung Un here, I thought the championship was already mine.

It wasn’t arrogance, not even optimism—it had been certainty.

And yet now, he couldn’t even reach the semifinals.

His head dropped. His face burned red with humiliation.

“A fine match… thank you. I have learned much,” he murmured hollowly.

Empty words.

For what could he possibly learn from such overwhelming defeat?

What could anyone?

He stood there long after Yegyeol left the stage, motionless, hollowed out.

And in the VIP section—where only the highest of the Martial Alliance sat—a Daoist master exhaled slowly, his shoulders trembling.

Je Haryang… Je Haryang, he thought, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Yonghyeon’s pale gaze moved from his defeated disciple to the youth stepping lightly down from the stage.

I won!

Yegyeol had to fight to keep from grinning as he descended the arena steps.

He wanted to appear calm, like a dignified swordsman—but his heart was leaping in triumph.

He picked up the robe he’d set aside earlier, pretending it was only to hide the blood stains across his chest.

He would return to the barracks, ask a Martial Alliance official to summon a physician, and quietly leave behind the evidence of Eon Chaegwol’s misdeed so that Wudang could “discover” it themselves.

My blood’s burning, he thought.

Heat surged through his veins.

He’d spent so long suppressing his Esper abilities that now, once unleashed, his blood ran hot and wild. Perhaps it was nerves—facing one of Wudang’s finest would have rattled anyone.

But still… it’s getting harder to control my strength the longer I fight.

His mind felt heavy as he recalled the plan. He needed to find Hongyeo soon, to reconnect with Baembaem.

That clever creature could help absorb the energy he’d scattered and share back the reserves it had stored.

If only Senior Brother were here, he thought wistfully.

He wanted to chatter beside him, to boast about the day’s match.

How he’d faked the blood so convincingly that everyone fell for it.

How he’d faced one of Wudang’s most promising young masters—and won, all thanks to his Senior Brother’s teachings.

What kind of face would he make if he heard that?

The barracks were now in sight.

But as Yegyeol took a step forward, a wave of dizziness washed over him.

The cheers of the crowd were too loud. During the match, he hadn’t noticed, but now it buzzed in his skull like a swarm of bees.

He’d thought he’d grown used to it, but the disorientation proved otherwise.

Pathetic. Pull yourself together.

He straightened, forcing himself upright. But before he could fully steady his balance, someone caught his arm.

He hadn’t sensed their presence—understandable, given his condition—but the feeling that followed chilled him to the bone.

A strong hand dragged him back, pinning him against the wall. His heart thudded violently in his chest.

He didn’t even dare look up at the shadow looming over him.

A rough, rasping voice brushed his ear like the scrape of steel.

“I did say we’d meet again under more… proper circumstances, didn’t I?”

The man’s thumb traced slowly along the inside of Yegyeol’s wrist, pressing against the delicate skin there.

“So… did you get what you wanted?”