TSBIRBV Ch 269

Chapter 269. Yongbong Gathering (9)

At the man’s question, Yegyeol could only stare at Black Ghost, unable to speak.

If he opened his mouth, he was certain his heart would leap straight out. He couldn’t tell whether this pounding was from joy and longing—or from the nervous dread of a criminal caught at the scene of his own crime.

“It’s been a while… Lord Black Ghost.”

His voice came out thin and trembling, so unlike the man who had just defeated Wudang’s Cheongyong Dojang with a single strike in front of the entire arena.

“But I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

He tried to pull his wrist free, but the grip that bound him didn’t budge. Even when he deliberately used force—no longer bothering to hide his Esper strength from Haryang—it was useless.

That was when Yegyeol realized it.

The man standing before him, wearing the mask of Black Ghost, was not entirely in his right mind.

Usually, Haryang treated him as though he were made of porcelain—handling him with the utmost care. For him to hold this tightly, tight enough to bruise, was utterly unlike him.

Then again… he probably ran down from the Ten-Thousand Mountains the moment he heard about the Yongbong Gathering, like a puppy that saw snow for the first time.

Honestly, Yegyeol couldn’t blame him. If Haryang had disappeared somewhere without a word, he would’ve gone half-mad too. That was the whole reason he’d left first—to stop Haryang from going alone to Shanxi.

He hadn’t wanted his Senior Brother facing the men there without him.

If he’d gone to Shanxi alone, as he planned, then by the time he returned, the entire Ten-Thousand Mountains would’ve been nothing but a crater of lightning.

Once again, Yegyeol felt vindicated in his choice to run away first.

Haryang, at least, still possessed reason. He himself, emotional and impatient, would never have endured it.

It wasn’t loyalty to the Heavenly Demon Sect or affection for the Ten-Thousand Mountains that had held him back.

It was the Cheonghyeong Hall Haryang had built—for the two of them.

Yegyeol, who had once delighted in demolishing every building that annoyed Jinyoung, wanted to keep at least that one place untouched.

“Ah…”

Black Ghost’s voice rang low and honey-smooth. To anyone else, it might have sounded hoarse, even ominous—but to Yegyeol, it was almost sweet.

“After our last meeting… I waited for you, Lord Mun. For months.”

The words sank into him like a weight, cold and thrilling all at once.

Even if they weren’t lovers, to hear that someone had waited for him so long—anyone would have wavered. But this man—this Black Ghost—was the one with whom he had shared countless nights.

“To think that even after being told we should never meet privately again… I couldn’t forget you. Isn’t that rather pitiful?”

The tone was self-mocking, bitter.

“And yet, seeing you come to find me like this… I suppose that Senior Brother of yours couldn’t give you what you wanted, hm?”

The trap was elegant—too elegant. Haryang led him right into it.

“No!” Yegyeol shook his head quickly.

“Then… are you dissatisfied with him?”

That low, rasping whisper—the tip of his tongue was red when he spoke.

Senior Brother, you’re so damn manipulative.

Yegyeol swore inwardly, though his heart fluttered helplessly.

“I’m deeply grateful to Lord Black Ghost,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I owe you much. But I’d rather not speak of such things.”

It was polite enough—but the words themselves were unmistakably a rejection.

“Then why did you call for me?”

Even the faintest shift in Haryang’s scarred features transformed him, but now his expression was near emotionless.

Yegyeol instinctively tried to step back, but his shoulders hit the cold wall behind him.

They were still near the barracks—if anyone saw this scene, tongues would wag. But Haryang clearly didn’t care.

“Why?”

The question came from Black Ghost’s lips, but the voice was unmistakably Haryang’s.

Yegyeol’s throat went dry.

Why… why does this feel so good?

He was being interrogated—accused of infidelity by his Senior Brother—and yet every nerve in his body was alive, crackling with awareness.

The hand gripping his wrist was cutting off circulation, but he couldn’t look away from those eyes.

He should explain. Tell him it was nothing like that. But part of him—some deep, wicked part—wanted to stay there a little longer, to feel that burning gaze and that wild, possessive heat.

I’m going to get addicted to this.

He could feel Haryang’s emotions—not through power, but through the sheer intensity of presence. It was intoxicating.

Still, Yegyeol forced a rein on his own excitement.

His fingers twitched, longing to touch Haryang’s cheek—but instead, he clenched his fist and drove his knee up hard.

“Ugh…”

The man who had been all but pinning him against the wall groaned in pain, his head bowing. The iron grip around Yegyeol’s wrists loosened.

Yegyeol froze.

He hadn’t expected that. Normally, his Senior Brother would have avoided such a strike with ease—eyes closed, even.

“A-are you okay?” he stammered.

And then he remembered—this was a grandmaster who could stand untouched by blades or flame. The so-called Diamond Body.

Wow. You’re acting, aren’t you.

He almost laughed. If not for years of living among overprotective Guides, he might have fallen for it.

Even so, Haryang’s performance was convincing enough to make his heart skip.

Still, Yegyeol moved automatically, catching the man’s shoulders to steady him.

“I’m… fine.”

A bead of sweat slid down Haryang’s temple in that brief pause.

“Let’s… move somewhere else and talk,” Yegyeol said quickly.

“You’re not going to run?” Haryang murmured, his face still buried against Yegyeol’s shoulder, his breath ghosting over skin.

“No. I asked for you first—how could I run away now?”

He felt the weight of Haryang’s body slowly ease away. Despite himself, a faint disappointment prickled in Yegyeol’s chest.

As Haryang straightened, Yegyeol stepped back—and his folded outer robe slipped from his arms.

Unfortunately, it revealed the bloodstain across his chest.

Haryang’s eyes widened.

“…You’re hurt?”

Ah, hell.

It was his blood—but not from being injured by anyone.

If he’d known Haryang would appear today, he might’ve been more careful. But since things were already this way, perhaps it was better to play the role of the poor, battered disciple.

Yegyeol lowered his head slightly, staring at the ground.

“It’s nothing… I just need to return to the barracks and report what happened to the Martial Alliance officials. Please wait for me.”

The pressure around his wrist eased.

He wanted to look back, to see Haryang’s face—but he couldn’t bring himself to.

Barely audible, Haryang whispered,

“You’d best hurry back.”

He gave Yegyeol’s back a light push.

Stumbling slightly, Yegyeol made his way into the barracks.

Eon Chaegwol was gone—perhaps called for his own match—but a few of his hangers-on glanced nervously in Yegyeol’s direction.

First, I need to summon a Martial Alliance physician…

Before he could act, a voice came from outside.

“I heard someone requested a physician.”

A healer wearing the Alliance’s insignia stepped inside.

Yegyeol’s eyes flickered with brief recognition before he masked it.

Samrang.

He didn’t know how she’d come to be posing as a physician, but if she was here, it meant Haryang had sent her.

Worried that Yegyeol might actually be hurt—and wanting her to examine him before any real physician could—she’d moved first.

“I was told you coughed blood during your duel,” she said calmly. “May I take your pulse?”

Without hesitation, Yegyeol extended his hand.

After a few moments, Samrang’s brow furrowed.

Of course—he was far too healthy.

“There’s no sign of abnormality,” she said. “May I examine your mouth?”

He opened it obediently.

After a close inspection, her expression turned puzzled.

“Strange… No internal injuries, no illness, not even a scratch inside your mouth—and yet you spat blood?”

“Ah, that,” Yegyeol said, feigning embarrassment.

He reached into his robe and pulled out a small flask—the Blood Venom Brew.

The others looked at it curiously, though Samrang and a few sharp-eyed contestants recognized it at once.

“It’s the Blood Venom Brew given to me by my sworn brother,” Yegyeol explained smoothly. “I usually keep it on me, but I set it aside today before the match with Wudang’s Cheongyong Dojang. I feared it might break mid-fight.”

“I see…”

“I’d been feeling unwell before the match, but I didn’t expect to cough blood. Once I finished quickly and returned, I kept the flask close—and my condition improved.”

Samrang watched as Yegyeol lowered his lashes, his expression shadowed with quiet melancholy.

Here we go again… Who’s the scapegoat this time?

As the one who had served Je Haryang’s trio the longest, she could read him too well. That look of faint sorrow always meant he was plotting something.

“Then who could have used poison?” one contestant muttered.

“Even the Tang Clan leaves antidotes ready before duels… Don’t tell me Wudang did it?”

The rumor was spreading already. Yegyeol’s supposed poisoning was becoming fact.

He lifted the flask and hung it around his neck.

“You’re with the Martial Alliance, aren’t you?” he said to Samrang with formal courtesy. “Please investigate. I’ve only been between the inn and this barracks today. If someone released poison nearby, other contestants could be affected as well.”

He broadened the scope expertly—turning himself from victim to potential hero.

Samrang nodded gravely.

“I’ll see to it.”

She spoke with convincing authority, all traces of her usual laziness gone.

“You should take some tonic medicine. Here—this prescription will help. It’s bitter, but it’ll strengthen you. You’ll need it before your next match.”

Yegyeol inclined his head.

“Thank you.”

When he rose to leave, the surrounding contestants looked at him with admiration.

Je Haryang defeated Wudang’s Cheongyong—and he did it while poisoned.

Samrang stepped back, and immediately, the others swarmed closer.

“A splendid match!”

“If you ever visit the Ju Clan, you’d be welcome as an honored guest—”

“Perhaps, if the opportunity arises. You’re Young Master Ju, yes?”

Yegyeol answered each one with polite smiles, feigning dizziness and leaving his robe behind as if absentmindedly.

When no one else was watching, he lifted his sleeve slightly and mouthed words only Samrang could read.

[Make sure Wudang gets this. Let them “find” it.]

Samrang’s eyes narrowed. She replied in silent voice transmission.

[How did you— No, never mind. I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.]

“Forgive me,” Yegyeol said aloud, bowing slightly. “I need rest before the next round.”

Realizing they’d been detaining an injured man, the others apologized and stepped aside.

Yegyeol smiled faintly and left quickly.

Once outside, he looked around, his face still flushed with residual heat.

Did he already leave?

No—he couldn’t have. Panic stirred in his chest at the thought.

It brought back the memory of that time long ago, when Haryang had left him behind and vanished to Kunlun.

And then, from the shadows beside the barracks, a tall figure stepped out.

Haryang—no, Black Ghost—was still there. Waiting.

“Shall we go?” he asked quietly.