TSBIRBV Ch 273

Chapter 273. The Yongbong Gathering (13)

When Haryang arrived at the banks of the Yangtze, a ship had already been prepared for him. Yet, he chose not to board it.

He knew it was Jinyoung’s doing—a considerate arrangement meant to grant his lord even a moment’s rest. Normally, traveling by water was faster than by land.

But no matter how swift the vessel boasted to be, even if it were the famed Flood Dragon King’s express ship, it could not outpace a master of Hyeongyeong using light footwork without pause.

Instead, Haryang made a brief stop at Yegok Village, where he spoke with Yeonso.

“My lord, it’s been quite some time.”

Emerging from the reeds, Yeonso bowed deeply before him.

“It has indeed.”

Even after years apart, Haryang wasted no time with pleasantries.

“You traveled with Gyeol for a while, didn’t you?”

“I must apologize, my lord. I failed to escort Lord Mun to the end of his journey.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Haryang replied, raising a hand lightly. “Once I heard you’d stayed behind in Yegok Village, I knew your reason.”

At that, some of the tension left Yeonso’s face.

“…This village was once your home, was it not?”

“It has been more than thirty years, but yes, my lord. That is true. However,” Yeonso continued, “contrary to what you may think, I did not remain here out of sentimentality.”

“Then it’s because of Geumeobang?”

A faint smile curved Yeonso’s lips—cold and sharp, almost bloodstained.

“You understand quickly, my lord. Yegok Village sought help from the Geumeobang. And since one of their martial men met a gruesome end, they will no doubt respond. The Geumeobang will want this resolved smoothly. Otherwise, all the protection money they’ve extorted until now would be meaningless.”

“So you intend to stir things up.”

“The politics of the Yangtze are already entangled with personal debts and vengeance. I only mean to return the favor.”

Haryang knew well of the friction between the Geumeobang and the Yangtze Waterway Alliance. Both factions had long sought control of the ferry routes, imposing levies and claiming docks by force.

There had even been recent reports of Geumeobang attempting to seize a warehouse maintained by the Waterway Alliance—one that, conveniently, stored Black Spot’s goods.

And if Yeonso’s personal grudges were involved…

“You’ve never been one to let either debts or grudges go unpaid,” Haryang remarked quietly. “Only one to wait.”

Then, after a pause, he said, “Some of the missing villagers from Yegok have been found.”

Yeonso bowed deeply, his tone reverent. “It is a great comfort to know my lord’s eyes have reached even this far.”

“It coincides with Gyeol’s request. Judging by how far the abducted were transported, this wasn’t the work of petty traffickers. There are signs of an organized faction at play. Conduct a full investigation of the Yangtze Waterway Alliance—inside and out.”

“As you command.”

The Flood Dragon King bowed gravely.

After hearing from Yeonso about Yegyeol’s movements in the village, Haryang departed immediately. A brief sip of tea had been his only respite; he hadn’t closed his eyes once.

Yet unlike Jinyoung, Yeonso made no attempt to dissuade him.

He understood where his lord’s priorities lay.

It had been nearly half a month since Haryang and Yegyeol had parted in the Ten-Thousand Mountains. Knowing Hongye0 was by his disciple’s side had been the only thing keeping him calm. Still, hearing another’s confirmation of Yegyeol’s safety soothed him more than he expected.

Clinging to that small comfort, Haryang pressed on toward Wuhan, sleepless through countless nights.

He burned the hours with the help of bitter smoke, traveling beneath the hush of crickets that filled the still night.

Each step he took made no sound, as though the very world held its breath.

Once, he had walked these paths out of duty alone—driven by the belief that he must prevent war between the orthodox factions and the Heavenly Demon Cult. Back then, he hadn’t noticed the silence. He had been too weary to dwell on solitude.

He had lived for the sake of others—to give meaning to his disciple’s sacrifice. Struggling and thrashing like a man drowning, unable to let go.

The years of endurance had been carved into his soul, raising him to a higher state of being. Yet what Haryang had truly longed for wasn’t victory or life—but peace, and even death.

Still, again and again, he survived. Because both the voice that beckoned him toward darkness and the hand that pulled him back into light belonged to the same person.

Now that he had finally attained the realm of Hyeongyeong—cast off every shackle that bound him—he felt hollow. For it was the weight of those chains that had kept him alive.

Without them, there was nothing left to push him forward.

And so he searched for something to live for.

But his heart was empty—until he met Yegyeol again.

He had driven him away on purpose, only to return. For once you let that presence close, there was no turning back. He had tried to distance himself—but ended up circling Yegyeol like a lost hound that had found its master again.

Until the day he finally claimed him.

Only then did Haryang truly understand what loneliness was—akin to the heart demon that haunted him, yet separate.

Like a man regaining taste after years of numbness, the rediscovery of emotion overwhelmed him.

When he finally entered Wuhan, blending into the bustling crowd drawn by the Yongbong Gathering’s feverish excitement, Haryang tilted his bamboo hat low and gazed up at the inn where Yegyeol was said to be staying.

As the Black Ghost… how long has it been?

The sun and moon had traded places a dozen times since they last met. They had shared breath, warmth, and skin countless nights.

He recalled the old legend of a mortal who strayed into a realm of immortals—living what felt like a dream, only to return and find centuries had passed.

For Haryang, his days with Yegyeol had felt just the same.

“Bring me a cup of tea,” he said as he entered the inn.

The waiter hurried off, and soon a woman who appeared middle-aged came to sit before him.

Haryang wasted no time. “Where is Gyeol?”

“He is participating in the Yongbong Gathering.”

Though the voice was disguised, he recognized it instantly—it was Samrang. She must have traveled straight to Wuhan the moment he reached Sichuan.

So she arrived just ahead of me, he thought.

Even though she’d been closer to the region, Samrang had barely arrived a day before him.

“I’d heard as much… that he entered the tournament,” Haryang murmured, his tone slow and unreadable. “So it’s today.”

Samrang said nothing, but she could guess why he spoke so carefully.

If her own runaway disciple had joined the Yongbong Gathering under his master’s name and somehow become a leading contender for victory—she too might faint on the spot.

Especially when the name Je Haryang belonged to none other than a once-promising orthodox prodigy turned lord of the Demonic Cult.

She glanced at Haryang’s face cautiously. But instead of turmoil or anger, his expression was steady—too steady.

“Take me to him,” he said at last.

Perhaps not calmness, but an impatient yearning to confirm his disciple’s safety.

“As you wish.”

Even through the bustling crowds, Haryang’s steps never once collided with another’s. His movements were serene—yet so swift that it seemed a ghost passed through and vanished.

When Samrang finally led him before the grand stage of the Yongbong Gathering, he stopped.

The sight was both familiar and distant—the dueling platform and its encircling stands. Once, he too had stood upon that stage, bringing honor to the name of Kunlun.

Now, it felt like a dream from another lifetime.

Haryang looked toward the officiator atop the platform.

“Independent participant! Je Haryang! Step forward to the stage!”

At the call of his own false name, Yegyeol appeared.

His face was as it always had been—brown hair, hazel eyes, delicate features.

Despite being a grown man, his light coloring and slender frame made him seem almost boyish, especially beside the solidly built Taoist of Wudang standing opposite him.

No… he looks thinner.

Not a single strand of hair or eyelash had changed, and yet Haryang thought he looked more fragile. Perhaps it was only the weight of his own worry that made it seem so.

He steadied himself.

The Wudang disciple’s qi pulsed powerfully; his solar point glowed faintly beneath his robes. Haryang judged him a solid peak-level martial artist for his age.

But Yegyeol’s strikes—sharp, fierce, unrelenting—were like lightning.

Haryang realized, with quiet awe, that the only time his disciple had ever truly attacked him with such sincerity had been that night at Cheonghyeong Hall.

He had sparred with him countless times, teaching him the Thunder Spirit Fist, trading blows over and over. Yegyeol had always been cautious, deliberate. His wildness at Cheonghyeong had seemed like madness then—but now, seeing it again, Haryang understood.

Against a real enemy, Yegyeol’s face transformed—raw, alive.

So even while facing me, he’d been holding back…

Haryang laughed softly to himself. He couldn’t help it—it was intoxicating.

To think that his disciple, cautious and precise, had restrained himself out of care for him—it made him recall Jinyoung’s teasing words, calling Yegyeol a weasel.

No. His disciple was a beast—a predator who had simply tucked away his claws when facing his master.

Absurd, yes. And yet, deeply moving.

For a fleeting moment, he even forgot that Yegyeol had left the Ten-Thousand Mountains behind without him.

As he watched the golden current flare around his disciple, tracing erratic arcs through the air like scattered starlight, he thought—how beautiful.

Yegyeol pressed his opponent mercilessly.

But suddenly, mid-attack, he froze. His hand flew to his throat, and he staggered back, coughing violently.

A shock rippled through the audience.

And then—cough!—blood spilled from Yegyeol’s lips.

The world slowed.

[My lord!]

Samrang’s urgent voice reached him through transmission. Yet Haryang, who seemed ready to leap onto the stage himself, did not move.

[It isn’t poison.]

He could tell. The scent was wrong—different from that of toxins. Nor had Yegyeol taken a solid blow.

Still, Haryang’s voice remained level as he replied,

[When the duel ends, have the healers ready. I’ll see to him myself.]

His command was calm—but inside, he felt the creeping chill of fear. The brief shock of it burned away almost instantly, replaced by something far hotter, far more dangerous.

His inner demon whispered to him.

Perhaps… letting him roam freely was a mistake.

He could capture him.

He could rebuild Cheonghyeong Hall with labyrinthine formations and mechanical traps, lock him away at its heart, and never again feel this gnawing dread.

He wanted to cage him.

In his mind’s eye, he saw again that boy—who once led him out of the alleys of Hangzhou, only to vanish into a maze he could never follow.

But Yegyeol’s eyes were not on him. They were locked on the Taoist before him.

“Je Haryang!”

The shout wasn’t meant for him—but still, Haryang’s eyes opened slowly in the darkness beneath his hat.

“Win! You can do it, win it all!”

“I’ve bet everything I have on you!”

Even after coughing blood, Yegyeol pressed on. His hands clashed against his opponent’s sword again and again—and it was the sword that gave way.

He moved like a man racing against time, desperate to end it quickly, as though truly poisoned. His speed was blinding, leaving the Wudang Taoist defenseless.

The same man who had once reached the finals of the last Yongbong Gathering now dropped his blade in defeat.

The arena erupted into cheers.

Haryang could only watch his disciple’s back in silence.

He had never doubted his victory—but seeing it, seeing him standing there with pride and glory—it struck him differently than he expected.

“Je Haryang!”

“Je Haryang! I knew you’d do it!”

Something fluttered in his chest—like a thousand butterflies let loose within.

Watching Yegyeol bask in triumph, smiling beneath the sun, waving to the crowd—it felt almost as if Haryang himself had returned to that same stage, long ago.

The cheers, the admiration, the envy—they all blurred together.

He saw, overlaid upon Yegyeol, that naive young swordsman who had once chased recognition, not yet knowing what true virtue was.

A boy he once despised.

And yet, now, he shone brilliantly in Haryang’s eyes.

I wonder… did I look that radiant, back then?

Regret, nostalgia, and something softer all swelled within him.

He drew a slow breath as Yegyeol descended from the stage.

The one who had basked in sunlight was now walking toward the shadow where he stood. The light clung to his sleeves like warmth itself.

It was almost suffocating—this joy.

If he locked Yegyeol away in Cheonghyeong Hall, he would never shine like that again.

“I did say,” a low voice murmured, “that next time, we’d meet somewhere more formal.”

Haryang reached out—and the young man who had refused even a single strike from his opponents allowed himself to be caught.

He didn’t run.

And that, more than anything, made Haryang’s chest twist.

So he moved his thumb slowly, deliberately, across the soft skin of Yegyeol’s inner wrist.

Just to make sure he understood—it was no accident.

“Well then,” he murmured, voice low and sharp, “did you get what you wanted?”