TSBIRBV Ch 280

Chapter 280. Cause and Effect (7)

There are far too many eyes on me today.

Yegyeol moved forward with a calm expression, though he could feel the weight of countless gazes following him. Even though this area was some distance from the main grounds of the Dragon–Phoenix Assembly, a few people recognized him at a glance and turned their heads.

It must have been because of his connection to the Wudang Sect.

The results of the Assembly had yet to spread across the entire martial world, so Yegyeol’s name had not yet reached beyond the city of Wuhan. His fame was still a local one, discussed only by those who followed the tournament closely.

“There’s supposedly a remarkable young fighter without sect affiliation.”

“They say he practices fist techniques but never revealed his teacher.”

“He doesn’t even have a proper martial name yet.”

That was about the extent of it.

But now that he had become entangled with the Wudang Sect’s young prodigy—Qingyong, the runner-up of the previous Dragon–Phoenix Assembly—things had changed dramatically.

“A man not even from the Nine Great Sects defeated Wudang’s Qingyong.”

“They say Qingyong couldn’t even put up a defense.”

“He must have learned an unrivaled martial art from some hidden hermit.”

“He’ll soon earn his own martial name.”

“He’s called Je Haryang.”

“No, no—it’s Kim Haryang.”

Now, even ordinary townsfolk—not just gamblers and gossipy martial enthusiasts—were repeating his alias.

“If the stares bother you, Young Master, I can handle them,” said Hongyeo, furrowing his brow as he walked beside him.

Yegyeol smiled. “No, it’s fine. I quite like it, actually.”

“If you say so,” Hongyeo replied hesitantly, though his voice carried concern. “Still, I hear there are unsavory rumors spreading through the streets.”

“I’ve heard them too,” Yegyeol said with a grin.

The newest rumor claimed that Je Haryang had tried to poison Wudang’s Qingyong but ended up poisoning himself. And when asked where the poison came from—well, the story went that he’d gotten it from none other than the young heir of the Tang Clan, with whom he was supposedly staying.

He almost laughed out loud.

Dragging even the Tang Clan into this? How bold.

Who started this slander? The Jinju Eon family? Or… could it really be Wudang itself?

There were only two likely culprits. He’d traveled across the central plains as a merchant, but as a newcomer to the martial world, few people even knew who he was—fewer still who would have reason to move against him.

“I’ll take care of it,” Hongyeo said firmly.

“No,” Yegyeol replied, shaking his head.

That wasn’t the hand he intended to play. He already had a countermeasure prepared—a move that would turn this slander to his advantage.

After all, the more sensational a rumor, the faster it spread. And public curiosity was an excellent fuel—it would inflate his image inside people’s minds until it grew far beyond life-size.

For now, it might be infamy, but at the right moment, with the right twist, that infamy would transform into prestige.

I don’t have the time or the skill yet to build a reputation like my senior brother’s through years of righteous deeds. A bit of inflated fame will do just fine.

Even noise could be a form of marketing.

His goal might be to win the Dragon–Phoenix Assembly—but that wasn’t the only reason he’d come to the Central Plains.

He’d tasted admiration before—the awed gazes, the whispered praise—but none of it could fill the void left by the name Je Haryang.

No… it’s still not enough. Not nearly enough.

“If it’s your will, Young Master, I will follow,” Hongyeo said with his usual stoic face.

If Samrang had been here, he’d probably be pulling his hair out ten times over by now. The thought made Yegyeol laugh under his breath.

He remembered how Samrang had slipped into the tournament’s medical staff under the Wulin Alliance, keeping an eye on him. Knowing that both his senior brother’s subordinates and his own allies were scattered around the area gave him a strange sense of comfort—even when all eyes felt sharp and hostile.

If someone were to throw a stone at him right now, he almost thought it would be amusing.

With that thought, he smiled like a blooming flower. “Let’s go. I have to win again today—so I can honor my senior brother’s name.”

“…Yes, Young Master.”

Inside the competitors’ tent, Yegyeol glanced around. When he had first entered days ago, the place had been crowded shoulder to shoulder. Now, barely half remained.

Considering there were several such tents, it meant the tournament had reached its peak.

He found an empty chair and sat down, but no sooner had he done so than the tent flap opened—and a familiar face stepped inside.

It was Eon Chaegwol, looking somewhat hollow-eyed.

He scanned the room, spotted Yegyeol, and flinched slightly—then forced his shoulders back and plastered on a broad, artificial smile.

“Well, if it isn’t the rising star himself!”

The man who had once glared daggers now approached with mock friendliness.

“The up-and-coming prodigy of poison arts—Je Haryang, wasn’t it?”

Yegyeol nearly laughed aloud.

He looked as though he hadn’t slept a wink, and yet the moment the rumor had shifted in his favor, he had come running to seize the narrative.

Looks like someone’s tail is on fire.

“Poison arts,” he thought dryly. “And they say I used them?”

For someone who had never used anything but fist techniques, it was laughable. But for Eon Chaegwol to say it here, loudly, in front of everyone—it was clearly an attempt to hammer the rumor into permanence.

“Really, people without proper lineage are all the same—so crude and shameless,” Eon Chaegwol sneered when Yegyeol didn’t reply.

He took Yegyeol’s silence as weakness and grew bolder, raising his voice for all to hear.

“I knew it. There’s no way a no-name vagrant could defeat Wudang’s Qingyong without cheating!”

So that’s how it’s going to be.

Last time Yegyeol had seen him, the man had looked half-dead. Now he seemed smug—perhaps convinced that he wouldn’t be dragged down with his own lies.

No… he’s nervous. His hands are shaking.

Yegyeol watched him with a cool, steady gaze.

“‘Cheating,’ you say? Can you take responsibility for those words?”

“Why should I? Anyone on the streets would say the same. I’m merely repeating what everyone knows.”

“So the young master of the prestigious Jinju Eon family,” Yegyeol said softly, “has taken up work as a gossipmonger?”

Eon Chaegwol frowned.

Even the dullest fool could tell that wasn’t a compliment.

“A noble son running errands for common gossip—remarkable. Truly, remarkable.”

He laughed lightly.

“You bastard…!”

Eon Chaegwol’s temper flared. He took a step forward, hand reaching for his sword—

“Ah!”

He yelped.

Before he could draw, a sharp pain pricked his wrist, and his weapon slipped from his grasp. The gleaming blade clattered to the ground.

The tent fell silent.

All eyes turned toward him.

For a martial artist to drop his weapon—

It was the ultimate humiliation.

It was said that even if every bone in one’s hand broke, one must never let go of their sword.

The brief silence shattered like glass, replaced by an uproar of murmurs.

Other competitors—many of them heirs of the great sects—had been watching.

“He dropped his sword.”

“No way. He’s from a noble house!”

“How poorly must he have trained?”

“Still, he’s managed to last this far in the tournament…”

Eon Chaegwol’s face turned scarlet. No one even tried to lower their voices.

By now, only the most capable fighters remained—disciples of the Nine Great Sects, heirs of the Five Great Families, or elite warriors of respected smaller sects.

Among them, Eon Chaegwol had always been the black sheep—arrogant, overbearing, desperate to show off. Even Tang Saegi, one of the friendliest participants, avoided him.

And now, stripped of his dignity in front of them all, he looked pitiful.

Yegyeol tilted his head slightly and said, voice calm and clear, “Anyone with eyes can see I’ve used nothing but my sect’s fist techniques. And yet you call me a master of poison?”

He shook his head, feigning pity.

“Seeing how you’ve dropped your sword, I suppose the explanation is simple—you’ve been drinking.”

Soft laughter rippled through the tent.

Eon Chaegwol gritted his teeth.

“I’ll restore order to the martial world!” he roared, throwing a punch.

He might have lost his sword, but his clan had a family fist style of its own—and he drove it straight at the man before him.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Don’t thank me. Dragging an old man halfway across the country was harder on you than me,” grumbled Jeok Nogae, adjusting his wide-brimmed bamboo hat.

Both men were disheveled from travel—their robes torn, shoes worn thin. It was clear they had come without rest.

“To think I’d return to Wuhan, where the Dragon–Phoenix Assembly is held once more,” Jeok Nogae murmured bitterly.

The fire in him was fading, sustained only by the fuel of memory.

After speaking with Yegyeol, Namgung Un had immediately sought out Jeok Nogae—abandoning even his duties as the former tournament champion.

Jeok Nogae had refused him at first.

‘Please, Master Jeok—come out of seclusion. Je Haryang is competing.’

‘What did you say?’

‘He wishes to meet you.’

Namgung Un, heir to the Namgung Clan, had long mastered the art of persuasion.

Not even Jeok Nogae’s disciples or the Beggar Sect elders could sway him—but that single name had.

They had traveled without pause since then.

Namgung Un’s heart had been restless, afraid that Yegyeol might vanish before they arrived. Jeok Nogae, for his part, simply wished to know why the man using Je Haryang’s name wanted to see him.

He knew death was close; before meeting it, he wanted to sever his last lingering regret.

“We must hurry to the Assembly grounds—” Namgung Un began, but a loud, drunken voice interrupted him.

“I’m telling you, that Je Haryang bastard did use poison! There’s no other way some nameless upstart could win so easily!”

Both men turned their heads at once.

“Poison?” Jeok Nogae muttered.

“Poison?” Namgung Un’s face hardened. “We’d better find out what’s going on.”

They made straight for the Beggar Sect’s Wuhan branch.

Information flowed freely there, and before long, Jeok Nogae had heard every detail.

“There’s a match today,” he said grimly. “Je Haryang’s next duel. Let’s go.”

His expression was set in stone.

He had lived long, seen countless schemes—and he knew the stench of a false rumor when it reeked.

This one was foul enough that even a starving dog would turn its nose away.

“Something ugly’s about to happen,” he said.

Together, they hurried toward the arena.

When they arrived, a Wulin Alliance official stopped them.

“The match is about to begin—you can’t meet the competitor right now.”

“Just a moment, please,” Namgung Un urged.

“I’m afraid not, even for you, Young Master Namgung,” the man said firmly.

Jeok Nogae laid a hand on Namgung Un’s shoulder. “Let it be. We’ll watch the fight. That alone may tell us enough.”

“…All right.”

Causing a scene would do no good. They joined the crowd instead.

Normally, seats would have been reserved for the Namgung Clan, but since Namgung Un had arrived unannounced, he took a place among the common spectators.

The referee stood on the stage, ready to announce the next match—but then froze, frowning.

He paused, as though hearing a voice through transmission, and stepped down, heading toward the back.

Toward the contestants’ tents.

“The match is delayed,” Namgung Un said. “Something’s wrong.”

“Indeed,” Jeok Nogae murmured, clasping his hands tightly.

Then—

“Excuse me.”

A low voice, rasping like steel scraping against stone.

Someone was asking to pass through the crowd, his tone polite but oddly heavy.

The sound came from right beside them.

Namgung Un turned—and froze.

The man was unfamiliar, his face scarred and hardened by a life of violence. Yet there was something in him—something primal—that made Namgung Un’s blood run cold.

It was as if he remembered the feeling of his own life dangling at the end of this man’s fingers.

The noise of the arena seemed to fade, distant and muffled, as though through a wall.

He realized, belatedly, that he had stopped breathing.

“You… you’re—”

Cold sweat beaded on his temples.

The scarred man turned his head—not to Namgung Un, but to the old man seated behind him.

Haryang inclined his head respectfully.

“It has been a long time,” he said.