TSBIRBV Ch 282

Chapter 282. Cause and Effect (9)

“So this is what the Martial Alliance’s prison looks like.”

Yegyeol spoke the words with a kind of idle serenity, his tone almost cheerful. The wooden bars before him looked rather flimsy, yet he knew well enough that what kept people confined here wasn’t the strength of the wood, but the authority of the Martial Alliance itself. The material hardly mattered.

He had been thrown in here not long ago. It started when Eon Chaegwol had provoked him again. Yegyeol had indulged him—mocking, teasing, letting him get riled up—only to strike back at just the right moment. But before he could finish it, the disturbance drew the attention of the Alliance’s enforcers, and both of them had been apprehended on the spot.

Neither resisted. They were promptly taken down into this dim underground cell.

I’m playing the part of the virtuous senior brother, but it’s strange that Eon Chaegwol went quiet so easily. The kind of man he is usually starts shouting, “Do you know who my father is?” and dragging out his entire family tree to prove his worth.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Yegyeol’s eyes swept leisurely around the cell.

As in all prisons, there was that chill of neglect, that air heavy with silence, the faint damp scent that seeped into the bones—all designed to crush the spirits of those trapped within.

But not his.

After inspecting the place with mild curiosity, Yegyeol simply dropped into the chair placed in the center of the cell.

Any other martial artist might have thought they would never leave this place alive. But not him.

If he was destined to spend eternity confined somewhere, it would not be here—it would be in the Ten Thousand Mountains.

I even invited my senior brother here, after all…

He thought of Black Ghost—of the night they had shared—and how he had later extended an invitation. The man had given no clear answer, yet Yegyeol knew. He knew Haryang was out there somewhere, sitting among the spectators, watching.

Hopefully, I didn’t shock him too much.

He knew Haryang wasn’t exactly a gentle man, but still, somewhere deep inside, Yegyeol couldn’t help worrying about him.

He had known Eon Chaegwol would eventually cause trouble; he just hadn’t expected it to happen today.

If he hadn’t been arrested, he might’ve spent this day putting on a show of charm for his “master.”

If I’d just fought properly today and won, I could’ve pretended to be overjoyed and maybe slipped in a hug while he wasn’t expecting it.

The thought made him sigh. It was a shame, really—he hadn’t been able to show Haryang his victory.

Still, he couldn’t complain about how fast things were progressing.

This scandal would make Je Haryang’s name spread even further.

Things are unfolding even more smoothly than I planned.

He was in a good mood. Apparently, there were still many who remembered Haryang’s name.

He managed to suppress his laughter, but the sparkle in his eyes made him look absurdly radiant for someone sitting in a cell.

The jailer who had escorted him frowned.

It was unsettling—prisoners dragged in after a brawl were usually cowed or defiant, but this one looked utterly at ease, like a man resting in his own courtyard.

“…This isn’t truly the Martial Alliance’s dungeon,” the jailer said stiffly. “It’s merely a holding cell where we keep suspects until the truth of their wrongdoing is confirmed.”

“Wrongdoing?” Yegyeol tilted his head. “And what, exactly, have I done wrong?”

Were it not for the faint trace of blood on his sleeve, he would have looked entirely innocent.

The jailer sighed and shook his head. He’d seen all kinds of martial artists pass through these cells—men who danced on the edge of death daily, whose courage was legendary. Yet even they quailed when brought here under the Alliance’s authority. Some shouted, some begged, some shrank into silence.

But this one—this Je Haryang—was different. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t even pretending to be.

Not a monk, not a sage, not some hermit immune to worldly fear. Just… calm.

“It was improper,” the jailer said, “for a tournament participant to start a brawl before the duel.”

“Eon Gongja attacked first,” Yegyeol replied smoothly.

He glanced around the cell, as though searching for something.

“Speaking of which—where is Eon Gongja now? He was apprehended along with me, wasn’t he? Don’t tell me he’s been sent to the real dungeon for his crimes?”

The jailer’s expression tightened.

“His father is the head of a reputable martial family. The Jinju Eon Clan has agreed to discipline him personally. The Alliance decided to trust them in the matter.”

“Ah, I see.”

Yegyeol wrinkled his nose, then nodded. “Understood.”

The jailer shifted uneasily. He knew very well what that meant. The Martial Alliance had simply turned a blind eye for the sake of politics.

“So I’m imprisoned here just for that?” Yegyeol asked mildly. “Had I stood still and let Eon Gongja’s attack hit me, I’d be too injured to compete—and yet, because I defended myself, I’m the one behind bars?”

“Well… you could’ve avoided it better, perhaps,” the jailer muttered lamely.

He couldn’t very well criticize the Alliance outright, so he placed the blame on the prisoner instead.

“If I were skilled enough to dodge the full assault of a noble family’s heir,” Yegyeol said dryly, “I wouldn’t be a mere promising junior—I’d be hailed as one of the top hundred masters under heaven.”

“Th–that’s not the point—!” the jailer stammered, face flushing red.

“Regardless,” he pressed on, “you’re not here just because of the brawl. There are accusations that you tried to harm Wudang’s disciple, Qingyong.”

“Ah.”

Yegyeol nodded as though something had just clicked into place.

“So, they came to arrest me, saw the commotion, and used it as a convenient excuse to drag me off. I see.”

His tone was dry, almost casual—without a hint of anger.

Sitting with perfect composure in that shabby chair, his clear face unshadowed, Yegyeol looked more like a scholar meditating than a man in custody.

The jailer clicked his tongue inwardly and locked the door tightly, though he knew it was pointless. Wooden bars couldn’t hold a martial artist of this caliber. Still, something about the young man unsettled him.

The light that filtered through the small window fell neatly across Yegyeol’s figure. He looked… dignified. Too dignified for a prisoner.

They said he had fought his way through the Dragon–Phoenix Assembly, rising swiftly through the rounds. Perhaps he had found some miraculous chance encounter that granted him strength.

But the world wasn’t kind to those without backing.

No clan, no sect, and far too much talent… no wonder the powerful want him gone.

He was an unaffiliated wanderer—unclaimed, unprotected. If he disappeared into the Martial Alliance’s shadows, no one would ever know. Who would risk opposing the Alliance to defend him?

The jailer pushed down the discomfort stirring in his chest and turned away.

Elsewhere, deep within the Martial Alliance’s inner chambers, two men sat across from one another.

One was an elder of the Alliance, overseeing the Dragon–Phoenix Assembly.

The other was Yong Hyeon-jin of the Wudang Sect.

“We intend to revoke Je Haryang’s qualification to participate in the Assembly,” said the elder plainly.

“It has been discovered that he advanced through improper means.”

“Improper means…?” Yong Hyeon-jin asked, feigning ignorance.

“Poison.”

The elder lowered his voice, making it sound all the more grave. He shook his head slowly.

“A pity for your disciple, Qingyong. But if it pleases you, we can arrange for the Moyong heir—who was to face Je Haryang next—to yield his spot. That way, your disciple can rejoin the main bracket by default.”

The old man’s lips curled into a faint smile.

“Wouldn’t it be right to return the place that should have been his?”

Yong Hyeon-jin murmured softly, “Amitabha.”

Despite the offer to restore his disciple’s honor, not a flicker of joy crossed his face.

“I thank you for your concern,” he said calmly, “but I must decline.”

His expression was heavy with fatigue.

“The world of the martial arts is rife with deceit and cruelty. Even if my disciple fell victim to trickery, it is true that he failed to adapt quickly enough. I can only hope this bitter lesson will forge him into a wiser man.”

“Ha… admirable words indeed,” the elder said, shaking his head.

He had hoped to exploit a weakness, but the man had sidestepped neatly. Still, he showed no disappointment—only the smooth courtesy of a seasoned schemer.

“They say your sword has already touched the heavens, Yong Hyeon-jin. But seeing you now, I would say your heart has reached even higher.”

On the surface, the room radiated warmth and respect.

Yong Hyeon-jin took a sip of tea before speaking again.

“Is it true that poison was found on this Je Haryang’s clothing?”

His tone was mild—merely a passing curiosity. The elder hesitated, just a fraction.

“Yes. It was found on the sleeve of his robe,” he said at last.

He shook his head gravely.

In truth, the poison had only been found on the outside of the sleeve—proof that it had come from someone else. But the elder had dismissed the investigators after receiving a certain request.

And a generous reward.

By helping clear Wudang’s name and forging a connection with its likely next sect leader, he was buying himself favor.

And besides—was it really lying, if everyone benefited?

“I thought as much,” murmured Yong Hyeon-jin.

He could never have defeated my disciple fairly.

“Do you have further thoughts on the matter?” the elder asked.

“No.”

Yong Hyeon-jin smoothed his expression and set down his cup.

“I shall take my leave.”

Better to swing his sword a few more times than to sit here listening to hollow flattery.

As he moved to the door, something on a nearby shelf caught his eye—a porcelain vase, the mark of the Jinju Eon Clan still visible on its base.

A flicker of disdain crossed his face.

So the Eon family’s son won’t be disqualified after all.

He said nothing and walked out. Normally, he would have called it out, perhaps even smashed the vase in disgust. But not today.

Some parents lose their way because of a foolish child.

And some teachers, like him, stray from the righteous path for the sake of a brilliant disciple.

He had no right to judge.

Just this once, he told himself.

If “Je Haryang” had never appeared—if that man had not defeated his disciple—he would not have made this choice.

So yes, there was shame. But there would be no regret. Even if time turned back, he would choose the same.

With that weight pressing on his chest, Yong Hyeon-jin stepped out into the sunlight.

He lowered his gaze.

The sky was too bright—far too bright for a man burdened with guilt to face head-on.