TSBIRBV Ch 283

Chapter 283. Cause and Effect (9)

 

“Samrang, hi.”

Yegyeol waved his hand cheerfully, his expression bright with familiarity.

“Are you here to bring me a meal?”

He spoke as if greeting someone he had met only yesterday. Even though the last time Yegyeol had truly faced Samrang had been on the day he left the Ten Thousand Great Mountains, his tone held not a hint of distance.

“Hardly.”

Samrang trudged over and sat down heavily before him. Watching a demonic sect member walk openly into the heart of the Martial Alliance’s stronghold with her bare face—it was enough to leave one feeling oddly unsettled.

Samrang regarded him through the bars, her gaze tinged with disbelief.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I did expect that, the next time I saw you, you’d be locked up somewhere… but not here of all places.”

Her tone was layered with dry irony.

Yegyeol chuckled softly.

“Things just turned out that the Martial Alliance got the first move.”

“Well, I suppose that means your grand escape plan, the one you presented to our lord, has gone up in smoke.”

“Pretty much. I was supposed to win the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament and make a triumphant return.”

With a long sigh, Yegyeol looked for all the world like a wayward son lamenting his failed homecoming. Even knowing he was half-joking, it was hard not to be drawn in by how natural he sounded.

“Have you thought about going back, even now?”

Samrang asked the question gently, as though she were the envoy sent ahead to persuade him on Haryang’s behalf.

“Is my senior brother here?”

Yegyeol asked in a suddenly earnest tone.

“Let’s just say… he’s very close by.”

Indeed, close was one way to put it. The Black Ghost was within arm’s reach, if one wished to fall forward far enough.

“I miss him.”

Yegyeol murmured the words to himself, fingers twitching restlessly. They had shared a night together just before his capture, and yet he already found himself aching with longing. He had thought the years of separation had taught him endurance, but it seemed he had overestimated himself.

After all, when one tries to quench a fierce thirst with nothing more than a sip against the lips, how could that ever be enough?

“How are things outside?”

“Do you truly wish to know?”

Yegyeol lifted a shoulder lazily.

“I should at least know how I’ll be treated, don’t you think? I need to plan my next move.”

Samrang folded her arms and leaned against the pillar, eyes drifting thoughtfully. Not that she was dizzy—just cautious. The mere thought of what was unfolding outside was enough to make her head spin.

“It’s chaos.”

“Chaos?”

Intrigued, Yegyeol leaned forward, his eyes glinting with interest.

“What happened?”

“Where should I even begin…”

Blowing a loose strand of hair from her face, Samrang began to speak.

“Perhaps with this—Young Master Namgung has returned, accompanied by the former Grand Elder of the Beggar’s Union.”

Upon hearing the report from the Sky-Gazing Swift Unit, Namgung Un’s expression hardened.

“So… the Martial Alliance has detained Mun—no, my Young Master—because they suspect he may have used poison. Isn’t it customary to complete an investigation before imprisoning someone?”

“Well… from what I’ve been told, the man called Je Haryang had several disputes with other contestants and seemed to have a rather volatile temperament. So, they took preemptive measures.”

Namgung Un’s voice grew cold, sharp as drawn steel.

“And what of Eon Chaegwol?”

He did not even call him “Young Master.” The faint edge of anger in the normally gentle heir’s tone made his subordinate bow his head.

“He is currently confined to his family’s estate here in Wuhuan for reflection.”

“…Reflection?”

Namgung Un rolled the word over his tongue slowly.

The first thing that came to mind was a man’s voice.

“Yes… this is what the martial world truly is.”

That faint, sorrow-tinged murmur had carried no contempt, no rage—just a simple statement of fact.

A surge of shame welled up within him.

The martial world was filled with all kinds of people. Ask any passerby to name an evildoer, and they could recite an endless list.

But if one were to choose just one—truly one person without dissent—it would be none other than the Lord of the Heavenly Demon Sect, ruler of ten thousand devils: the Heavenly Demon Je Haryang.

Regardless of how he looked, what kind of man he was, or how he had lived—simply by existing in that position, he was the Great Devil, the unparalleled villain of the age.

Yet how many knew that the Heavenly Demon had once been born of the orthodox martial world?

How many knew that the Nine Great Sects had abandoned him—left him to suffer alone?

Learning of Je Haryang’s past from the old beggar, Namgung Un had come to understand what it meant for shame to carve its way into one’s soul.

He closed his eyes, recalling what the old man had said.

“Twenty years ago, when the demonic sects rose to power—do you know why that incident never became another Great War between the Orthodox and the Demonic?”

Namgung Un had shaken his head.

“Because Je Haryang, who had been captured by the cult, risked his life to escape and warn me of their scheme.”

The moment he heard those words, Namgung Un had felt as though he’d been struck across the face.

Never—not once—had he imagined that the Heavenly Demon carried such a past.

Good and evil, he’d always believed, were clearly distinct.

As day divides night, as black opposes white—so too must good stand apart from evil. That was the truth he had never thought to question.

Not because he was naïve, nor because he was a pampered heir. In fact, he was one who understood the darker side of the world all too well.

The head of the Namgung Clan had raised his son harshly.

Learning the clan’s swordsmanship was a given; by the time he’d reached double digits in age, he was already thrust into real combat.

He’d fought vagabonds who wielded weapons as large as himself, sparred with demonic cultivators, thieves, and killers. He had seen those men dye silk with the blood of the helpless, laughing as they flaunted the spoils. Their wealth and power stank of corruption.

So Namgung Un had never doubted the path of righteousness.

He had purged evil, treating the eradication of demonic ways as his duty.

His fame as a young hero spread swiftly from Anhui across the land, long before he’d even won the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament. Within the territories of the Nine Great Sects and the Five Noble Houses, there was hardly a soul who did not know the name Namgung Un.

The honor earned through justice had filled him with pride.

“And yet… the Orthodox world never saved Je Haryang.”

One early dawn, drenched in cold sweat from a nightmare, Namgung Un recalled the dream clearly.

He had dreamt of the Heavenly Demon in black robes, taking Yegyeol away. But then, those robes began to shift, embroidered with drifting clouds of blue—robes of the Kunlun Sect.

The demonic figure vanished, replaced by a graceful man who held his disciple tenderly and turned to gaze at Namgung Un.

When he’d faced the killing intent of the Heavenly Demon in reality, Namgung Un had felt death approach. But that silent gaze in the dream, heavy and wordless, frightened him more than death itself.

“…Understood. You may go.”

After dismissing the Swift Unit, Namgung Un rose unsteadily, as if sleepwalking, and stepped out into the inn’s rear courtyard, where a temporary training ground had been set up.

Much time had passed since the day’s events. The night was now deep and still, the open space around him silent as death.

Standing alone at its center, Namgung Un raised the sword he had not touched in days.

He swung it to drive away the thoughts, the turmoil seething in his head.

“Ahhh…!”

Unable to voice what churned inside, his cry burst forth as a shout.

The blade whirled wildly, his once-steady Emperor’s Sword Form collapsing into chaos. The sword that had once pierced through evil without hesitation now seemed incapable of killing even an insect.

“Ah!”

His father had always worried over his son’s obstinacy.

He had warned him, time and again, never to trust a man merely because he was of the righteous sects, never to judge a situation at face value. To always look beyond what appeared true.

Until now, Namgung Un had believed he had done well enough. Or at least, that was what he told himself.

Perhaps his fame—the renown of “Thunder Dragon of the Sword”—had simply made him proud. Perhaps he had come to believe his own judgment was justice itself.

But no matter how pure one’s intentions, a trembling sword cannot strike true.

Nor should it.

A blade that does not see clearly or cut rightly will always return to its master.

To be ruled by the sword is, in the end, to be devoured by it.

Namgung Un had seen more than a few martial artists go mad that way.

“Will I too be consumed by my own sword?”

The hypocrisy of the martial world, learned so suddenly and cruelly, had shaken him to his core.

Whenever his hands stilled, the roiling inside only grew stronger—thoughts and emotions tangled, clawing at his heart.

He had lived his life as a hero—slaying villains, saving lives, believing that was what he was meant to do.

But now he realized: he had lived an easy life because he could.

He had never known fear. Never once risked his life in battle.

He had never feared an opponent’s strength—born a prodigy of the Namgung Clan, fed with rare herbs and trained in supreme martial arts since birth.

He had never feared an enemy’s backing—protected always by the clan’s power and retainers.

He had never worried over the cost of his righteous journeys—the Namgung Clan’s riches overflowed beyond measure.

If he had not been the Namgung heir, would he still have rushed to confront injustice?

Then what is it that I truly possess? Is it the heart of a hero at all?

He asked himself again and again.

If I had lived Je Haryang’s life—suffered his fate—would I still be a righteous man?

The blade that had always been known for its pure, unwavering arc—so straight and true it was called the Sword of Clarity—began to tremble.

A red, murderous light flared at the tip, devouring the cool blue aura that surrounded it.

His breathing turned ragged, wild like a beast racing down a mountainside. The internal energy he had always controlled with such discipline now surged unchecked.

For the first time, he felt something like freedom—though it was the illusion of it. The sword was no longer his to wield; it was wielding him.

He wanted to surrender—to let it all out, everything within him.

“Stop!”

The shout, laced with deep internal energy, rang through the night, and Namgung Un froze mid-swing.

Cold sweat beaded his brow. His face was twisted in strain as he slowly steadied his breath and turned his gaze toward the shadows.

From the darkness emerged a middle-aged man, walking unhurriedly forward. His sideburns were touched with white, but his hair was dark as midnight.

“Since when has the Namgung sword become a butcher’s blade?”