TSBIRBV Ch 316

Chapter 316. The Bird Leaves Its Nest (8)

After a tide of ecstasy swept through the pavilion, Haryang sat down on the long stone bench that lined its wall, drawing Yegyeol into his arms.

Perhaps he felt guilty for having taken him atop the cold stone table, for once it was over, he laid Yegyeol across his own body instead.

Their limbs were tangled loosely, as though they might slip apart at any moment, but Haryang’s hand remained firm on Yegyeol’s waist, holding him steady.

Their discarded clothes lay scattered haphazardly across the floor.

It was still early morning; they would soon have to return to the inn. And yet, that fact felt impossibly distant, irrelevant.

“I don’t have anything left to wear when we go back,” Yegyeol murmured, his cheek pressed against Haryang’s chest.

To be honest, Haryang’s chest was far harder than the stone table had been, yet Yegyeol had no intention of moving. He loved these quiet moments, lying atop him after they’d spent themselves—loved feeling the steady beat of a heart just beneath his skin.

He glanced at the scattered garments. There was no saving them; they were beyond presentable.

And besides…

Amid the disheveled mess, half-folded and face-down, lay the human-skin mask—its inside exposed.

Yegyeol bit his lip.

He wanted to confess that he had already known the Black Ghost’s true identity.

If I pretend I only learned it because he told me, that’s deceit upon deceit.

He had ended his physical relationship with the Black Ghost—or so he’d told himself. Thanks to that, Haryang could go on pretending not to know that Yegyeol’s first man had been… himself.

Their shared lie had stayed buried.

But then Haryang—trying to comfort Yegyeol as he cried—had revealed, without a flicker of hesitation, that he was the Black Ghost.

That single choice had shattered him.

It wasn’t guilt that stirred inside him—it was something stranger. He simply wanted to give back the fullness he had felt in that moment, to return it in kind.

But if I tell him I already knew, then I have to admit I’ve been deceiving him all along.

The lie he told to survive was now the snare around his ankle.

Admitting he’d known would mean explaining why—and that would require bringing up the existence of a guide.

Since arriving in the Central Plains, he’d wrestled with the question: should he tell Haryang about guides? Could he?

What if Haryang mistook guiding for some kind of dual cultivation technique—like absorbing essence through intercourse or one of those dark arts that drain spiritual energy?

Worse—what if he came to see Yegyeol as some sort of spirit-beast feeding on human life?

And yet, despite Yegyeol’s silence, Haryang had never once pressed him about it.

That couldn’t be mere coincidence.

He himself had never mentioned the Black Ghost again—not a single word.

Days of tenderness followed, sweet enough to melt the heart.

Maybe if I just keep pretending, we can go on like this forever—watered-down, but peaceful.

It was a cowardly thought, shameless even, but it rose within him all the same.

He could do it. He knew he could. And Haryang—kind, forgiving Haryang—would let him.

But—

No. I have to decide for myself now.

He folded the turmoil inside him neatly, like a letter he’d return to later.

He couldn’t say he was ready to bare it all yet. But he no longer feared that a confession would make Haryang cast him away.

Not now.

Not anymore.

Someday soon, he thought. I’ll leap from this cliff myself.

Just… not yet. I’m still afraid.

For an esper who feared nothing, he became the greatest coward whenever Haryang was involved.

He supposed that was only fair—he had once felt joy at deceiving him, thinking that meant he could possess him completely. Yet now, holding him close, he feared more than anything the moment his lies would be exposed.

That, surely, was karma.

As if sensing the storm within him, Haryang tugged Yegyeol closer.

“It tickles,” he murmured.

His lips brushed the inside of Yegyeol’s arm.

“Your gaze tickles.”

“…I was just admiring whose body this might be.”

Haryang chuckled lowly, the sound rumbling through his chest.

“And if I said it belonged to the champion of the Dragon-Phoenix Assembly, what would you do?”

“Hmm. I’d say that champion happens to be me.”

“Oh dear, I failed to recognize my master, then.”

Feigning solemnity, Haryang pressed soft kisses along Yegyeol’s hand—from fingertip to knuckle, then to the back of his hand, and up along his arm. By the time his lips brushed his elbow, Yegyeol could see the faint gleam of his tongue behind a smile.

Even after all the nights they’d shared, every kiss still made his heart race.

He waited, hungry and unashamed, to see what Haryang would do next—always greedy, always reaching for more, never thinking to give back first.

Even the gentlest kiss from him bloomed with such thick, fragrant affection that Yegyeol’s chest ached with its weight.

Surely, he thought, there must be a demon nesting in my heart.

“If I ask for something, will you give it to me?”

His voice trembled faintly—it sounded more like an accusation than a question. He hesitated, but Haryang only smiled, bright and unguarded, taking Yegyeol’s hand and pressing it to his own face.

“If there’s still anything left for you to take,” he said softly, “then have it—all of it. Whatever you wish.”

Then he closed his eyes.

The midday sun poured over the green garden beyond the pavilion, gilding the black strands of his hair as they swayed in the breeze.

There was not a trace of regret or hesitation in that calm, serene smile.

His inhuman devotion was enough to humble even a man as greedy as Yegyeol.

Yegyeol bit his lip.

Maybe… maybe it’s all right to be brave, just once.

His heart pounded hard enough that surely Haryang could feel it.

Feigning composure, he smiled lightly and began, “Do you remember what I said about not being born in this world?”

“Of course.”

That he would listen to such nonsense so earnestly—Yegyeol felt oddly grateful.

“I once read a story,” he began, voice soft, almost hesitant. “It’s called The Sleeping Princess—or maybe it was The Sleeping Empress. The Emperor had a beautiful daughter, but at her birthday feast, a wicked demon—no, a madhu, a demonic cultivator—cursed her.”

“Cursed her?” Haryang repeated, brow furrowing.

It made sense—he was from a world where curses were just another form of cultivation.

“Mhm. She was a disciple cast out from Mount Mosan Sect,” Yegyeol said solemnly.

“Ah, I see.”

“Anyway, because of the curse, the princess fell into a deep sleep. A very long one.”

He left out the details. They weren’t important. Only the ending mattered.

“She never woke again?”

“Not once. She slept forever.”

Forever, Haryang thought, and something about it reminded him of death.

“But then,” Yegyeol continued, “a prince from a neighboring kingdom came to see her. He fell in love with her at first sight.”

“Even though she couldn’t wake?”

“Yes. But before he left, he kissed her.”

Yegyeol’s fingers traced along Haryang’s lips. He felt them part faintly, brushing against his fingertips.

“And with that kiss,” Yegyeol whispered, “the princess finally woke.”

“Ah. So the curse was broken through contact,” Haryang mused.

Yegyeol clapped softly, delighted. “Exactly! The prince’s love broke her curse.”

“The curse sounds rather flimsy.”

“But isn’t that nice?”

Haryang nodded. “It is.”

“She didn’t panic when she saw him?”

“No. Before she’d fallen asleep, she’d been told that someone who truly loved her would one day wake her from her eternal dream.”

“That’s fortunate.”

“And then they lived happily ever after.”

Yegyeol shrugged, ending it simply. It wasn’t the most graceful telling, but it would do.

Haryang would understand—he always did.

Maybe now it was just a strange little story, but someday, if the time came, Haryang would remember the sleeping princess and her prince.

Though, I hope that day never comes.

“Lived happily ever after…” Haryang murmured. “A good story.”

His voice vibrated through Yegyeol’s body, deep and steady beneath his ear.

“Yes,” Yegyeol whispered. “That’s why I liked it.”

Then, holding him tighter, he murmured, “If—just if—”

He faltered. His lips trembled; so did the rest of him.

Then a warm, gentle hand began to stroke his back, and his breath slowly steadied.

“If I should close my eyes someday,” he whispered, “before I can keep our promise…”

The faintest crease appeared between Haryang’s brows.

“Then… kiss me. Like the prince did.”

Even as he said it was only an if, Yegyeol’s mouth had gone dry.

This was still the conservative Central Plains. Superstition ran deep here—people still prayed for rain and offered sacrifices to stop floods.

If Haryang ever saw him revived by a kiss, what would he think?

Would he call it magic? Or worse—demonic art?

Would he see him as a ghost that fed on life?

After all, he had already returned from death once.

The misunderstanding would be all too easy.

Haryang’s lips pressed into a thin line. The silence stretched.

The more Yegyeol imagined the tangle of thoughts in his head, the smaller and more foolish his story about the princess seemed.

“Hm.”

“What is it?” Yegyeol asked quickly when Haryang sighed.

“This is troublesome,” he said lightly. “I’m not a prince.”

The tone was calm, almost amused.

That, at least, was not the worst reaction.

Yegyeol lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Heroes count, too. Like righteous warriors.”

Haryang smiled faintly. He didn’t see himself as a hero.

“That makes it even harder.”

“Why?”

“I’m no longer a righteous man,” he said simply.

At those words, Yegyeol’s chest went cold.

The ease in Haryang’s tone—the simple acceptance—made his stomach churn.

He reached out, grasping his face, and kissed him.

It wasn’t a heated, hungry kiss—just slow, and deep, and lingering, as if to memorize the feeling.

When he finally pulled back, Yegyeol whispered firmly, “You are to me.”

Haryang said nothing, only looked at him.

Each time those eyes met his, Yegyeol wondered—how could someone still see him so clearly, even after all he’d done?

And for Haryang, that unshaken gaze was comfort beyond anything he’d ever hoped for.

“…If you say so,” he said softly, smiling.

“I’ll promise to wake you, then.”

For a fleeting moment, his mind returned to that night—the night Baekyang Jin-in died. He remembered how the wound on Yegyeol’s cheek had closed the instant he’d touched it.

Could it be… because of that?

But before he could dwell on it, Yegyeol was looking at him again, eyes bright and expectant.

“With a pinky swear?”

He barely had time to reply before Yegyeol was already hooking their fingers together, his face shamelessly mischievous.

Haryang laughed.

“All right. I promise.”

At that, Yegyeol’s face lit up like the whole world had been given to him.