TSBIRBV Ch 122

Chapter 122 More Than a Drama (10)

Though not drunk on wine itself, Yegyeol felt as though he might drown in the fragrance that saturated the air around him.

Like a skiff tossed upon swelling waves, his body swayed without end. Each time Haryang’s hands gripped his hips tightly and drove upward, Yegyeol’s sensitized inner walls screamed.

He had climaxed more times than he could count, yet Haryang had only released within him once or twice. His chest, bitten and sucked without pause, ached so much that even the faintest brush of air as his partner moved stung sharply.

“Ahhhk—hnnh!”

At last, Haryang’s sex spilled its seed deep inside his body. As the hard shaft slowly withdrew, the thick fluids seeped out to follow.

“Hhhahh… hhahh…”

Yegyeol, who had clung with his legs wrapped around Haryang’s waist, collapsed backward.

Pleasure had swept through him and left him limp, limbs sprawled, panting in shallow, wheezing breaths. A newborn fawn, he thought, might move its legs more steadily than he did now.

Haryang drew him close and laid him atop his own body, unwilling to let him rest on the cold surface of the table. Even so, unsatisfied, a firm hand pressed his nipple, coaxing out another sharp reaction. The lingering touch was too practiced to be called afterplay; Yegyeol’s body shivered, betraying its raw sensitivity.

“Please… no more…”

His voice was already hoarse.

With reluctant grace, the hand withdrew from his chest, only to trace lightly across his skin. The ticklish glide made his body twitch, but at least it was bearable.

As he debated whether to let his eyes close for even a moment, the Black Ghost murmured slyly:

“The Black Market has received a night pearl so large that they call it a dragon’s pearl.”

“…A night pearl?”

“Place it in a pond and it shines as though you’ve set a star in the water. Splash it, and it puts on quite a show.”

A pearl that size would be priceless. Night pearls were the diamonds of the martial world.

When Yegyeol showed no interest, the Black Ghost shifted to another topic.

“There is also a sword said to have been wielded by the Greatest Under Heaven, a hundred and fifty years ago.”

Any martial man would prick his ears at that. A weapon exalted simply because it had once been held by such hands was enough to spark bloodshed across the rivers and lakes.

But Yegyeol preferred resting against Haryang’s chest.

“If treasures and weapons do not tempt you, what about a poem? Written by a hand famed for its calligraphy?”

“Such things rarely come to market, don’t they?”

“It belonged to a literatus of Luoyang. Accused of treason, he fled and in his desperation sold it. Fortunately, the Black Market secured it in full.”

Believing Yegyeol interested, the Black Ghost explained at length.

“I’d think buyers would line up.”

“In exchange, we arranged his escape route to Annam.¹ It was profitable enough.”

Trading a road for a poem—typical of the Black Market, supplying what the client desired while demanding its own price.

“If something catches your eye, I can gift it to you.”

If he tired of it, he could always sell to collectors again, the Black Ghost whispered.

“…No, thank you.”

Yegyeol shook his head.

What drew him most was not the pearls, the blades, nor the calligraphy, but the Black Market itself.

In his past life, he had heard only ghost stories of such places. Tales of secret shops trading in lives and flesh somewhere in the martial world.

Yet Haryang’s Black Market, though it had its illegalities, did not seem to deal in atrocities.

Had Senior Brother built it from nothing, or reshaped something that already existed? Beyond the Cheonghae Trading Group and the Black Market, what else had Je Haryang touched, what else had he done?

Since his accident and crossing into the martial world, much time had passed, yet Yegyeol still did not know what had transpired between Haryang and the Kunlun Sect.

In short, he wanted to trace every step of Haryang’s life during his absence.

That way, I wouldn’t be thrown into confusion again, like with Hwangbo Yulhui.

“You are remarkably lacking in greed.”

“…That hardly sounds like something you should say, Black Ghost.”

His reply was almost petulant.

“You mean to say, I have no greed?”

The hand that had been toying with his hair stilled.

“You always speak of transactions, threatening to take something… and then fret when you have nothing to give.”

In that, Senior Brother and the Black Ghost were exactly alike.

Even if Je Haryang had not been his guide, Yegyeol was certain he would have seen through their shared identity before long.

“You shouldn’t be in business at all, Black Ghost.”

His drowsy voice carried a small laugh.

“Live like that, and three generations of your family will starve.”

With his sight still veiled, darkness pressed in, and sleep tugged at him. He yawned softly, curled within the Black Ghost’s embrace, and drifted off.

Asleep?

Listening to the steady breaths, Haryang brushed back Yegyeol’s damp hair.

Bending down, he touched his lips to the wine-soaked ends. Sweetness lingered on his tongue.

He had no intention of defiling someone unconscious… yet a chilling certainty crept in. One day, he might not stop, even if Yegyeol fainted.

Perhaps I won’t be able to resist.

Every time he pressed into that fragile body, guilt thinned into desire.

He feared Yegyeol might break—yet could not cease.

And when his teeth marked that tender flesh, Haryang understood: someday he would devour his disciple completely.

The mask of the Black Ghost had freed him in countless ways.

I meant to protect you…

But in truth, he knew: however he touched Yegyeol, he brought him harm.

Even back when he had never imagined himself enslaved by lust, the knowledge had been there.

His hand brushed his disciple’s chest, gentle. Yegyeol murmured faintly, not yet deep in sleep.

“Rest now… I won’t touch you more. Sleep well.”

A few light pats along his back, and Yegyeol’s breath settled again.

I never meant to push him this far.

In truth, Haryang had never thought of finding joy in the joining of bodies.

Long ago, as a prisoner of the Demon Sect, he had been forced to train in using sex as a weapon.

It was part of spycraft, passed around like an unwanted burden. He had learned rhetoric, stealth, hidden weapons, poison, seduction—and lust.

The lecher in charge had wanted to humiliate him. To break a Kunlun Daoist would be a triumph to boast of.

Even under strict command, unable to resist outwardly, that man used every method he could. Ordering Haryang to describe obscene pictures, to fetch tools and explain their use, to watch him couple with his concubines.

He was desperate to see Haryang’s composure crack. But Haryang had endured worse. This was only unfamiliar.

Frustrated, the man fed him aphrodisiac. As his veins burned, Haryang cut his own flesh to stay awake, then strangled the man with his own whip.

Killing left him cold. The sight of the man’s body, pants wet, arousal standing, disgusted him only because it was grotesque.

The sect master had raged—his prized tool nearly ruined—yet forced an antidote down his throat.

That day, Haryang’s loathing of the lecher grew into hatred of carnal pleasure itself.

He had never cared for reproduction, born an illegitimate child himself. Entering Kunlun, forbidden to sire heirs, had even felt like relief.

How absurd.

He tapped his sleeping disciple’s nose. Still faintly flushed, as if touched by falling petals.

But he understood Yegyeol’s fear.

Just as he feared it, Yegyeol too believed he might have someone else. Afraid to be left alone.

Because Haryang had once left him behind in Hangzhou, the boy’s fear had grown. Pitiful, to think of him folding his wings just to stay close. And yet comforting, to know he stayed for him.

But I can’t let you be lonely.

He thought of an old bond, now cut. Fate, perhaps, had led Yegyeol to find that fragile thread.

So he would reassure him. Enough that he would never turn his head that way again. Enough that he would never grieve a loneliness that wasn’t real.

So that every thought, every feeling, every waking moment would be his alone.

¹ Annam (安南) — the historical name used in China for northern Vietnam.