TSBIRBV Ch 132

Chapter 132 A Stolen Kiss (9)

On his left was Namgung Un, and on his right stood Samrang.

Even if a hundred assassins had come, they might have been manageable, but with these two blocking his sides, the situation was as troublesome as it could be.

If Namgung Un were to recognize the Thousand-Year Thunderhorn Python, it would spell disaster, so there was no way he could bring out Snakelet. Yet if he instinctively dodged too skillfully, it would invite suspicion—“What exactly is he?” people would wonder.

In the end, he had to control his reactions.

At last, the attackers seemed to have resolved to strike. Throwing knives came flying at their party.

Most were aimed at Yegyeol. Clearly the enemy knew who the weak point of the group was.

So as not to show off his excessively sharp eyesight and reflexes, Yegyeol widened his eyes and froze stiff like a man paralyzed by fear, clutching the gift for Haryang desperately in both hands.

“Ah…!”

A sound escaped his lips, not even fully a scream, as a supple, resilient cord hooked his waist and yanked him back.

He turned to see that it was Samrang.

Without a word of explanation, she pressed his head down. Above him, blades whistled through the air where his skull had been.

Snatching one of the flying knives midair, Samrang flicked a throwing blade from her sleeve.

The assassin dodged easily—it had been too large a motion to land—but that was precisely her intent. To the spot the assassin had slipped into, she flung the very cloth she had used to pull Yegyeol.

The assassin struggled, throat caught in the fabric. His legs dragged helplessly as Samrang gave a sharp tug, hauling him into the air. There was a crack, the sound of breaking bone, and his limbs went limp all at once.

Seeing brute force would not suffice, the assassins hidden on the rooftops leapt down in unison, charging her. But as though she could see through their movements as clearly as her own palms, Samrang pulled on a rope holding a canopy in place. Just as they passed beneath, the cloth came crashing down.

She did not miss the instant of confusion. Four throwing knives left her hand at once. The dingy white cloth slowly blooming red showed she had hit her marks.

“Hold it!”

While Samrang dispatched foes on her side using terrain to her advantage, Namgung Un thrust his sword at another who rushed from the opposite direction. Even when the assassins tried to create distance and throw more hidden weapons, he calmly parried and dodged until their supply was spent. Forced at last, they drew blades and charged into his reach.

With internal strength refined by years of training and the balanced style of a great clan’s heir, Namgung Un was a formidable warrior.

‘Having failed in their ambush, they’ll never defeat him in direct combat.’

Safe behind his protectors, Yegyeol coolly analyzed. If the worst came, he would have to act—but so far, there was still no need to unleash Snakelet.

‘Until Cheonghae Trading Group becomes one of the Three Great Trading Houses, Namgung Clan mustn’t discover Snakelet. They’d never keep it as a pet—they’d cut it open for the inner core. I wouldn’t stand by and let that happen, even if it meant getting sand in my eyes.’

“Die!”

At one assassin’s shout, Yegyeol turned his head. Another had slipped behind Namgung Un, striking from his back. Yet as though he had already sensed it, Namgung Un’s kick landed, sending the man flying with blood on his lips.

Even so, the assassin flung the crescent blade he still clutched. Samrang’s cloth coiled around it and yanked. The very weapon struck the brow of another assassin rushing her for vengeance.

Whatever that cloth was made of, infused with internal energy it became elastic as rubber, nearly impossible to cut.

‘The martial world really is full of strange tools.’

Feigning fear, Yegyeol glanced nervously about, still clutching the paperweight close to his chest.

By now, more than half the attackers lay dead on the ground. The rest had been whittled down in the melee.

One survivor gave a hand signal, and the others suddenly scattered, retreating like an ebbing tide. He must have been their leader.

Samrang did not falter. Without hesitation she hurled her blades after their retreating backs. Even as they fled at full speed, her knives pierced their chests. One by one they toppled, each with the left breast skewered.

Only one, who narrowly evaded, kept running even as his comrades fell.

‘She could have killed him too, I’m sure.’

Yegyeol glanced at Samrang, then feigned weakness as his legs buckled, staggering to lean against a wall.

Intending only to rest, he noticed blood splattered there. He covered his mouth, acting as though nauseated.

“Yegyeol, are you unharmed?”

“I—I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Thank you, Young Lord Namgung. You saved my life.”

Namgung Un’s sword gleamed white despite the many men it had felled, not a stain to be seen.

Once assured Yegyeol was safe, his gaze returned to the battlefield.

‘All dead.’

More precisely, ‘they’ve been killed.’

Though he had held back, the throats of some who should have lived were twisted grotesquely.

‘There goes any chance of questioning them.’

Confirming no survivors remained, Namgung Un sheathed his blade with a click. His eyes drifted, almost melting into Yegyeol’s shadow—toward Samrang.

She had slain them all.

He could not easily connect this to Yegyeol’s escort without proof; perhaps she was simply ruthless.

But ever since boarding the Jade Dragon Ship, Namgung Un’s instincts had sounded alarms about this woman. His training as heir to a great clan let him bury the suspicion without showing it.

“For now, we should return to the inn.”

“But… with people dead, shouldn’t we report it?”

“I will handle that.”

Namgung Un spoke as one accustomed to such aftermath.

“Still bold of them. This is Cheonghae—yet assassins dared target you, Young Lord.”

Though his guts had shrunk to nothing, Yegyeol bit his lip like a man in anger.

“The Namgung clan is vast, and its gatherings tied to many interests.”

Born into a family that shouldered vendettas from birth, Namgung Un seemed less shaken.

“But something is odd…”

He trailed off, then stooped to inspect a corpse’s hand.

“Their weapons. Unfamiliar shapes—not what’s used in the Central Plains. Their techniques too were unusual.”

The chained crescent blades, the serrated throwing knives—none were what he usually encountered.

“Then… will this complicate things?”

Complicated didn’t begin to cover it. It might even mean Yegyeol, not Namgung Un, had been the true target.

“It’s nothing. I only spoke as a martial artist interested in unusual arms. Likely, since I’ve lingered in Cheonghae, they drew on assassins based in the desert.”

Namgung Un concealed his suspicions under Yegyeol’s worried gaze. For someone commanding a house as vast as the Trading Group, being targeted was hardly strange.

While he convinced himself thus, Yegyeol’s eyes swept over him.

“Ah! You’re hurt!”

“Ah.”

Namgung Un glanced indifferently at his arm. A blade meant for Yegyeol had grazed him when he struck it aside.

A minor wound, but Yegyeol’s expression hardened.

“You’re injured.”

“It will heal quickly.”

“No.” Yegyeol’s tone was firm.

“It could be poisoned. We must have a physician check. Samrang, where’s the nearest clinic?”

Guiding was the Guide’s duty; but healing belonged to doctors. If his Guide was hurt while he pretended to be weak and he did nothing, he was no Esper.

“There is one nearby… but are you truly going to seek a doctor for this?” Samrang asked dryly. A martial artist’s recovery was legendary; such a scratch healed in no time. But on this point Yegyeol would not yield.

‘Such is the way of martial artists.’

What if it wasn’t poison, but tetanus?

The saying went: if the body is strong, the mind has no worries. Clearly, that referred to warriors who lived by the sword.

Yegyeol shut his eyes tight, then opened them. Under the weight of his unwavering stare, Samrang finally spoke.

“…Very well. I’ll guide you.”

“Yegyeol, truly, I’m fine.”

Namgung Un tried once more, but Yegyeol, lips pressed, would not hear of it. In the end, he had no choice but to follow.

Something about the younger man’s silent back stirred a strange feeling in him.

He discreetly circulated his energy—yet felt none of the telltale signs of poison. It was only a shallow wound, easily dismissed as a scratch. To insist on a doctor for this felt utterly foreign.

Raised as heir of the Namgung clan, he had been told to always stand tall. He could not speak of pain, could not show fatigue—his shoulders bore the family and all its retainers.

But here was someone shaken to his core by a mere scratch. It was… unfamiliar.

And so, following as if spellbound, Namgung Un soon found himself at a clinic.

“For now, I’ll send word to the Trading Group,” Samrang said.

“Of course.”

Yegyeol nodded. With the Namgung heir embroiled in an assassination attempt, word would not stay hidden long.

With his leave, Samrang glanced once at Namgung Un, then slipped outside.

“Please wait here. I’ll fetch the physician.”

Striding inside without hesitation, Yegyeol soon returned with a bearded doctor. His keen eyes made finding someone easy enough.

“Oh my heavens!”

“There’s a patient.”

The doctor, who had been preparing herbs, rose at once and followed him out.

“This young lord, is he the one?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, with such a wound, a little golden sore medicine will suffice.”

“But it’s his sword arm, is it not? What if it festers—would that not be serious?”

Yegyeol fixed the physician with a steady gaze.

Intending only to apply a simple salve, the man gave in under Yegyeol’s pressure and bound Namgung Un’s arm properly.

“How is he, doctor?”

“With such a robust constitution, he’ll recover quickly.”

Even calling him “patient” seemed awkward, his voice reluctant.

“Thank goodness.”

Yegyeol finally let out a breath of relief.

He had seen senior Espers treat their Guides as though they were made of glass—fragile enough to shatter at a touch—and realized now that he had absorbed the same habit.

At that moment, the door burst open.

“Yegyeol.”