TSBIRBV Ch 147

Chapter 147 The Oldest (9)

Haryang thought of his master, Baekun Zhenren.

When none came to save him, the disciple who had become the Heavenly Demon and walked out of Ten Thousand Mountains by his own strength—his master had at last expelled him.

It had not been only Haryang he carried upon his shoulders, and so it had been inevitable.

Haryang had always come last. Huangbo Clan’s head had chosen his mother, his mother had chosen her dead husband, the nursemaid had chosen the Huangbo Clan, his sister had chosen their mother.

Wanting to be a child who caused no trouble, who needed no hand but his own, the boy had forced himself to grow grave and upright. That boy had become the man who, desperate not to be cast aside, would ruthlessly break his cherished one and plant him in his back garden.

But.

Something held Haryang back. It was not some long-worn conscience, not some vestige of kindness.

It was this fractured jade paperweight, and Yegyeol, who still smiled at him so brightly despite facing mortal peril. That was what shook Haryang.

“So then… you went to Seonyeong every day, just to buy a gift?”

Feigning concern, Haryang asked, and Yegyeol waved it off.

“No, I went for work. Work.”

Work, he said.

At that, Haryang’s lips curved faintly.

“If Young Lord Namgung hears that, he’ll be disappointed.”

“…I only borrowed his eye a little, since I didn’t know what Senior Brother might like. I’m not a martial man, I can’t judge fine things.”

The excuses Yegyeol tumbled out in a rush were sweet to hear.

“But the one who knows me best is you, Yegyeol.”

He alone.

Haryang knew well he had no room to open himself to anyone else.

“Or was it perhaps that man who chose this?”

“…No. Young Lord Namgung only introduced the shop.”

“That pleases me.”

It was not difficult to whisper the words Yegyeol wished to hear.

“Because you chose it yourself, it pleases me all the more.”

For whenever Haryang said what he wished, his disciple rejoiced.

“I really struggled to find a gift you’d like.”

Listening to Yegyeol’s playful grumbles, Haryang laughed again and again.

Probing so bluntly whether Namgung Un mattered more to him—it was indeed crude. But learning that Yegyeol had gone to him early in the morning not for his company, but to reclaim the gift, was profit enough.

“…But your health is not good. No wine for you.”

“But…”

“No.”

Seizing the wine on the excuse of health, Haryang realized what a foolish act he had committed.

For the moment he abandoned his plan to force Yegyeol back to Ten Thousand Mountains, he knew he could never again enforce it.

Can I let this go?

He weighed it coldly.

The disciple’s smiling face, his arms eager to embrace him, the chatter of his trifling stories, the gaze of admiration fixed upon him—

This was a fragile happiness.

Like glass worked thin, to be shattered at the slightest rough touch. Until then, he wanted only to cherish it.

He knew well how paltry and selfish that was. Had he not decided to go on deceiving his disciple simply because he lacked the courage to be hated?

Sooner or later…

That smile upon Yegyeol’s face would turn to tearful terror, that joy to misery. His reverence would, to the very last shred, sour into loathing.

All the more reason Haryang wished to clutch this reprieve.

Even if it meant exploiting his disciple’s faith.

Alas, he was no longer a good man.

“When is your birthday, Yegyeol?”

In the guise of a tender Senior Brother who meant to linger a little longer, Haryang asked, and learned Yegyeol had been born in the seventh month.

Trying to evade, his disciple at last yielded the date only after Haryang had threatened to lavish him with gifts all season. And again, Haryang felt that dissonance he had always sensed.

At Kunlun, Yegyeol had never spoken of his birthday. Perhaps it had been only because there was no one to lean on, and so he had swallowed it alone.

But how had a child who claimed never to have known his parents’ faces learned the date of his birth?

So many secrets.

Haryang tapped his disciple’s cheek. By now, such touches scarcely startled him.

Though he had not had a drop to drink, Yegyeol laughed loosely as if intoxicated by the mood.

As Haryang walked him back to his quarters—not far at all—he brushed his neck. Yegyeol could have pushed away the hand that circled his throat, but instead he covered it with his own and murmured that it was warm.

No hair standing on end, no gooseflesh rising—his disciple’s face was utterly at ease.

Yet Haryang knew he had strangled Yegyeol. Not merely a suspicion, but proof as well. And still, when he looked upon that expression, he almost believed nothing had happened.

He was about to turn away when Yegyeol caught his sleeve.

“…Thank you for being born.”

At those words, Haryang forgot to breathe. Dazed, he pulled Yegyeol into his arms.

Some heavy emotion stirred sluggishly at his heart. The one certainty was that it was not simple joy or happiness.

I am afraid.

He tightened his embrace.

Afraid of the warmth he must one day lose.

He had managed to live so long in ignorance, yet in his anguish had searched ceaselessly for this child every day.

And now he knew. Could no longer feign ignorance.

“Sleep well.”

He strode down the long corridor, never once glancing back though no one pursued him.

Only when he stepped outside did he need to steady his ragged breath.

It was not from unleashing his full lightness skill, nor from battling a mortal foe for days on end. That walking out alone could leave his breath so broken was wholly a matter of the heart.

At last he turned back to gaze at Yegyeol’s quarters, veiled in darkness.

Until today, he had fretted endlessly that his disciple might flee.

Yet now it was he who was running.

If I am to bind you, I must change my method.

Haryang summoned Jinyoung.

“There is something I would have you do.”

At the incomprehensible order, confusion flickered across his subordinate’s face.

“How could I ever hope to fathom the full reach of my lord’s designs?”

As ever, the loyal retainer bowed his head.

“I will obey.”

“Summon Samrang and Hongye as well.”

All three had been given the same order: to hover about Yegyeol.

And of them, Yegyeol had chosen Jinyoung.

In the drowsy afternoon sun, Haryang lifted his head to the presence he had already sensed.

Jinyoung entered, arms full of bamboo slips, and dumped them before him.

They were not the usual petitions and reports, but wholly blank slips.

“I only just slipped away. Your disciple is truly relentless.”

These past days, Jinyoung had been pursued by Yegyeol. It was not that he had no way to shake him off, but he had allowed it, with a purpose in mind.

“It is a matter that cannot be yielded.”

Haryang idly gathered up the slips. Each time he set them straight, the clack of bamboo meeting bamboo rang sharp and clear.

“This should be enough to have left him anxious.”

Jinyoung lowered his gaze.

“Today, tell Yegyeol that I learned demonic arts. And of their side effects.”

“Are you certain?”

One last time, Jinyoung asked.

“Lord Mun’s character may be unorthodox, but in the end he belongs to the orthodox path.”

“And so did I.”

“…Forgive me.”

Jinyoung withdrew.

Left alone, Haryang slowly traced the air before him. If he sat here, then Yegyeol’s neck would be about this height.

He spread his hands like wings, as if to cradle empty space. Without any measuring, he knew how slender it was—because though he had no memory, the feeling of strangling his disciple lingered in his palms.

He had gripped Yegyeol’s throat.

Though Yegyeol treated him as if nothing had happened, who could say when the fear or doubt would fester?

Thus, Haryang resolved to let it burst in safer hands.

If it had been for no reason at all, then he was a madman.

But if it had been because he had been dragged to the Demonic Cult, forced to learn their arts, and cursed with heart demons—then what?

To his Senior Brother, soft as he was, Yegyeol would surely grieve. Might even pity him.

There was not a trace of falsehood in it. Only the foulest intent.

Which made it all the more perfect.

“You will pity me, won’t you, Yegyeol?”

Enough to fold your wings and descend. That would be sufficient.

Haryang smiled, his lips blood-red.

Crossing the rear garden where new shoots and spring blossoms were sprouting, Yegyeol appeared.

Seeing his flushed cheeks, Haryang clicked his tongue inwardly.

So. Jinyoung’s quarters are far from here.

He must have run hard.

“Yegyeol. What brings you here?”

Unlike his usual clinging manner, Yegyeol halted stiffly, clutching at his wrinkled hem to hide it, and said,

“…I wished to take a walk with Senior Brother.”

Though he wore a face of feigned excitement, the hand that gripped him was cold.

Unlike the feelings he tried to conceal, his body did not lie.

And realizing why the boy who had remained calm even before mortal threat now trembled so, Haryang felt a thrill.

However much of a trap he himself had laid, the relief and satisfaction of seeing his prey truly ensnared sent a shiver through him.

“Shall we?”

In the desperate sorrow of the hand that clutched at him, he read it. In the gaze that sought his face, begging it not to be so, he read denial.

So weak-hearted—what shall I do with you…

Haryang laughed, deeply pleased.