TSBIRBV Ch 161

Chapter 161 An Offer That Cannot Be Refused (7)

Having said so, Senior Brother released the assassin.

The monster that had split the earth and toppled trees slowly disintegrated where it stood. The sight resembled a boulder, weathered by countless years, crumbling into sand in a time-lapse.

“Senior Brother!”

The moment Yegyeol was certain the thing was dead, he sprang forward. But Haryang raised one hand toward him, and instinctively Yegyeol halted in his tracks.

As if that was sufficient, Haryang flicked his other hand. The dust—the only proof the monster had ever existed—was swept away by the wind he summoned.

Yegyeol ran to him again, and this time Haryang did not stop him. Ignoring the lack of corpses, Yegyeol dashed to his side and threw his arms around him.

“Were you very frightened?”

Haryang tousled his hair.

“No. More than that, I was worried. The last assassin… something about him was strange.”

“Did you not see me deal with it yourself?”

“What was that just now?”

“Not poison, but nothing good for you to inhale.”

Yegyeol had no desire to breathe it in anyway.

“No, not the dust left behind. The assassin—his eyes went red, and he transformed. I’ve never seen anything like that across the Central Plains.”

“Ah.”

Haryang parted his lips briefly, then closed them again.

“Without reason, without martial skill—it was merely an imitation. Nothing to fear.”

“An imitation…?”

As Yegyeol repeated the word, Haryang smiled awkwardly, as though trying to laugh the matter away.

Fortunately for him, Yegyeol was an easy man—at least in this one regard. Realizing his Senior Brother would not answer further, Yegyeol searched the ground for bodies.

He spotted odd weapons—a curved blade, a chakram, even a sword pierced through with strange holes.

The sight of those weapons stirred a sense of déjà vu.

Is it because Qinghai borders the desert? Maybe assassins operating here all use such exotic arms.

Even the iron arrow that pierced the carriage had been oddly shaped.

“Still, it is troublesome that those who employ such things managed to find us here.”

Despite the ambush, Haryang remained calm. Yegyeol, however, noticed that his Senior Brother’s grip on him had not loosened.

Haryang turned toward the driver, who had sat motionless on the coachman’s seat.

“See this place cleared.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Expressionless, the driver rose.

Unfastening the reins of the horses, Haryang lifted Yegyeol into the saddle. Mounting nimbly behind, he wrapped his arms around him.

“Let’s return at once.”

“Yes.”

As the carriage rolled forward, Yegyeol glanced back. The driver had produced a small vial and was pouring it over the corpses. Flesh and bone dissolved instantly, vanishing without a trace. Yegyeol buried his face in Haryang’s chest.

“Are you in danger?”

“Not at all.”

Haryang’s reply was flat and sincere. To Yegyeol, it seemed true enough—even if assassins came at him in droves, he would never be flustered. He had crushed the mutated assassin with his bare hands, after all.

“Why do you think so?”

“The assassin who sought out Lord Namgung… he was really after me, wasn’t he?”

For a killer to carry unusual weapons so openly would only draw attention; only the highly skilled could manage it.

And Yegyeol could not imagine two such assassin groups operating within the Central Plains.

The same assassins. The same target present both times.

That target was him.

“……”

Haryang did not reply.

For a while, only the sound of hooves and the wind filled the silence.

“I see.”

Drawing him close, Haryang murmured, “It is my failing that placed you in danger.”

“I wasn’t afraid. But I do wonder—why send assassins?”

Even as they spoke, the horses galloped on, and soon the manor came into view.

“I have many enemies.”

Yegyeol looked up at him. His gentle smile betrayed nothing.

“Wanting to give you everything, I entrusted Qinghai Trading Company to you. Those desperate to find a link to me have at last discovered you.”

Haryang pressed his face into Yegyeol’s crown. The scent was still unfamiliar—soft, like sunlight glittering across fresh snow.

From the moment he named Yegyeol master of Qinghai Trading Company, this had been inevitable. Haryang had painted a target upon his disciple’s back. Perhaps partly to protect him, but not wholly. Even he could not say for certain.

“Soon I may have to leave.”

“Leave?”

Yegyeol seized his hand on the reins.

“Where?”

After traveling between Hangzhou, Sichuan, and Qinghai, he had finally secured his place at Senior Brother’s side. To leave now?

All the groundwork he had laid felt like branches for a dam swept away by floodwaters. His scalp burned hot.

“I must deal with the one who sent the assassins. Only then will you be safe.”

It was a reason Yegyeol could not gainsay. Haryang’s concern for his safety had been made plain by Jinyoung.

“Can I not go with you?”

“Perhaps not.”

Haryang’s voice took on a deliberately forlorn tone.

“It isn’t a place you’d enjoy. The journey cuts across the desert—harsh and desolate.”

“But—”

“Still, I’ll return before summer.”

He soothed Yegyeol before he could protest further.

“No matter what. I promise.”

So at least in time for my birthday…

But three months apart loomed ahead, and Yegyeol doubted his endurance. Even if his will held, his body would not.

Impatience gnawed at him; he bit his lip. Some drastic measure would be required.

Haryang studied the back of his disciple’s neck, deep in thought.

“Do you truly not remember?”

Namgung Un sat across from the old physician, who shook his flushed, drunken face.

“No matter how you press me… I recall nothing.”

The physician glanced aside, evasive.

“At my age, having seen so many patients, faces blur together. But in all these years of practice, I’ve never once prescribed the wrong medicine, and that at least is a blessing.”

It was a glib excuse.

Yet Namgung Un, keenly observant, took it as confirmation that the man knew more than he claimed.

When one genuinely cannot recall, they wear a puzzled look, eager to remember. But when a secret is at stake, they grow cautious, lips sealed tight. That very caution was the surest sign of hidden knowledge—though the physician did not realize it.

“Then let us do this instead.”

Namgung Un offered a mild smile. Among the heirs of the Five Great Sects, he was remarkably unassuming.

“I have always asked to hear your stories. This time, let me tell you one.”

“You, young lord?”

The physician frowned. The refined martial man had persistently questioned him about the young master, probing whether his face was familiar, whether he had been treated before, promising rich reward for any recollection.

But the old doctor had held his tongue. For all his years, his life was still precious.

“Yes. It is the tale of an old Daoist hermit.”

“About my age, I suppose,” Namgung Un added. The physician nodded, agreeing to listen.

“In his youth, the Daoist entered a quiet mountain temple. There he lived simply with his fellow disciples, content and at peace as the years passed.”

It sounded not unlike the physician’s own life—learning medicine when young, taking up the needle. Busy with work, he had never raised a family.

“Though he never married, he took on a disciple, nearly a son in age. He could not pass on his bloodline, but with spirit and heart he could bequeath all his learning.”

A disciple.

The physician had once thought to take one himself.

“The bright disciple absorbed his teachings readily. The Daoist believed that when the time came, he would leave behind a trace of his life and wisdom in the world through this boy, and was content. But peace never lasts.”

The physician realized he was listening intently.

“Bandits came, setting fire to the temple, killing the Daoist’s brethren, and stealing their meager possessions. The disciple, defending his master, was struck by an arrow and perished.”

“Good heavens…”

The physician groaned.

“The old Daoist grieved bitterly, lamenting that his pupil had died before him. He even thought to end his own life. But he could not let the temple become ruin, so he steadied himself, planted trees, and rebuilt. Watching new sprouts rise gave him strength.”

Namgung Un paused, gauging the physician’s face. His eyes were rimmed with red.

“Hearing that the temple had reopened, people began to visit again. The Daoist felt he could one day close his eyes in peace, certain he would soon see his disciple again.”

Namgung Un lifted his cup, sipping as though it were tea.

“But then, one day, the Daoist encountered a boy who looked exactly like his lost disciple.”