TSBIRBV Ch 216

Chapter 216. Revelation (11)

Even while facing Haryang’s countenance, Yegyeol could not collect his wits for a long while.

It felt like being seized around the waist by an Esper hurtling forward at two hundred and forty kilometers an hour—his insides churned with nausea.

It was as if he had dived to the deepest depths, and when his breath ran short, a sharp tug pulled at the pit of his stomach, forcing him toward the surface.

Like a fish cast upon the shore, Yegyeol floundered, as though trying to breathe through nonexistent gills.

“Ah, ah…”

As his senses slowly returned, he could only stare in a daze at the man restraining him.

He had always thought that the color red suited his Senior Brother. Half of him had once longed to see Haryang clad in wedding robes.

But he had never wished to feel it realized in this way.

“Ahh…”

From the depths of his throat came a sound like molten iron boiling. No matter how hard he tried to swallow, there was no way to restrain the seething pain.

“Se–Senior Brother. Senior… Brother…”

He dared not lower his gaze to check his own hands, for he felt the brush of something wet and crimson against them.

His dazed mind, piecing together who it was he had just attacked, froze utterly still.

“I—I… what have I done?”

His shoulders and hands trembled violently.

“Calm yourself. It is not my blood.”

Haryang clasped Yegyeol’s shoulders and shook him lightly. The firm grip drew a brief glimmer of focus back into Yegyeol’s unfocused eyes.

“Lies. No—ah.”

Yegyeol shook his head violently, his face draining of color, then clapped his hands over his mouth. When at last he lifted his gaze to Haryang, his expression was nothing but desperate pleading.

“I was wrong… wrong. How could I… how could I ever say such things to you, Senior Brother?”

“There now… be good.”

As though coaxing a child, Haryang drew Yegyeol’s hand and set it against his own face.

Yegyeol flinched in shock, trying to pull away. He could not dare touch him. Some irrational terror seized him—if he brushed him wrongly, the Haryang before his eyes might shatter into fragments.

But the grip of his Senior Brother was unyielding. With no strength to resist, with no will to struggle, Yegyeol had no escape.

Slowly, his hand slid across that fine, well-proportioned face. Though slick with blood, his skin was smooth. No scratch of a nail could be felt. Gradually, Yegyeol’s hand began to move of its own accord.

His jawline, his neck, his shoulder. The arm and wrist revealed beneath the torn collar. The long, finely shaped fingers…

As Yegyeol’s trembling touch grew steadier, Haryang smiled faintly.

“Did you have fun playing?”

Yegyeol’s eyes widened at once.

He could not believe what he had just heard.

As though nothing were amiss. As though speaking to a child returned from the playground, asking about the day—how could one be so endlessly gentle?

But this was no moment that could ever be transmuted into the casual inquiry, “Did you have fun?”

Only now did Yegyeol notice the wreckage behind Haryang. Furniture charred to black, shattered fragments of roof, walls collapsed and splintered flooring protruding at odd angles.

Beyond the window in the courtyard stood a tree split down the middle by lightning.

Yet above all else, what Yegyeol saw most vividly was the hair strewn carelessly across the floor.

“…My hair.”

He had scarcely managed to form the words when tears spilled freely down his face.

Haryang did not look upon him as a monster, as Yegyeol had feared. He did not demand to know what sinister magic he had cultivated. He showed him with his own hands that he was unharmed, even wrapped the calamity as though it had been a game they had shared.

But Yegyeol, finding yet another corner of grief, could not stop his tears.

“My hair… it’s been cut.”

As he blurted the words, he wept as though the loss alone were unbearable.

Haryang, moved by the choked voice that seemed to squeeze his own throat, stretched out his arm and drew Yegyeol’s head into his embrace.

“This Senior Brother failed to evade properly and left his junior in sorrow.”

Though he felt the wetness seeping into his chest, he only smoothed down the hair at the back of Yegyeol’s head, whispering softly.

“But hair grows back swiftly enough. Forgive me, just this once, hm?”

His voice, gentle as if it were truly his fault, only made the tears flow all the more.

“Do I… look like a monster?”

His words caught in his throat; he could not meet his eyes.

“Do you?”

Haryang’s lips twisted in a faint sneer. Yegyeol looked up at him without thinking.

He thought it an expression unfitting for his Senior Brother, yet that cool face with its crooked smile had in it a power to make the heart sink.

“It seems you have forgotten who it is that stands before you.”

The low voice, enough to raise the hairs on his nape, reached Yegyeol’s ears as tender as ever.

“A fiend who kidnaps martial artists to drain their inner energy. Who drinks the blood of children. Who longs to flood the Central Plains with carnage, staining the world with blood—the monstrous Heavenly Demon.”

Not a single word of that is true.

Yegyeol’s lips quivered, half between laughter and tears. And by then, his tears had ceased.

Perhaps amused by the sight, Haryang’s fingers trailed upward from his chin and pressed lightly upon his lower lip.

“If you would dare speak of monsters before the Heavenly Demon, you must try harder still.”

“…Spectacular.”

Having surveyed the ruins of Cheonghyeongjeon, Jinyoung stepped into the devastated bedchamber at its heart and muttered in a low voice.

What madness had descended in the middle of the night?

He had rushed out at the crash of thunder splitting the sky, only to witness golden light erupt from below, piercing the hall’s roof.

“Lightning rising from the ground rather than falling from the heavens?”

He could hardly trust his own eyes.

He even wondered whether thunderbolts had been unleashed, and gave orders as he raced toward Cheonghyeongjeon. Its exterior, for such an explosion, was still standing. But the interior—especially the chamber—was a wasteland.

Jinyoung wrestled down his unease, crafting theories in his mind.

But the master awaiting him amid the ruin greeted him with calm composure. In Haryang’s arms lay the unconscious Young Lord Moon, and the instant Jinyoung beheld the sight, he knew in his bones who had caused this devastation.

Each time Yegyeol whimpered in nightmare, Haryang’s soft murmur to soothe him unsettled Jinyoung all the more.

“We intended to raze it all anyway. No matter.”

Indeed, the plan had been to strip the chamber down to its very walls. His words were not entirely false.

Haryang adjusted his hold on Yegyeol. The limp body sagged like that of a paper doll.

That such a fragile-seeming disciple had laid half of Cheonghyeongjeon to ruin was hardly believable, even with his own eyes.

Charred walls, gouged flooring, beams split open with tree roots thrusting through—the chamber seemed more fit to rebuild anew.

The only regret Haryang felt was for the single tree set in the courtyard.

Though Yegyeol, wild and unknowing, had done the deed, he still felt the loss as though it were his own fault.

“The exterior?”

“Hongyeo commands the response. We have put forth the story that Lord Geum made his final desperate move. Samrang is assembling the details herself.”

Set Hongyeo at the fore to restrain the demonic soldiers, while Samrang crafted the truth anew: another hand was blamed for the destruction. It bore the shape of Jinyoung’s plan.

“Neatly done.”

At Haryang’s praise, Jinyoung bowed his head.

“Gratitude.”

“Withdraw and await my call.”

“As you command.”

As Jinyoung bowed and departed, Haryang gently stroked Yegyeol’s hair once more, then stepped out of the ruined chamber.

He lingered only to arrange matters, unwilling to leave his disciple amid dust and rubble.

Crossing the dim corridor, where even moonlight had faded, Haryang recalled in detail what had just transpired.

That day, Samrang’s report had said the disciple requested a spar. Though she had restrained her strength, Yegyeol had displayed speed enough to astonish her, and reflexes most extraordinary.

She surmised that he trained by fusing his physical ability with the strength of his bonded spirit. Haryang had reached the same conclusion.

Having been abruptly brought to Ten Thousand Great Mountains, and only yesterday threatened by Lord Geum, it was natural for Yegyeol to seek some means of defense.

Haryang had no thought to hinder him, only cautioning his men to ensure the disciple came to no harm, then returned to Cheonghyeongjeon.

But Yegyeol was nowhere to be seen.

Tracing his steps, Haryang reached the chamber just under repair—only to be met with his disciple attacking him outright.

Until then, he had thought Yegyeol possessed no extraordinary qualities beyond his resilience. He was surprisingly attuned to the Thunder-Horned Python, but nothing more.

That judgment proved far too hasty. Yegyeol had wielded lightning itself.

This was no research of the demonic arts he knew.

“In theory, when one takes a host and uses the body of a martial artist in the Manifest Realm, it should be possible to draw upon power one level higher. One could indeed borrow nature’s force… But this is not martial skill.”

Even now, having uncovered the secret his disciple concealed, Haryang’s face was far from bright. Above all feelings of accomplishment or dread was worry.

Not knowing the cause meant no certain way to solve it.

Could a body without even a dantian withstand the reckless draw of such power?

The Yegyeol he knew had only remarkable recovery and resistance to poison. Beyond that, he was but a fragile human—bite him and he bruised, scratch him and he bled.

Yet strangely, the lightning that wreathed his body brought no harm to him.

“Yegyeol, ah…”

The moment he called his name, a fist crackling with golden lightning streaked toward his face. Even off guard, Haryang dodged it with ease, then moved to subdue him. He wielded only the sash that bound his outer robe. Ordinary white silk, embroidered with silver thread, but once infused with his inner energy it writhed like a living serpent.

Yegyeol evaded before it could coil about his wrist.

Haryang knew at once he had not avoided by sight, but by instinct alone. Countless battles had honed his understanding; before the cloth had traced its path, Yegyeol had already fled from its destination.

An opponent who moved on instinct alone was troublesome. But Haryang had fought too many battles to count, and he had always been the one to prevail.

“Usually, one simply crushes such foes with strength.”

His gaze deepened. But this was Yegyeol—he could not bear to press too hard. Not that he lacked other means.

Casting off his outer robe, Haryang flung it toward Yegyeol. Whether net or snare, the beast within could not tell; he rolled aside to escape. It should have struck with a resounding crash, yet Yegyeol alighted lightly, wary, facing Haryang still. But already, his ankle was ensnared by Haryang’s sash.

“!”

To catch his staggering body, Haryang moved. From the far side of the chamber, he seemed to appear in the blink of an eye at Yegyeol’s side.

It was a speed that seemed to place him in two places at once. If Yegyeol had been himself, he would have known that his Senior Brother had used Displacement of Form, but with only instinct remaining, he faltered in confusion.

That heartbeat of hesitation was all Haryang required.

He reached for Yegyeol’s vital point, intending to restrain him, then summon an array master to dispel his delusion.

But as his inner energy poured through the acupoint, golden lightning flared violently from Yegyeol’s body.

Though Haryang leapt back, the sleeve of his robe was seared.

And there he crouched, lightning cloaking him head to toe, utterly inhuman.

From of old, lightning was the province of gods.

“Beautiful.”