TSBIRBV Ch 239

Chapter 239. Biheeyeon (9)

Someone’s controlling it—but not by direct sight.

That much was clear. The reactions were far too delayed. The thing hadn’t even noticed such an obvious obstacle in its path.

It was as though it operated on weak Wi-Fi—information upload and download both painfully slow.

And yet, despite moving like a glitching puppet, it somehow managed to fulfill its purpose—like a toy soldier that refused to stay down. Had Yegyeol not noticed its unnatural movements, the creature might have completed its mission unnoticed.

[May I ask what exactly you’re doing?]

At Samrang’s voice, Yegyeol gestured her closer. As she leaned in, he spoke coolly,

“Take that idiot away. Letting a servant who can’t even carry a glass of water properly wander into Biheeyeon—ridiculous.”

It was a dismissal—remove it from here.

His tone was filled with disdain so natural that no one suspected the boy being dragged off by Samrang was anything other than a clumsy servant.

[What’s going on?]

At Jinyoung’s voice in his mind, Yegyeol stiffened slightly.

[I know you wouldn’t act rashly while the Cheonma faces the Myeong Lord, so tell me—is there something wrong with the one Samrang just took away?]

Yegyeol grimaced inwardly. Not being able to use sound transmission was painfully inconvenient. As Samrang led the boy away for inspection, he realized someone needed to stay behind and figure out what exactly the creature’s purpose had been.

[If I’m right, blink twice.]

Remembering belatedly that Yegyeol couldn’t gather internal energy, Jinyoung added quickly, feeling a pang of guilt. The man caused so much mischief like a day-walking spirit that one sometimes forgot his limitations.

Yegyeol blinked twice rapidly. At the same time, his eyes swept over the dais. The puppet—disguised as a servant—had been loitering nearby under someone’s command.

It hadn’t been sent to attack Haryang directly. That much was obvious. An undead puppet wouldn’t stand a chance against the Cheonma himself.

Even Samrang dragged it off like luggage—there’s no way it could threaten him directly.

Yegyeol’s gaze shifted to the arena where Haryang stood, waiting patiently for Myeong Jinyu, who was still gathering the last of his strength for his opening strike.

He didn’t even turn around once. Even to those who came to kill him, Haryang granted courtesy—that was just who he was.

Then, suddenly, a thought struck Yegyeol.

The puppet has no real strength… so maybe it was carrying something.

It made sense—the disguise, the loitering near the platform. There had to be a reason.

And Haryang, the one person capable of noticing such subtle danger, was occupied in the arena.

Could Myeong Jinyu’s duel challenge have been part of the same plan? The timing was too perfect. The Myeong Lord hadn’t even been scheduled to appear at Biheeyeon. Surely, then, whoever sent the puppet and he were connected.

Feigning nervous impatience, Yegyeol tapped the floor with his foot.

[The dais? There’s a problem with the dais?]

He wasn’t certain. To indicate as much, he blinked three times—to show it wasn’t random, but deliberate.

Perhaps understanding that his response was neither full confirmation nor denial, Jinyoung’s voice came again.

[I’ll investigate the dais.]

Yegyeol leaned back in his seat with feigned calm, watching the duel unfold. Jinyoung was capable—he’d cleaned up after half of Yegyeol’s disasters in the past, including the destruction of an entire wing of a hall. If anyone could handle this, it was him.

Jinyoung, glancing once at Yegyeol lounging across the grand seat in Haryang’s robe, stifled the grimace tugging at his lips. The sight of the Cheonma’s consort draped in the sacred garment, looking positively lazy, was… not ideal.

Across the entire history of not just the Ilwol Cult but the Central Plains itself, few favorites of rulers had ever behaved with such audacious indifference.

Don’t think about it… just don’t think about it, Jinyoung told himself, shaking away the thought.

He leaned close to whisper something to Yao Hongyeo. The towering man gave a solemn nod. Moments later, Jinyoung slipped quietly out of sight.

Anyone who overheard would assume he’d gone to recover from one of his headaches. In truth, he planned to question the stewards who’d handled Biheeyeon’s preparations—especially those under the current and former organizers.

More precisely, he intended to interrogate the workers who followed their orders.

Good. Jinyoung will handle that side, Yegyeol thought.

Below, Myeong Jinyu—who had seemed moments from attacking—suddenly dropped his sword and withdrew a small pouch from his robes.

Poison.

He declared he would use venom instead of a blade for his second strike.

Oh, come on. You’re not seriously going to allow that, are you, Senior Brother?

Even knowing Haryang was immune to all poisons, Yegyeol felt cold sweat bead down his neck.

Surely, Myeong Jinyu knew that too—so he must have prepared something more sinister, a poison meant to work even on him.

The thought made Yegyeol’s stomach twist. He silently prayed that Haryang would take back his promise to allow three moves.

But the Cheonma was far too magnanimous for that.

“Poison? So be it,” Haryang said mildly.

All Yegyeol could do was watch as Myeong Jinyu opened the pouch and hurled its contents into the air.

A pale mist burst forth, spreading like a swarm of tiny insects—hundreds, thousands of them—rushing in unison toward one man.

Even knowing it couldn’t truly harm Haryang, the sight made Yegyeol’s vision spin.

His knuckles whitened around the armrest, the tips of his fingers flushing red. His whole body trembled with unease.

The poison mist swirled around Haryang like ink spreading in water, then began to scatter.

What if it actually affects him?

Yegyeol bit his lip hard, unable to look away.

Then, at last, Haryang furrowed his brow slightly and waved his hand.

A simple breeze—barely enough to stir dust—spiraled through the air.

But from that small motion came a storm. Like a hurricane born from a butterfly’s wings, the wind coiled inward, drawing the poison into itself.

The mist gathered upon his palm, a faint shimmering dust that looked harmless in his grasp.

Haryang glanced down at it with calm detachment and sniffed lightly.

Perhaps sensing Yegyeol’s breaking nerves, he spoke:

“Sangong Poison.”

The entire arena erupted.

Not just any toxin—but Sangong Poison.

A substance so forbidden that its mere possession was taboo.

Those who inhaled it lost all access to their inner energy.

No one knew how Myeong Jinyu had acquired it, but the act itself—using it in battle—was enough to disgust even the demons of the mountains.

In the Demonic Cult, poison and hidden weapons were not unheard of, but Myeong Clan’s heritage was pure swordsmanship. For him to wield poison instead of a blade was an insult to his ancestors.

Even among those who sought raw power, the Ilwol Cult prided itself on purity of strength.

At this moment, Myeong Jinyu was no warrior—only a coward.

Yegyeol fidgeted, his fingers tightening around the robe.

He couldn’t tell if Haryang had been affected.

If it had been any other poison, Haryang’s immunity as a master of the Heogong Realm would have rendered it useless. But this—Sangong Poison—was another matter.

I should’ve read more wuxia novels when I had the chance, Yegyeol thought bitterly.

Some stories claimed the poison couldn’t harm masters of Haryang’s level; others insisted it was the only toxin that could. His mind spun with conflicting trivia.

Even in Murim, Sangong Poison was forbidden—there were no case studies, no data.

He barely restrained himself from biting his nails.

If it actually worked, he’d have used it first and followed with his killing blow.

If this was his grand plan, it was doomed from the start. Even from afar, Yegyeol could sense how utterly unbothered Haryang remained.

But if the poison wasn’t meant for Haryang—if it was meant to rattle him—then it had succeeded.

No matter how hard he hid it, the redness in his eyes gave him away.

Just then, Jinyoung’s voice reached him again.

[One of the workers said Lord Gong had crates stored beneath the dais during preparations for Biheeyeon. They claimed it was a shortcut to reinforce the flooring—but one man mentioned finding black dust on his hands afterward. It smelled acrid.]

Oh. Explosives.

Yegyeol’s eyes lit up in realization.

[The puppet’s been captured, and nothing here could ignite the fuse. If you faint or collapse, I’ll end the ceremony immediately.]

He nodded—then froze.

Nothing could ignite it?

That didn’t feel right.

If the puppet had carried a trigger, it would’ve been simple. But Samrang hadn’t found anything. No weapon, no flint—nothing.

Jinyoung had only learned about the crates after questioning the workers—afterward.

Something didn’t add up.

What was it? What am I missing…?

Then it hit him—like lightning.

The Cheonghyeong Pavilion.

The fire.

He turned sharply.

Behind him, white flames flickered—shimmering and sacred. The holy fire of the Demonic Cult. The nearest blaze to the dais.

If that falls…

The explosion would annihilate everything nearby. The more distant cultists might survive—but not those on the platform.

Jinyoung, realizing what Yegyeol had seen, spoke again in shock.

[No… they wouldn’t dare. To use the sacred fire—]

His voice faltered, more stunned by the sacrilege than by the threat itself.

But this wasn’t about reverence.

They didn’t see Haryang as a god—so to them, the sacred flame was just fire.

The puppet had strength enough to push it over.

The problem is… we caught the puppet, not its master.

Whoever orchestrated this wouldn’t stop because of a minor setback. They’d find a way to complete the plan—even if it meant dying themselves.

There were too many people. Too many possibilities.

It was impossible to tell who was waiting to strike.

“Hongyeo.”

Yegyeol’s voice was steady.

“I want to look at the holy fire.”

“I shall escort you,” Yao Hongyeo replied immediately.

Let’s move it back first, Yegyeol thought. Before anything happens.

He rose from his seat, forcing himself to walk calmly despite the hammering of his heart.

Anyone watching would only see the Cheonma’s beloved stretching his legs, not the panic clawing at his chest.

Surely, anyone who could burn a pavilion and hide explosives beneath the Biheeyeon stage would’ve tampered with the sacred flame as well.

The puppet alone—slow and unthinking—was likely meant to trigger some simple mechanism.

“We should push that thing back a bit. It’s too close, it’s making me sweat. And I can’t exactly throw off the robe my Senior Brother gave me.”

He spoke petulantly, his tone laced with faux irritation—a perfect excuse for Hongyeo to act.

“I understand,” Hongyeo said gruffly, reaching toward the fire.

Then—

Click.

A faint metallic sound echoed.

The structure holding the flame tilted forward.

The blinding white fire—pure, shadowless—lurched violently, spilling downward.

And in the next heartbeat, the sacred flame came crashing over Yegyeol’s head.