TSBIRBV Ch 263

Chapter 263. Yongbong Gathering (3)

A lively wind carried the roar of the crowd.

The martial arena prepared for the grand tournament was packed to the brim. Warriors and spectators filled the stands—some were martial artists, others were ordinary citizens who knew nothing of martial arts but had come simply to see the spectacle. Street vendors wove through the crowd, hawking snacks, and the inevitable gamblers bellowed odds and wagers at the top of their lungs.

“The finals are finally starting. Now this is a real martial arts tournament.”

“Hey, even the preliminaries were worth watching.”

“Why’s that?”

“Someone dropped his sword mid-fight, and the hilt went flying straight into another contestant’s head. Knocked him out cold on the spot!”

The man beside him burst out laughing.

“Ha! Knocked out by a blind sword! What a way to go.”

“Good thing they weeded out idiots like that in the prelims.”

As the chatter continued, a referee wearing the Martial Alliance’s insignia stepped into the center of the ring.

“The first match of the main event—Gok Gil-sang of the Daehwan Sect, the Fuzhou Swordsman!”

A man, teetering on the border between youth and middle age, strode onto the stage.

“Gok Gil-sang? Isn’t he…”

“The one who made a name for himself in Jiangxi by crushing the Green Forest bandits?”

“His sect may be small, but he stood out during the prelims.”

“Eh, he seemed ordinary to me.”

Their murmurs carried a faint but genuine curiosity for the man who had carved out a name for himself in the martial world.

“His opponent—Unaffiliated, Je Haryang!”

At the announcement, Yegyeol stepped onto the opposite side of the ring.

The sun blazed overhead, and dust rose in the air. Yet his mood was the brightest it had been in days.

Every time they call my Senior Brother’s name, I get a little thrill…

He almost laughed at himself. Maybe this was turning into a bad habit.

Clad in a robe of deep blue, Yegyeol looked more like a noble’s son than a martial artist. Hearing the referee’s declaration, the audience began to buzz.

After all, even though the Yongbong Gathering was meant to discover new talents, it was rare to see a contestant so completely unknown.

“Je Haryang? Ever heard of him?”

“No. Says he’s unaffiliated, so probably not from any big sect or family.”

“No title, either. And I didn’t see him in the prelims.”

“Then he must’ve gone straight to the main round with a special pass. Maybe not just some nobody, after all.”

“Don’t be stupid. Probably used connections in the Alliance to get a pass.”

The overall mood teetered between mild curiosity and boredom.

He wasn’t a famed hero, nor a member of any well-known group. With no information to go on, people could only judge him by appearance—and Yegyeol looked barely old enough to shave.

“He’s handsome, sure, but…”

He carried no remarkable weapon, his wide sleeves and ornate clothing more suited to a scholar than a swordsman.

Probably some spoiled young master trying to play hero, they thought.

It wasn’t unheard of—rich merchants’ sons or minor nobles occasionally entered the tournament out of romantic fascination with the martial world. Those types usually had ties to at least one of the Nine Great Sects. But this “unaffiliated” contestant just looked… amateurish.

“Damn it. I accidentally bet on this Je Haryang guy…” one man muttered, stretching his neck to see past the crowd as he handed his child a snack to keep him quiet.

Yegyeol’s lips twitched at the words, though his face remained composed.

You’ll be thanking your lucky mistake soon enough, friend.

His sharp hearing picked up every word, as clear as if whispered beside him.

“Junior brother,” Gok Gil-sang said with a genial smile, clearly mistaking Yegyeol’s relaxed demeanor for nervousness. “Fate is cruel indeed. To reach the finals, only to meet me, Gok Gil-sang, as your first opponent.”

His grip on his massive saber was loose—too loose. He already considered victory his.

Yegyeol’s smile deepened.

“I came here expecting a contest of martial arts, not of tongues. Seems you’ve mistaken the purpose of this match.”

Gok Gil-sang blinked. For such a youthful, delicate-looking man, his words were cutting—almost insolent.

“Hah… I see the young don’t yet know which words they can get away with.”

Ignoring him, Yegyeol looked to the referee. “When do we begin?”

“The match starts after the third drumbeat. Please stand at your mark until then.”

The referee spoke with practiced indifference. Clearly, this kind of pre-fight posturing was nothing new to him.

Yegyeol took his place calmly, while Gok Gil-sang’s face flushed with irritation at being ignored.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

At the final beat, the referee retreated.

Gok Gil-sang raised his massive saber high—almost as big as he was. Though not as large as Peng Munhyeong’s, it still looked heavy enough to fell a horse. Yet he swung it effortlessly in one hand. Clearly, he wasn’t weak.

Yegyeol stepped forward, raising his right hand into a classic martial stance.

“In the martial world, they call me the Fuzhou Swordsman, Gok Gil-sang. And you, junior?”

“Je Haryang,” Yegyeol replied evenly. “I have no title.”

Not yet, he added silently.

“Then today’s duel will be a valuable lesson for you.”

“Of course. I’ll make sure you learn something as well.”

“Oh? Shouldn’t you be saying you’ll learn from me?”

Yegyeol tilted his head, feigning confusion. “Ah, my mistake. A slip of the tongue.”

It was deliberate. Gok Gil-sang’s temple throbbed in rage.

“I was going to go easy on you for your youth, but you leave me no choice!”

His saber sliced through the air with a menacing whoosh.

It was only a warning swing, but the sound was sharp enough to draw gasps from the audience.

Yegyeol didn’t even flinch, merely watching the movement.

Good strength. Strong momentum. But every swing left wide, exploitable gaps.

By the book, I should dodge and counter quickly…

But Yegyeol had never been one for “by the book.” Efficiency bored him.

“Come, then.”

No more words were needed. Gok Gil-sang, composure shattered, lunged forward.

The massive blade whistled past Yegyeol’s nose, so close it could’ve cleaved his face in two.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Blood and shattered skulls weren’t uncommon in duels, but this close to instant death at the opening move made hearts lurch.

“Look at that!”

“He—he caught it! With his hand!”

Gok Gil-sang’s blade stopped dead in midair, trembling violently. Below it, Yegyeol’s slender hand held the flat of the blade steady.

It was the hand of a scholar, not a warrior—unblemished, without a single callus.

The absurdity of the sight turned Gok Gil-sang’s face red, then pale.

His entire style relied on power—crushing force, overwhelming pressure. Once his saber began to swing, the only option for his opponent was to flee or die. His strength made up for the technique’s inherent flaws.

It was that very strength that had carried him here—to the Yongbong Gathering.

All that’s left is to soar!

He had breezed through the preliminaries, confident he could dominate the main rounds too. His first opponent looked so mild, so harmless, that he’d even felt a little sorry for him.

But that pity vanished the moment his blade stopped moving.

Yegyeol’s amber eyes flashed gold for a brief instant. Before Gok Gil-sang could even process what he’d seen, Yegyeol spoke—his voice calm, almost cheerful.

“I’ll take that lesson now.”

His left hand yanked the saber down, while his right hand struck like lightning, smashing into Gok Gil-sang’s shoulder.

The impact was explosive. Gok Gil-sang’s body twisted violently, barely avoiding a clean break—but pain erupted through his bones.

“Ghk—!”

It hurt worse than the time a blind bandit’s cudgel had cracked his skull. If that strike had landed an inch lower, something would have snapped.

Reeling, he staggered back, gasping. He needed a moment to regain his footing—but Yegyeol had no intention of giving him that luxury.

Villains never wait for heroes to finish transforming, he thought with a smirk.

His wide sleeves fluttered, momentarily obscuring Gok Gil-sang’s vision. By the time the man saw the incoming fist, it was far too late.

The blow landed squarely. Gok Gil-sang toppled backward, saber still clutched in hand—but his consciousness was already gone.

The referee, who had stepped down from the stage, hurried up and checked his eyes. No response.

“Je Haryang—victory!”

The declaration was met with a roar of disbelief and wild cheers.

“Waaaaaah!”

Graceful looks, devastating power—the contrast was irresistible.

The unknown contender “Je Haryang” had just electrified the crowd.

“Damn, he’s pretty, but he took down the Fuzhou Swordsman just like that…”

“Wait—so the winner’s that guy? What was his name again?”

“Je Haryang! He’s Je Haryang!”

Meanwhile, the man who had accidentally bet on Yegyeol jumped up, waving both arms.

“I won! I won! Honey! I’m buying you new shoes!”

His sudden movement startled his child, who dropped his rice crackers and began to sniffle.

“Uuuh… Waaah…”

“Hush now, I’ll buy you Tanghulu too!”

Yegyeol smiled sweetly and waved toward the stands.

The taste of victory was intoxicating.

And this is only the beginning.

His eyes gleamed—bright, ambitious, and full of stormlight.