TSBIRBV Ch 267

Chapter 267. Yongbong Gathering (7)

Yegyeol woke with a start.

He must have fallen asleep while mulling over the connection between Hongyeo and the Jinju Eon Clan.

Running his fingers through his tousled hair, he combed it into some semblance of order and sat up. From the basin beside his bed, Baembaem, who had been dozing, flicked its tail in greeting.

Today was the day he would face Cheongyong, the Wudang Sect’s prodigy. According to what he’d heard, Cheongyong was the disciple of none other than the current “First Sword of Wudang.”

The First Sword of Wudang… that would be Wudang’s Azure Dragon, who used to associate closely with Senior Brother.

Even if Cheongyong himself didn’t know, the moment the name Je Haryang reached his ears, he would surely react somehow.

If that reaction turned out to be nostalgia or guilt, as it had been with Peng Munhyeong, all the better—but somehow, Yegyeol doubted he would be so lucky.

He rose, already calculating the worst possible outcomes and the means to handle them.

After a simple breakfast, he left the inn’s annex and handed Baembaem over to Hongyeo. It would be disastrous if the little serpent were to be hurt during the match—or worse, discovered.

Funny, he thought, I used to think of it only as a way to hide my power.

Things had changed.

The golden serpent, who used to thump its tail irritably when first made to perch on Hongyeo’s thick arm, now coiled around him with practiced ease. Its tail peeked out, wrapped lazily around his finger—a clear sign of growing familiarity.

After all, Hongyeo was the master of Red Lightning. He might not be as close to Baembaem as Samrang, but he often kept it company.

“It might be best if you wait somewhere other than the barracks today,” Yegyeol said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“The other side might try to cause trouble again, and things could get messy.”

At that, Hongyeo fell silent for a moment, then nodded reluctantly.

“I’ll remain close by.”

He was too large to truly blend into the background, but Yegyeol didn’t want him to cross paths with Eon Chaegwol again—especially after what he’d learned the previous night about Hongyeo’s past with the Jinju Clan.

Yegyeol gave a small nod.

“Then I’ll go win again today, to honor Senior Brother’s name.”

“…I believe our Lord would care more for your safety than for honor,” Hongyeo said quietly.

“Please. You think I’m doing this for him? This is purely for my own satisfaction.”

His playful tone made Hongyeo’s lips twitch faintly, betraying the urge to sigh. Truthfully, if this were all for his Senior Brother’s sake, Yegyeol should never have left the Ten-Thousand Mountains in the first place.

After finally managing to part ways with Hongyeo, Yegyeol entered the barracks alone—only to spot Eon Chaegwol and his group inside.

Well, look at that. Didn’t take him for an early riser.

The thought came naturally, and he moved to pass them without a glance. Whatever jeers they threw his way, he intended to ignore them.

But Eon Chaegwol had other ideas. A sneer stretched across his face, and instead of staying at a distance as Yegyeol expected, he strode right up to him.

“So, you’re Je Haryang, right? I hear your next opponent is Wudang’s Cheongyong Dojang.”

Yegyeol didn’t bother to respond. His calm indifference only seemed to aggravate the man further.

“What, never heard of him? Guess you don’t know just how great he is, you bumpkin.”

Eon Chaegwol launched into an exaggerated monologue.

“He joined Wudang at a young age, trained directly under the First Sword, and took part in the Green Forest suppression before even reaching twenty. Just a few months ago, he personally killed Heegok Hyeolbu, that notorious demon of the Yichang region.”

He clearly hoped to unnerve Yegyeol before the match.

Yegyeol listened with half an ear, letting the nonsense pass through him.

“And of course,” Eon went on, “he reached the finals of the last Yongbong Gathering. He’s one of the strongest contenders this year.”

His tone was almost feverish with admiration.

“Fascinating,” Yegyeol said suddenly.

Eon blinked. “What?”

“I didn’t realize a so-called martial man could be so petty,” Yegyeol said evenly, his lips curving faintly. “To hold such a grudge just because you made a fool of yourself yesterday—and to rely on another man’s fame to settle it for you. That’s… rather pathetic.”

He smiled thinly. “Or did you go crying to your Wudang friend, begging him to beat me up on your behalf?”

Eon’s face turned red.

Yegyeol’s tone remained calm, but his words sliced with surgical precision.

After all, what sort of man sought comfort in the strength of others rather than facing his own failures? Only one who lacked the courage to stand on his own.

“Pathetic? You go too far.”

“Oh? Then what? Is this Cheongyong Dojang your dear friend? Did you run to him, sobbing, asking him to take revenge for you?”

Yegyeol’s grin sharpened, showing teeth. Normally, he’d have maintained the courteous air of his “Senior Brother,” but there was no need for such pretense with scum like this.

Besides, he thought, no one here will take his side. His reputation’s already dirt.

Tang Segi had described Eon’s crowd as the unsavory kind, and that much seemed spot on.

“If it’s not that,” Yegyeol added, “perhaps I’ll just ask Cheongyong myself when I meet him in the arena.”

Eon Chaegwol’s face flushed purple. Yegyeol found the sight gratifying—especially since Hongyeo wasn’t around to step in and spoil the fun with his calm restraint.

After letting Eon stew for a few moments, Yegyeol said lazily, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer we both use the barracks peacefully until our matches begin. No need for rudeness between men who won’t be seeing each other again, don’t you think?”

The emphasis on won’t be seeing each other again dripped with mockery.

Hopefully he’s not too stupid to catch that, Yegyeol thought.

Fortunately, he wasn’t. Rage flared in Eon’s eyes.

“Je Haryang! You’re next!”

The call from outside came at the perfect moment. Yegyeol rose smoothly to his feet.

“Well then, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Hey—!”

Eon Chaegwol suddenly grabbed his shoulder. Yegyeol stepped back at once, noticing a faint powder spilling from the man’s sleeve—a nearly invisible dust that dispersed through the air.

It was colorless, odorless, and almost imperceptible.

Yegyeol stopped mid-step, realizing what it might be.

“What is that?”

Eon flinched, feigning confusion. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

The man retreated hastily, and Yegyeol shot him a long, cold look before turning away.

“Cough… cough…”

As he walked toward the arena with one of the Martial Alliance’s attendants, he deliberately coughed a few times, pressing his fingers to his brow.

“Are you feeling unwell?” the attendant asked, concerned.

“…I was fine this morning, but I suddenly feel a bit lightheaded,” Yegyeol murmured.

“Can you still fight?”

“I must. If I delay, I’ll be disqualified.”

“Still, your health should come first—”

“I come from nothing,” Yegyeol interrupted softly. “This Yongbong Gathering is my one great chance. I can’t let a moment of dizziness make me give it up.”

The attendant’s expression softened at his determined tone.

“It’s rather warm today,” Yegyeol added. “Would it be permissible to remove my outer robe before entering the stage?”

“You don’t need my permission for that,” the man replied, half-smiling.

Good enough.

Suppressing his smirk, Yegyeol set his plan in motion.

Before stepping onto the arena floor, he neatly folded his robe—careful to tuck the powder-stained sleeve inward so that none of the residue would fall or fade—and set it aside.

Now in lighter garb, he climbed onto the platform. His slender build, usually concealed beneath his long robes, was now visible.

He looked less like a seasoned fighter and more like an untested youth entering the martial world for the first time.

Across from him stood a man in a Wudang robe emblazoned with the yin-yang of the Taiji.

Cheongyong Dojang.

The same man who had reached the finals of the previous Yongbong Gathering, only to lose to Namgung Un.

“This should be quite the match,” someone whispered.

“If Je Haryang loses, it’ll be a shame.”

“He’s promising, but still young—Cheongyong has the edge in skill and experience.”

“I’ll wager ten taels of silver on Cheongyong!”

Even among those who had seen Je Haryang’s dazzling victories, uncertainty rippled through the crowd.

But overturning expectations always made the show more entertaining.

Yegyeol schooled his features into composure, resisting the urge to grin. To the onlookers, he seemed tense, perhaps even nervous.

“I am Cheongyong of Wudang,” his opponent said courteously.

He looked every bit the gentle Daoist—someone who could easily be mistaken for Namgung Un’s peer. But Yegyeol noticed how Cheongyong’s gaze flickered over him from head to toe.

Sizing me up? Or something else?

“Je Haryang. No affiliation,” Yegyeol replied.

“So young,” Cheongyong said warmly. “A pleasure to meet you, young hero.”

Yegyeol said nothing.

The referee stepped down, and the sound of drums thundered through the air.

Cheongyong moved at once, fluid as mist. His steps glided like clouds—graceful, silent, and untraceable the moment you blinked.

“Je Unjong!” someone cried from the stands.

“The Cloud-Walking Technique! Wudang’s signature!”

“To witness it firsthand—what luck!”

Cheongyong’s motion was seamless, continuous as the Yangtze’s current.

But by the time he drew his sword—Yegyeol was already there.

To the ordinary eye, it was as though time had jumped—a cut in the film. One moment Je Haryang stood still, the next he was right in front of his opponent.

Cheongyong, however, saw everything—the blur of movement, the storm closing in.

“Kh!”

He raised his sword just in time to block the incoming fist. Had he been any less disciplined, he might have dropped his weapon entirely before such an audience.

Sweat ran cold down his back. Contrary to rumor, the youth before him wasn’t some confident prodigy—he looked almost boyish. For a split second, Cheongyong had nearly underestimated him.

But those eyes—sharp as lightning.

“Haap!”

Never forget: softness subdues strength.

Recalling his master’s teaching, Cheongyong exhaled and unleashed the Taechung Sword’s sequence.

Neither swift nor heavy—his thirteen willow-like strikes wove a net of exquisite precision. To move recklessly against it would be to ensnare oneself.

“The Taechung Sword at its peak!”

“So young, yet such mastery!”

“As expected of the First Sword’s disciple!”

Applause and awe rippled through the spectators.

But Yegyeol’s eyes gleamed gold.

Too impatient.

From above, it might seem like a perfect flow—but facing him directly, Yegyeol could see the strain in Cheongyong’s movements, the faint gaps left by haste.

The current of the Taechung Sword pulled him inward, and Yegyeol let it. Cheongyong, believing himself in control, showed a fleeting smile of relief.

Then their eyes met—and Yegyeol smiled back.

Crash!

A sharp crack split the air as Yegyeol’s bare hand struck the flat of Cheongyong’s blade. The impact rang out, shattering the harmony of the Taiji.

Cheongyong staggered backward, off balance.

Yegyeol’s grin turned feral as he closed the distance again.

Cheongyong’s instincts screamed in warning, but Yegyeol’s fists came down faster, heavier, hammering against his sword.

“Ghh—ah!”

Pain burst through Cheongyong’s arms.

How?

How could someone with such a slender frame—someone who looked scarcely older than a boy—possess such strength?

Not even when facing the Green Forest chief who swung an axe the size of a man, nor the demonic master Heegok Hyeolbu, had he felt such pressure.

Cheongyong gasped for breath.

And then, he saw it—those eyes. Golden, burning, alive.

A shiver ran down his spine. He felt as though he were staring into the eyes of a beast.

He’s enjoying this?

The thought struck him like a blade. His sword wavered.

Each strike he parried shattered his flow. Each movement lost its grace. His once-harmonious Taechung Sword crumbled into desperate slashes—wild, uneven, shameful.

Yet still, he refused to yield.

He thought of his sect, his master, his honor. He would endure. If he held out long enough, surely, surely an opening would come.

Just a little longer. Just a little—

And then it came.

A sudden light—like dawn breaking through cloud.

“Urgh—!”

Yegyeol’s hand shot to his throat as he staggered back several steps.

Cheongyong blinked in confusion. His opponent, who had seemed unstoppable, now looked pale and strained.

Yegyeol clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Cough—”

From between his fingers spilled a vivid, unnatural red. Blood.