TSBIRBV Ch 278

Chapter 278. Cause and Effect (5)

The man who had spoken moved without hesitation.

Leading Yegyeol to the bathing hall, Black Ghost soaked a towel in warm water and began to wipe his hands, the nape of his neck, and his face with slow, careful strokes.

Yegyeol protested that he could do it himself, his voice half–desperate, but the man ignored him completely—whatever entered one ear slipped right out the other.

When Haryang acted as his usual “gentle senior brother,” he at least pretended to listen. But wearing the face of Black Ghost, he was pure tyranny—doing only as he pleased.

It’s thrilling, sure… but what kind of torture is this?

His lover, whom he hadn’t seen for weeks, stood right before him, eyes half–lidded as though lost in thought, studying him with a quiet intensity. Every time their skin brushed, every slight graze of fingers, his heartbeat pounded violently against his ribs.

After so long apart, how could he not feel the urge—to reach out, to steal just a little of what he’d been starved of?

But he couldn’t move. Not even a finger.

The ache in his throat was almost unbearable. He had chosen this situation himself—bound by his own request—but that didn’t make it any less cruel.

I really did dig my own grave.

He had meant to prevent “accidents.” Now, it only felt like punishment.

“I regret not being able to wash you properly,” the man said lightly, “but you’re clean enough. Shall we pick out something for you to wear?”

Without waiting for an answer, he swept Yegyeol up again.

The side room adjoining the bathing chamber was filled with clothing, each piece seemingly tailored to Yegyeol’s size. How or when they’d been prepared, he couldn’t imagine—there wasn’t a single servant in the entire estate.

The black–clad man standing amid that cascade of vivid fabrics looked utterly out of place.

Haryang held each garment up against Yegyeol’s frame, assessing with quiet seriousness. He ended up choosing several long, elegant robes—the kind Yegyeol rarely wore—and draped them over his shoulders.

“If you untie my hands, I could dress myself,” Yegyeol said flatly, extending his shackled wrists.

“You would rob me of my small pleasures, then,” came the unruffled reply.

“You do realize I can’t put on clothes with these on.”

“That’s true,” the man conceded, his eyes narrowing in amusement.

A smile curved his lips—pleasant enough to be dangerous. “But there’s something I still wish to do, so I can’t release you just yet.”

After laying the chosen garments neatly on the table, he guided Yegyeol toward the next destination.

In the courtyard, a small pavilion stood waiting, steam rising from the dishes arranged upon the table—clear soup, soft rice porridge, steamed fish, and delicate pickled vegetables.

“This looks like breakfast…” Yegyeol muttered. “Don’t tell me you plan to feed me, too?”

“How perceptive.”

Even someone without any sense could have guessed it by now.

Once seated, Black Ghost simply pulled Yegyeol into his lap as though it were the most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t the first time—it had happened often enough in the Ten Thousand Mountains—but Yegyeol still gaped, startled by the sheer audacity of it.

“Can’t I sit beside you?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

But Haryang always did whatever he pleased. So Yegyeol decided to persist anyway, if only out of principle.

“If you sit too far away,” Haryang murmured, “I might tremble and spill the food.”

A martial master at the transcendence stage claiming shaky hands—if that wasn’t terrifying, it was absurd. The man who had probably never told a lie in his life had become alarmingly adept at it.

Black Ghost oversaw everything: washing, dressing, and now feeding.

“Is there anything you’d like to eat?” he asked with a trace of excitement.

He had missed him. Just as Yegyeol had missed Haryang in his own way, this too was a form of longing—awkward, possessive, expressed through service.

“…The steamed fish, maybe?” Yegyeol said tentatively.

With almost reverent care, the man picked up his chopsticks and began to debone the fish. His movements were precise, almost memorized—removing each thin, fine bone as though he’d practiced it a hundred times.

When he finished, he placed a morsel neatly on a spoon and held it to Yegyeol’s lips.

“Try it. It’s a large fish—the meat should be good.”

“Can’t I… feed myself?”

“No.”

Yegyeol sighed, defeated, and opened his mouth. The chopsticks slipped between his lips, gentle but inescapable. As he chewed, Haryang’s eyes softened with quiet satisfaction.

The moment he swallowed, the question came:

“How is it?”

“…It’s delicious.”

The flesh was tender, the flavor delicate. It was likely freshwater fish, full of fine bones, but the careful preparation had made it soft and clean. Fresh, too—probably caught from Donghu Lake.

“Here. Try this.”

He offered another bite, then alternated between porridge, soup, and tea. Whenever Yegyeol so much as glanced at the cup, Haryang brought it to his lips. If a dish cooled, he reheated it effortlessly with a breath of solar qi.

It was meticulous to the point of exhaustion.

Every motion was deliberate, like a ritual rehearsal for something larger.

When Yegyeol didn’t refuse, Haryang finally commented, amused, “You’re not resisting.”

“I promised I’d eat properly,” Yegyeol said quickly, almost too quickly. He wanted to sound steady—to show that he’d been doing well, that he’d lived up to his word.

“To eat well, sleep well, and stay healthy.”

Even if his conscience was fragile, he’d kept his promises. He might have run away—but he hadn’t broken his word.

“…You made that promise to him, didn’t you?”

The words were neither bitter nor accusing—merely calm. Just like Haryang himself.

“Yes.”

Yegyeol met his eyes squarely.

The meal ended quietly—simple, peaceful.

Anyone else, being fed like a child while seated on a demonic overlord’s lap, would have been utterly undone. But Yegyeol was not anyone else.

“Tea?”

He nearly asked to have his hands freed again, but caught himself. There was no point. Black Ghost wasn’t going to agree.

Instead, he asked the question that had been gnawing at him.

“Why won’t you take these off?”

He had kept his word, spent the night as promised, played along with all of Haryang’s whims—yet the shackles remained. Surely there was a reason beyond amusement.

“How was your day?” came the answer instead.

Puzzled, Yegyeol blinked. He thought for a moment, then said simply, “Comfortable.”

“…I expected you to say uncomfortable.”

“How could I be, when I didn’t have to lift a finger?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how they sounded. His face stiffened. “But mentally—very uncomfortable,” he added hastily, stressing every word.

Since morning he’d endured an onslaught of affection—face, proximity, touch. He’d sat on Haryang’s lap through an entire meal, his body and mind softened by the constant guiding energy that radiated from him.

He felt like a sun–warmed cat, too full and too drowsy to move.

His guard had melted.

He realized now that espers with too much guiding energy were calmer—but those with too little were much better at pretending indifference.

“…And yet you call it uncomfortable.”

Haryang’s gaze was complicated. He reached out, cupping Yegyeol’s face gently. His thumb brushed along his cheek in a slow, circling motion, drawing his eyes up.

Even as the distance between them shrank, Yegyeol didn’t move. He was so focused on meeting that gaze that he didn’t notice how close they’d become.

“To spend a night with a man harboring impure thoughts,” Haryang murmured, “you’re alarmingly unguarded.”

His finger pressed lightly against Yegyeol’s lips.

“You even asked to be restrained. What would you have done if I truly meant harm?”

“I—”

“If your answer is because I trust you, you’d best keep your mouth shut.”

The quiet voice cut like a blade.

Yegyeol flinched.

Then, lowering his hand, Haryang seized the manyeon-hancheol shackles—and crushed the central chain with a single twist.

The unyielding metal, famed for resisting even sword–qi, bent and broke like clay.

Yegyeol stared, stunned. Haryang’s hand rose again, resting lightly on his shoulder, warmth easing through the tension.

“If you’ve kept your promises to that man so diligently,” he said softly, “then keep them still. You don’t belong in the hands of a rogue like me.”

His tone was gentle—too gentle, like a story told to a child.

“B–Black Ghost…”

“When you leave,” Haryang said, brushing the back of his hand against Yegyeol’s cheek, “wear the clothes we chose this morning.”

He smiled faintly. “I’ll send a carriage at the same time tomorrow.”

It was an absurd contradiction—advising caution one moment and dictating his schedule the next.

“Is that a request?”

Surprise flickered briefly in Yegyeol’s brown eyes, though his voice stayed calm.

The man tilted Yegyeol’s chin upward, eyes sharp and searching, as if trying to find even a trace of fear in his disciple’s face.

Finding none, he whispered with a small laugh,

“An unreasonable, foolish threat.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to come.”

Yegyeol pressed his now–free hands against the man’s thigh and pushed himself up. Through the thin fabric, he felt the taut muscle beneath—felt it tighten in response.

A ghost of a smile touched Yegyeol’s lips.

After all, mischief wasn’t Haryang’s privilege alone.

“I have a duel the day after tomorrow,” he said lightly. “Will you come watch?”