TSBIRBV Ch 279

Chapter 279. Cause and Effect (6)

Qingyong sat alone in a quiet corner of the teahouse. Even the followers who usually shadowed him were nowhere to be seen.

His face was a portrait of turmoil.

Since his defeat at the hands of the man called Je Haryang yesterday, peace had been utterly beyond his reach.

Whenever he thought of taking up his sword again, his hands began to tremble. It felt as though he were being dragged once more onto that dueling stage.

Every night, he dreamed of golden eyes.

He would see himself flailing desperately, sword raised, struggling to reach an opponent forever out of reach—and the moment those eyes turned to molten gold, terror would seize his heart.

The Wudang sword was not weak. It was the one wielding it who was lacking.

So Qingyong had gone straight to seek out his master, Elder Yong Hyeon-jin.

The man had been frozen stiff, unable to tear his eyes from the dueling platform even long after the match had ended.

Once back in his quarters, the elder had shut himself away.

His disciple, who had served him faithfully all his life, had never seen his master so shaken. The sight alone was enough to set Qingyong’s chest quivering with unease.

Perhaps he had embarrassed his teacher. Perhaps the master’s disappointment was too great to be spoken aloud.

Even this morning, when Qingyong had brought breakfast himself, Yong Hyeon-jin refused to receive him.

He must be unwell, Qingyong had thought bitterly.

He had offered to call a physician, but his master’s voice—thin and drained of strength—had dismissed the idea.

Now, sitting before a cup of tea gone cold, Qingyong stared blankly into its surface. His own inadequate reflection stared back.

“Why?” he whispered.

It was not his first defeat.

Within the Wudang Sect, he was a prodigy—second to none save the eldest senior—but in the vast expanse of the martial world, there were many such talents.

Among them, Namgung Un, the young master of the Namgung Clan, shone brightest of all.

They had crossed swords once before—at the previous Dragon–Phoenix Assembly. Back then, Qingyong had been full of hope, determined to bring honor to the Wudang name, and by luck and skill alike, he’d reached the finals.

“What was different this time…”

Those eyes. Those golden eyes haunted him still.

For better or worse, he could not forget that man.

Was it sorcery?

The thought came unbidden, and Qingyong gritted his teeth.

He wanted someone to blame. He wanted to believe it wasn’t his own inadequacy that had brought him down.

At the front of the teahouse, the storyteller was recounting a tale—of a righteous swordsman of the orthodox path slaying a demonic master.

When he reached the part where the Wudang’s Taechung Sword cut down evil, the patrons burst into cheers and applause.

Qingyong’s face darkened further. He drained his cup, preparing to leave.

It was nearly noon—he would try again to see his master.

But then, a voice drifted from the next table.

“…Still, hasn’t Wudang’s reputation been dragged through the mud?”

“Ah, you’ve heard too? Unbelievable. Poison, they say.”

“What kind of sect of purity stoops to poison? That’s the work of heretics!”

The men spoke low, cautious, but Qingyong’s honed hearing caught every word.

He froze, as if a weight had been tied to his legs.

Poison.

The word repeated itself in his skull.

“You tell me,” one sneered. “Why would a Wudang disciple use poison?”

“They say that Je Haryang—that newcomer who’s been mowing down every opponent—never lost once, and always by a staggering margin.”

“Well, true. Gok Gil-sang was no slouch, but Je Haryang flattened him in a single exchange. Even Kang Deuk, who reached the semifinals last Assembly, went down in moments. Didn’t he fight Qingyong last time? They were evenly matched then.”

Qingyong bit his lip until it bled.

Yes, he remembered Kang Deuk.

Kang Deuk had been a skilled swordsman—not his equal, but formidable. It was the first time Qingyong had faced someone who specialized in throwing blades, and his unfamiliarity with the distance and timing had made for a rough fight.

But he’d won, in the end.

So when he heard that Je Haryang had crushed Kang Deuk with ease, he hadn’t panicked… not exactly. But it had made him sharpen his sword late into the night, unease clawing at his chest.

“And what of Han Hong-seol?” another continued. “It was her first time competing, but everyone knows she helped annihilate that pirate crew in Zhejiang—battle-hardened, that one. And still, Je Haryang beat her.”

“No wonder the Wudang prodigy’s courage shriveled up,” the other laughed.

Qingyong’s hands clenched into fists.

A martial artist should speak through the sword. Once defeated, he had no right to complain.

But to be accused of using poison—that, he could not bear.

Hadn’t he been the one most shocked when Je Haryang coughed blood onstage?

If anything, the fact that he fought at all in that state…

He exhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut.

The more he remembered, the heavier that defeat became.

“I heard it was the other way around,” another man interjected suddenly.

The others turned. “What do you mean?”

“Someone said that Je Haryang was the one who tried to poison the Wudang disciple first.”

“What? Then why did he spit blood?”

“You don’t understand poison arts. The man’s no Sichuan Tang clansman—probably botched his own technique.”

“Huh… when you put it that way, it almost makes sense.”

Qingyong let out a hollow laugh.

He felt foolish for even listening to the idle talk of fools who knew nothing of the truth.

Thank heaven he hadn’t worn his sect robes today. He pulled his hat low and left the teahouse quietly.

Even to an outsider, the rumor that Je Haryang had poisoned himself made little sense.

But like all rumors, it was tantalizing—and the more absurd, the faster it spread.

Most who heard it merely shrugged, muttering that the martial world was a brutal place, and moved on.

But there were always those who listened closely.

“What!”

The roar shook the room.

Yong Hyeon-jin slammed his hand down on the table, shattering the wooden edge.

“That Je Haryang tried to poison my disciple?!”

“Y-yes, Immortal Yong,” stammered the messenger from the Beggar Sect.

Yong Hyeon-jin shut his eyes tightly, raising his head toward the heavens. His blood seethed.

He had been cooped up for days, festering with anger—and now it boiled over.

The more he recalled the match at the Assembly, the more the old humiliation clawed back from the depths.

His disciple had been the one defeated—but the name that echoed through the arena was Je Haryang.

Not the same Je Haryang from two decades past—the Kunlun disciple who had once rivaled heaven itself—but a new young fighter, a stranger.

And yet the name alone was enough to shake him.

He’s gone. Gone for good.

But the name still burned like a ghost in his chest.

He clenched his fist.

He would never again be hailed as a paragon of righteousness, never again stand among those called “heroes” of the orthodox path.

He had never surpassed Je Haryang in life. And yet, when the man fell, Yong Hyeon-jin had felt something like peace. Wudang’s name, at least, still shone from the mountaintop.

The sect was his life, his everything.

Even without a rival, he had trained relentlessly, reaching ever closer to perfection—to become not only Wudang’s greatest swordsman, but the world’s.

He had nearly succeeded. Just one step more, and he might have buried the shadow of Je Haryang forever.

I thought I’d forgotten.

His Taiji, his harmony, his hard-won Dao—all of it wavered at that single name’s return.

The inferiority and bitterness of his youth had become a heart demon long ago, one he had painstakingly buried beneath layers of discipline.

But now his entire enlightenment trembled upon that fragile ground.

The Way of Wudang is still far from reach.

His wandering feet carried him to a tavern.

When the Wudang’s greatest sword entered, not a server but the tavern owner himself came running to greet him, bowing low.

He was led to the highest room, the one reserved for honored guests. There, Yong Hyeon-jin ordered wine and drank in silence.

“Well, if it isn’t Immortal Yong Hyeon-jin.”

He turned as the door opened. Another guest, escorted to a neighboring room, paused upon recognizing him.

“Merchant Hong,” Yong said with a faint smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Ha! It’s been too long.”

The man was one of Hubei’s wealthiest traders—his son had married into the Wudang Sect, and his generous donations had ensured acquaintance with its elders.

“It’s rare to see you drinking, Immortal. I assume you’re troubled over your disciple’s recent duel?”

“Ah… such is the path of a martial artist,” Yong replied serenely, despite the ache in his gut. “Qingyong will endure.”

“Endure? You mean you haven’t heard the latest?”

Yong’s expression cooled. “Latest?”

The merchant blinked. “You mean the rumor?”

“If it’s about my disciple using poison,” Yong said slowly, “then yes. I’ve heard.”

The Wulin Alliance was already investigating the incident. Wudang had denied all involvement, but there were plenty of opportunists eager to muddy the waters.

Still, to bring it up before him—to his face—was beyond audacious.

“No, no!” Merchant Hong waved his hands quickly, paling at the elder’s glare. “They say it was the other way around!”

“…What did you say?”

“That Je Haryang tried to poison your disciple, failed, and then—when he poisoned himself—pretended to cough blood to frame him!”

Hong swallowed nervously. “He’s not from any well-known sect, after all. They say he was desperate to climb higher, to prove himself. Some even claim to have seen him lurking in the alleys, buying poison from backstreet dealers.”

Wudang’s sworn enemies often gathered in taverns like these, spreading filth under the guise of gossip. This was the worst of the rumors—and the most insidious.

Yong Hyeon-jin exhaled sharply through his nose and gestured.

“Fetch me a Beggar Sect messenger,” he ordered the servant. “Tell him I’ll buy him a drink.”

He tossed a silver coin across the table. The server bowed hastily and ran off.

Merchant Hong took that as his cue to bow himself out.

Before long, a beggar sect disciple entered.

Yong Hyeon-jin had never liked the unwashed wanderers of the Beggar Sect, but now he regarded the man intently.

“They say Je Haryang tried to poison my disciple,” he said. “Do you know anything of this?”

The implication was clear—tell me everything you know.

“Ah, it’s only a rumor for now…”

“The Beggar Sect is renowned for its information,” Yong pressed softly, but there was steel beneath the tone. “If you know something, speak.”

Sweat gathered on the man’s brow. He shook his head.

“There’s been no witness of him buying poison, no sign of him entering the alleys. The Wulin Alliance has been watching him closely. He leaves the stage, returns straight to his quarters. Nothing else.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, Yong Hyeon-jin placed a finger on the silver coin lying between them.

He pressed down.

The metal sank into the wood—smoothly, effortlessly, without breaking.

The beggar sect man swallowed hard. He understood well enough what that meant.

“Th-that’s all I know, truly—wait!”

“I’ll change the question,” Yong said mildly. “Do you know where Je Haryang is staying now?”

“…He’s at an inn currently occupied by the young heir of the Sichuan Tang Clan,” the man stammered.

Sichuan Tang Clan. Poison.

The connection was obvious—too obvious.

If Je Haryang had met with the Tang heir, if he had obtained poison from them… then everything fit perfectly.

There is no smoke without fire.

There was no way his disciple had lost fairly.

There must have been trickery. There had to be.

“To think he would dare…”

The sound of grinding teeth filled the air. The beggar sect man flinched and looked up.

Yong Hyeon-jin’s eyes blazed with fury—and with an older, deeper hatred beneath it.

That hatred was not meant for the current Je Haryang.

“I—I’ve told you, it’s only conjecture,” the beggar stammered. “There’s no proof!”

Yong’s expression smoothed. He plucked the embedded silver from the table and tossed it to the man.

The beggar caught it reflexively, staring up in confusion.

There was no trace now of rage or loathing—only the faintest hint of a smile.

Or was that… amusement?

A chill ran through him.

“Understood,” Yong said softly. “Leave the evidence to Wudang. We’ll handle it.”

The smile he gave then was gentle, almost kind.

But the man sitting before him no longer looked like a serene Daoist master.

“I give you my word, upon Wudang’s name,” Yong said, his voice low and calm. “No innocent man will suffer.”

And yet, the light in his eyes promised something far darker.