TSBIRBV Ch 286

Chapter 286. Cause and Effect (13)

Moyong Hwi hastily popped a Cheongshim Pill into his mouth. Though he had advanced by default, the outcome brought him no comfort—only dread.

“I should’ve been eliminated earlier.”

Cautious by nature and fainthearted to boot, he had expected to fall in the earlier rounds. But a victory by default? That was misfortune disguised as luck. He had already come farther than his abilities warranted. Any higher, and his next opponents—hungry for the championship title—would show him no mercy.

Even among outstanding swordsmen, the cultivation levels of those his age were largely similar. A single misstep, one stray swing of a blade, and he could end up dead.

Worse still, his next match was against none other than the Tang Clan’s young master, Tang Segi of Sichuan—a man who could easily have brought some unheard-of poison from the depths of Sichuan or Yunnan to quietly end his life.

Then he would fail to detoxify himself and die pitifully here in Wuhuan, far from his home in Liaoning.

“Father… this unfilial son may go before you.”

His stomach churned violently.

His father, well aware of his son’s cowardly tendency to whine before doing things flawlessly, had half-forced him into entering the tournament—claiming it was his duty to glorify the family name. Moyong Hwi had no doubt his father would regret that decision soon enough.

And yet, despite knowing full well that few people were foolish enough to kill the heir of a noble clan in a public tournament, he couldn’t calm his nerves.

Sniffling, he rose to his feet. The longer he waited, the worse the anxiety grew. During the last match, he had waited endlessly, only to be told to return because of a “dispute” regarding his opponent’s qualification.

He sensed footsteps outside the tent.

“Ah, so the time has come for this Moyong to join his ancestors.”

Feeling absurdly tragic, Moyong Hwi checked his sword one last time. Then, just as he squared his shoulders and prepared to step out, a familiar voice called from beyond the curtain.

“May I come in?”

It was a young man’s voice—one he had heard only a few times before but recognized nonetheless.

“Young Master Namgung!”

Moyong Hwi’s face brightened instantly upon seeing Namgung Un. He had fond memories of him—the man who had soundly defeated him in the previous tournament, allowing him to bow out early and return home without a scratch. For a man as melodramatic as Moyong Hwi, that was an act of pure mercy.

“What brings you here? I heard you weren’t participating in this year’s tournament.”

“I came to ask a favor of you, Young Master Moyong.”

“Oh? Don’t tell me…”

Something seemed to click for Moyong Hwi, and his face paled.

“Has my father encroached on Namgung territory to expand the Moyong Clan’s influence? You’re here to take me hostage, aren’t you?”

Before Namgung Un could even respond, Moyong Hwi shut his eyes tight and thrust his hands forward in surrender.

“Go ahead and take me. I suppose I’ll have to forfeit the tournament, but family comes first!”

“…You haven’t changed.”

Namgung Un sighed and shook his head.

“No, I came to ask your permission to use today’s dueling stage—the one you’re scheduled to fight on—for another purpose.”

“That’s fine with me, but what about Young Master Tang?”

“I’ve already secured his approval.”

“Ohh… sounds like something big is happening, then.”

“If you’re curious, you’re welcome to come and see.”

Moyong Hwi blinked. When Namgung Un extended his hand with a faint smile, he could only nod and follow, his curiosity piqued.

He trailed after Namgung Un to the arena and stopped at its base, watching as the man strode confidently onto the stage.

Standing at the center of the vast platform, Namgung Un projected his voice with the strength of his inner energy.

“Fellow martial artists, I am Namgung Un of the Namgung Clan.”

His clear, resonant voice filled the air, drawing the audience’s attention.

“Who’s that?” “The last tournament’s champion—don’t you know the heir of the Namgung Clan?”

Whispers spread through the crowd, quickly followed by confusion.

“Then why is he on stage?”

“The Dragon-Phoenix Tournament has always been a grand festival of the orthodox martial world,” Namgung Un began.

Moyong Hwi swallowed hard as he watched. If he himself were in that position, with so many eyes upon him, he would’ve collapsed from sheer panic. Yet Namgung Un spoke calmly, his composure unshaken.

“It is a time for unity, a reminder not to grow complacent even in peace, and a gathering where each house and sect showcases their martial heritage before the world.”

A Martial Alliance official, clearly flustered, approached the stage.

“Young Master Namgung, why have you come onto the dueling platform?”

“Shh! If we interrupt now, I’ll die of curiosity!” Moyong Hwi hissed, deftly holding the official back and turning his full attention to the speaker.

“Furthermore,” Namgung Un continued, “the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament has always been an honorable venue where young martial talents may prove their skill and earn their name.”

His tone commanded attention, his words compelling the audience to listen.

“However, this year, foul rumors have shadowed the contestants. Lies have spread as truth, and because of them, an innocent participant was unjustly disqualified.”

A shout rose from the crowd.

“Innocent? How can you be so sure of that?”

The speaker’s face was flushed red, his tone accusatory. A few others around him murmured their agreement.

“Therefore,” Namgung Un said, unperturbed, “to protect the integrity of the tournament and the faith of all who honor it, I intend to prove that the disqualified contestant was falsely accused.”

Another voice rang out, loud and mocking—this time laced with inner energy.

“Who would’ve thought the Namgung Clan heir would grow so arrogant as to meddle in Alliance affairs?”

It was a subtle but deliberate attempt to stir dissent. The murmurs grew louder. Many spectators, expecting a fight, frowned at the unexpected turn of events.

“Boo! Get off the stage!”

Yet Namgung Un stood firm, ignoring the jeers.

“I have invited the former Grand Elder of the Beggar’s Union to testify.”

At his words, a frail old man climbed onto the stage, his frame thin as a branch but his presence sharp and unyielding. He wore a simple hemp cloak without a single knot or ornament—a sign known to all.

“The Unbound Beggar…”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as recognition spread. It was Jeok Nogae, the former Grand Elder of the Beggar’s Union.

“In the duel with the Wudang Sect, contestant Je Haryang was disqualified for allegedly using poison against the Blue Dragon disciple,” Jeok Nogae announced.

“However, the poison was not used by him—it was used on him. I, Jeok Nogae, swear this on the name of the Beggar’s Union.”

The Beggar’s Union—no organization in the orthodox world held greater influence in the realm of information. A statement under its name, let alone by its former leader, carried immense weight.

“Stop them! Remove them from the stage at once!”

Several Martial Alliance officers, realizing the match had been delayed, rushed from their tents toward the arena.

Moyong Hwi sighed heavily.

“Ah, this is killing me. I need to hear the rest of this!”

His twin swords flashed, forming a spinning barrier that blocked the officials’ path. With a few precise movements, he disarmed and bound them all before they could react.

Meanwhile, Namgung Un continued speaking calmly, unfazed by the commotion.

“After a thorough investigation, others were found to have been poisoned by the same toxin as Je Haryang. Young Master Tang of the Sichuan Tang Clan will explain from here.”

Tang Segi, accompanied by several others, climbed the stage, his movements slightly awkward but resolute.

“I am Tang Segi of the Tang Clan. As one of those harmed by these rumors, I will personally testify.”

His tone was steady, his demeanor composed.

“Young Master Je vomited blood on stage, while the Blue Dragon disciple remained unharmed.”

“That just means he poisoned himself!” someone shouted from the stands.

Though the arena was packed, Tang Segi’s venom-bright eyes immediately found the speaker.

“In the Tang Clan, even a five-year-old knows not to poison themselves. Those who handle toxins develop resistance over years of practice. If Young Master Je had truly used the poison, he would’ve had immunity. Yet he collapsed after exposure to only a trace amount—proof that he did not possess any.”

His voice was cold, his words precise. The crowd began to murmur again.

“Furthermore,” he continued, “the poison was found on his clothing. Even for one who has resistance, storing it that way would risk harming anyone nearby. The type used here is so rare and lethal that its worth rivals its weight in gold.”

At the mention of money, many spectators nodded in understanding.

“If Young Master Je had truly possessed and used it, half the people in his tent would have vomited blood alongside him.”

Tang Segi’s words landed like hammer blows. Then, gesturing, he motioned three men forward.

“Who are they?”

“I know that one—that’s Jin Seonggil from the Lucky Cloud Sect! He dropped out last week!”

“He’s a lightweight master of movement techniques. And next to him—Baek Hwan and Yang Muryeong, both early-round forfeits. They said they fell ill and withdrew.”

“Indeed,” Tang Segi said gravely. “These are Jin Seonggil, Baek Hwan, and Ho Seong. All three were found in a remote inn near Wuhuan, suffering from the same poison as Young Master Je. I managed to reach them in time and administer the antidote. But I fear others were not so fortunate.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

“Someone has been targeting the rising talents of the tournament with poison. I request a formal investigation by the Martial Alliance.”

A ripple of alarm spread through the crowd.

If there were more victims—then the Alliance had failed not only to uncover the truth but to stop the real culprit, who was still free.

Namgung Un watched as Je Haryang, once a criminal in the eyes of the world, was now seen as the victim.

And then, his gaze caught someone among the audience—a man sitting with his chin resting on his hand, the scars on his face and knuckles stark against his skin.

Their eyes met. The man’s lips moved silently.

“So this is your way, then.”