TSBIRBV Ch 289

Chapter 289. Secret Tryst (1)

“Is that him?”

“Yes. That’s Je Haryang.”

As Yegyeol walked down the street, whispers spread in his wake—like a sudden swarm of bees stirring the air with their hum. But he walked straight ahead, his face calm, as though deaf to it all.

He refused the carriage offered by the Martial Alliance, choosing instead to walk.

Ever since the day of the great public revelation at the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament, the story of how the Alliance had unjustly treated a lowly, unaffiliated fighter had spread like wildfire.

Only three days had passed, yet the rumor had already leapt beyond Wuhuan’s city walls.

Dozens of Beggar’s Union disciples had been present when Yegyeol’s innocence was proven. Countless others had witnessed the process firsthand.

In the end, the Martial Alliance had no choice but to admit their error and release him.

When freedom was restored to him, Yegyeol hadn’t expressed anger or resentment.

Instead, he had thanked the Alliance for correcting their mistake—and had humbly requested that they also investigate the cases of others who might have been wronged as he was.

That simple statement from “Je Haryang” had spread far and wide, almost as if it had grown wings.

Even though he had spoken those words in a hall filled only with Alliance officials, the story had traveled like wildfire.

They’re just afraid, Yegyeol thought blandly.

The Alliance’s honor was already rolling in the mud; they had no choice but to shower him with praise, lauding his noble temperament and magnanimity.

Still, it worked to his advantage.

Had the Alliance not leaked the story themselves, he would’ve done it for them.

Thus, the Je Haryang imprisonment incident had effectively reached its end.

But once a fire starts, it never dies quietly.

Now, even three-year-old children in Wuhuan gossiped about the case.

“I heard Je Haryang wasn’t just some unaffiliated wanderer—he’s connected to the Tang Clan of Sichuan, the Namgung Clan, even the Peng Clan of Hebei! Oh, and he’s got ties to the Beggar’s Union too!”

“Such a vast network! It’s true—great warriors always recognize their own kind.”

Some spoke of admiration for the powerful figures who had defended him.

“I heard he didn’t try to escape even when imprisoned. Just waited it out calmly.”

“Is he slow-witted or something? Why would he do that?”

“It’s no crime to believe in the fairness of the Martial Alliance.”

Others debated his temperament instead.

Guess pretending to be my Senior Brother paid off after all, Yegyeol thought dryly.

He nearly laughed as he overheard people calling him a fool for being “too upright.”

How ironic—those who didn’t even understand what honesty meant, criticizing him so glibly. How utterly ridiculous they were.

“Je Haryang… Je Haryang…”

A passing old man muttered the name under his breath, frowning.

“Strange. I could swear I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”

“Hah! I’ve met at least five men named Wang San in my life.”

“You fool. Je Haryang isn’t a common name like Wang San’s third son.”

Yegyeol quickened his pace before he could be recognized.

The results were appearing faster than he’d anticipated—but it still wasn’t enough. Not yet.

“I’m back.”

As he stepped into the guesthouse annex, Peng Munhyeong greeted him immediately.

From the mud caked on his shoes, it seemed he’d been pacing in the garden, anxiously awaiting Yegyeol’s return.

“So? What did the Martial Alliance say?”

The day Namgung Un, Tang Segi, Peng Munhyeong, and Jeok Nogae had all vouched for Yegyeol’s innocence, he’d been released and allowed to return to his lodging.

However, because of his re-entry into the tournament, the Alliance had summoned him again after three days.

Truthfully, Yegyeol hadn’t been nervous at all. Namgung Un had handled matters too skillfully; the Alliance’s authority was hanging by a thread. There was no way they’d risk losing more face by denying the victim’s right to compete.

But Peng Munhyeong had grumbled all day, insisting that the orthodox sects couldn’t be trusted. It seemed he’d meant it quite seriously.

“Well…” Yegyeol deliberately trailed off.

“Well?”

Peng’s face was taut with worry. The man could knock out a tiger with his bare fists, yet here he was, trembling like a child. Yegyeol nearly laughed.

“The Martial Alliance admitted their investigation was mistaken. They’ve allowed me to advance by default to the next round.”

When he added that they’d already secured Young Master Moyong’s consent, Peng’s huge shoulders slumped with visible relief.

“Thank the heavens! Truly, thank the heavens!”

He grinned broadly, thumping Yegyeol on the shoulder with such force that each pat felt like it shortened his height by half a centimeter. Yet Yegyeol didn’t flinch or pull away—he merely smiled.

His gaze lingered on Peng Munhyeong.

He hadn’t expected such help from him.

I thought only Namgung Un’s old ally, Jeok Nogae, would lend a hand.

But his expectations had been pleasantly overturned. Not only Peng, but even Tang Segi had gone out of their way to help him. Some of those who had once fought and lost to him had stepped forward too.

“This calls for a drink to celebrate!” Peng declared loudly.

Almost on cue, the door slid open, revealing Tang Segi holding several bottles of wine.

Behind him, servants carried in trays heavy with fragrant dishes.

“I already knew it!” Tang Segi announced proudly. Clearly, he’d been eavesdropping and timed his entrance for dramatic effect.

He stood there, hands on his hips, radiating triumph—completely unaware that Peng was glaring daggers at him.

“If you already knew, you could’ve given us a heads-up, Young Master Tang.”

Peng spoke like the master of the house, though technically he was an uninvited guest. Tang Segi had merely offered them shelter.

Caught off guard, Tang Segi wilted under his stare.

“A-ah, well! I assumed you’d have heard through your own family network! I didn’t mean to keep it from you!”

“Oh? So you’re saying the Tang Clan didn’t pressure the Alliance to get the results early?”

“N-no, of course not! I just… I was directly involved, you know?” Tang Segi laughed awkwardly, his guilt written all over his face.

He turned pleadingly toward Yegyeol for rescue—but Yegyeol was not one to show mercy to anyone not named Je Haryang.

“I’m afraid the two of you will have to drink without me.”

His tone was light, almost musical.

“Ah, I see. You’re avoiding alcohol to stay in top form for the next match, of course,” Peng interpreted easily, nodding in approval.

“That’s not it,” Yegyeol corrected gently, a faint smile on his lips. “There’s somewhere I need to go.”

“Someone I really want to tell… that things turned out well.”

A soft flush touched his cheeks.

Tang Segi’s eyes widened. Could it be…?

“Ah, of course! You’re a loyal man. Plenty of people went to great lengths to help you, after all!” Peng said warmly, utterly oblivious.

Yegyeol offered no further explanation.

He slipped out, his steps as graceful and light as swaying willow branches, his mood bright and unburdened.

While he disappeared down the corridor, the servants, at Tang’s gesture, began setting the dishes on the table before quietly retreating.

Tang Segi sighed, shaking his head as he surveyed the spread.

“A feast without the guest of honor—what irony.”

“That’s fine. We’ll drink enough for three,” Peng said cheerfully.

“We’ll have to, seeing as this is enough food for eight. Even Hero Yayul isn’t here…” Tang muttered gloomily.

He’d clearly been looking forward to celebrating with Yegyeol, Hongyeo, Peng, and himself.

Still, Peng was a surprisingly good drinking companion—boisterous but not overbearing, and so lively that just watching him drink was entertaining enough.

“That guy Yayul seems busy lately. No matter. We’ll make do.”

Peng clapped Tang on the shoulder and laughed.

Just as they popped open the first bottle, the door slid open once again.

“I’ve come to see Young Master Mun,” said a voice.

It was Namgung Un—neatly dressed, composed, yet faintly weary.

Tang, not catching the subtle nuance in how he’d addressed Yegyeol as Young Master Mun, clicked his tongue in regret.

“Ah, just missed him by a hair.”

Meanwhile, Peng blinked, then shrugged, taking a long swig straight from the bottle.

“I thought he was heading to see you, actually…” Tang murmured, puzzled.

He didn’t know about the Black Ghost.

So, naturally, he assumed Yegyeol had gone to find Namgung Un—the man who had risked everything to save him.

After all, it was Namgung Un who had rallied the Beggar’s Union, persuaded Tang Segi, Moyong Hwi, and others to act.

Watching Namgung Un tirelessly fight for justice against the Martial Alliance itself had deeply impressed Tang Segi.

Surely Yegyeol, the one he saved, must have felt the same—perhaps even something more.

“…Seems they missed each other,” Namgung Un said softly, his tone polite but distant, his expression unreadable.

“Then you should return quickly,” Tang urged kindly. “He must’ve gone to your quarters.”

Namgung Un nodded once. “Then I’ll take my leave.”

Yegyeol stood before the Black Ghost’s manor by the lake.

The sky was gray, and mist coiled thick around the building, veiling it in a ghostly haze. It looked like something out of an old legend or nightmare.

A pair of guards stood by the gate, their faces expressionless, eyes fixed forward—as though they couldn’t even see him.

“I am Mun Yegyeol of the Cheonghae Trading Guild. I’ve come to see the Black Ghost.”

Feigning nervousness, he stated his name and purpose. Without a word, the guards opened the gate, letting him through.

He crossed the threshold into a garden overgrown with grass. There, in plain clothes, stood the Black Ghost himself.

His long hair was loosely tied back, revealing the scars that marred his face even more starkly.

Sensing his presence, the man turned toward him.

“Young Master Mun.”

His lips barely moved as he spoke.

“I haven’t even sent a carriage for you yet—and you’ve come of your own accord.”

“I wanted to see you. And… there’s something I’d like to ask.”

At that, the man’s brows lifted slightly.

“Something to ask?”

The tone was almost casual, but Yegyeol could tell he was pretending not to know.

He studied the man’s face quietly before speaking.

“The Jinju Eon Clan.”

“…”

“I believe you had a hand in what happened to them.”

“And why do you think so?” the man asked, his voice slow and even.

“The Eon Clan would never have stayed silent about my release. Yet I heard they did nothing—on the very day my innocence was announced.”

“And from that alone, you suspect my involvement?”

“In just a few days, chaos erupted. The Eon Clan was supposed to gift a thousand-li stallion to the royal family and the grand marshal… but the horse they gave the prince turned out to be a counterfeit. Isn’t that right?”

The Jinju Eon Clan, who had tried to ruin a prodigy destined to win the tournament, had at first escaped punishment.

But soon, news spread of their downfall.

They had “luckily” acquired a rare celestial horse and presented one each to the prince and the grand marshal. The problem?

The grand marshal’s was genuine—but the prince’s was a fake.

Enraged, the prince had summoned the clan head and stripped them of all privileges gained from that “gift.” Investigators were sent to audit their holdings, and the imperial inspectors were practically tearing up their estate stone by stone.

The grand marshal, disgusted, returned his horse and severed ties with them completely.

The clan was in chaos—and in that storm, they’d completely forgotten about Yegyeol.

“If someone suddenly ‘found’ such a rare steed without an owner,” Yegyeol continued, “it must have passed through the largest black market in the Central Plains—the Black Net.”

The Black Ghost’s lips curved faintly upward.

“How astute of you.”

It wasn’t an outright confession, but it might as well have been.

“You’ve come at just the right time,” he said, extending a gloved hand. “I was about to head out. Care to join me?”

A dangerous invitation—and one Yegyeol could hardly refuse.

“May I ask… where we’re going?”

At that, the Black Ghost’s smile deepened.

The motion distorted the scars across his face—ugly, perhaps, but mesmerizing in its intensity.

“What else would a demonic lord be doing,” he said softly, “but something wicked?”