TSBIRBV Ch 290

Chapter 290. Secret Tryst (2)

Before stepping out of the carriage, Yegyeol fidgeted with his face and asked nervously,

“Does it look right? It’s my first time wearing a human-skin mask… I can’t really tell.”

He had insisted on accompanying the Black Ghost, and after boarding the carriage together, they had ridden for a while before stopping. That was when the Black Ghost handed him the mask, suggesting that it would be best to conceal his face.

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

A famed young fighter from the Dragon-Phoenix Tournament wandering around with a high-ranking officer of the Black Net was a sight that would invite all manner of gossip.

It was Yegyeol’s first time wearing a disguise like this, and its texture was… uncanny.

It felt oddly similar to human skin, yet cool and smooth like Beambeam the snake when he touched it. Thin, supple, disturbingly realistic.

Feels more like those skincare masks the senior merchants use at the center, he thought wryly.

“The edges are lifting slightly,” the man said quietly.

Before Yegyeol could react, the Black Ghost reached out to fix the mask. The touch of his bare fingers against Yegyeol’s skin made him freeze, blinking wide-eyed.

“I—I can do it myse—”

“Human-skin masks are tricky to handle,” the man interrupted calmly. “It’s better if I help.”

Though his tone sounded like a polite offer, he never removed his hand.

As if he already knew Yegyeol’s answer, his fingertips traced the curled edge of the mask, pressing it down gently until it melded seamlessly against the skin. The faint, sliding pressure—warm fingers smoothing over cold artificial flesh—sent a strange, tingling chill up Yegyeol’s spine.

He closed his eyes without realizing it.

Haryang was merely helping with the disguise, his attention entirely practical, yet when those deep black eyes met his own, an inexplicable tension stirred—a fleeting, reckless impulse that made Yegyeol’s breath catch.

When the Black Ghost finally stepped back, the task done, Yegyeol opened his eyes to find that the man was still studying him intently.

“It’s well fitted. We can leave it as is,” the man said softly.

A trace of satisfaction curved his lips as he scooped a bit of salve onto his finger. Then, following the seam where mask met skin, he spread it in a slow, steady motion.

“There. All done.”

“…You’re very skilled at this,” Yegyeol managed to say, suppressing the fluster tightening in his throat.

“Men with scars like mine,” Haryang replied evenly, “often find it difficult to move unseen.”

“…Did it hurt much? When you were injured?”

At that, the man’s gaze lifted to meet his.

Most would have asked how he was injured—but Yegyeol, as always, went beyond what he expected.

“It wasn’t particularly painful,” he said after a moment. “The scars were… made out of necessity.”

Yegyeol’s eyes widened. “Why would you…?”

“It’s easier to find a man with a scar than one without,” Haryang said calmly.

A mark of ownership, of a sort—like the brand burned into a slave.

The first of his scars had been punishment, the aftermath of a failed experiment. There had been so many since then that he could scarcely remember which was which.

He’d had them so long that recreating them had become second nature.

Yegyeol suddenly reached out and, with trembling fingers, traced the jagged line that ran from beneath his eye to above his lip—rough, like a wound torn open by a saw.

Haryang’s eyes closed, lashes lowering. He could feel Yegyeol’s hand tremble, growing less steady the longer it lingered.

When Yegyeol realized what he was doing, he snatched his hand back and hid it under his sleeve, his ears burning.

Even so, his gaze refused to leave the man’s face—until those same black eyes reopened, catching his own.

“Let’s—let’s go,” he stammered.

“In a hurry, are we?”

“I can compete for the championship again now,” Yegyeol said, forcing composure into his tone. “I have to stay in top condition.”

A faint smile tugged at Haryang’s lips—ambiguous, like the mist that perpetually shrouded his estate.

“I won’t keep you long.”

He opened the carriage door, and Yegyeol stepped out beside him—only to realize, belatedly, that they were standing in front of a gambling den.

The man strode forward without hesitation, as if he were a regular visitor.

The thick scent of tobacco—harsher than the kind Haryang usually smoked—hung heavy in the air. Beneath it lingered the faint, sickly sweetness of opium.

Smells like a blend of both, Yegyeol thought grimly.

“You seem curious,” said the Black Ghost, glancing back.

“Well, it’s my first time in a gambling house,” Yegyeol murmured conspiratorially, as if confessing a great secret.

The man blinked, then laughed quietly.

“In truth, I haven’t been here often myself.”

Yegyeol gave him a doubtful look.

If it were his Senior Brother he knew—the real Je Haryang—then sure, that might be true. But this man was the Black Ghost, a senior officer of the Black Net. Of all professions, none was more entangled with gambling dens than his.

“Really?”

“I’m not very good at gambling,” he said plainly.

That earned him a faint twitch of Yegyeol’s lips. For someone who looked as if he could sin on behalf of the whole world, claiming clumsiness at gambling almost sounded endearing.

Typical of you, Yegyeol thought, fighting a smile.

“So why are we here, then?” he asked instead.

“As I told you,” Haryang said, lips curving into that half-shadowed smile, “to do what befits a demon.”

As he spoke, a pair of dice appeared briefly in his hand—then vanished again.

It wasn’t a trick of sleight-of-hand. It was martial arts.

“I thought you said you couldn’t gamble.”

“I said I had no talent for it,” he replied smoothly, his smirk deepening. “Not that I couldn’t.”

“Oh?”

Yegyeol’s brows rose, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

“With the right techniques,” Haryang said, “martial arts can accomplish almost anything.”

So, he compensated for lack of skill with skill of an entirely different kind.

Yegyeol stifled a laugh and shook his head.

So we’re waiting for Eon Chaegwol to crawl here on his hands and knees, ready to sell off his family’s precious heirlooms?

Apparently, his Senior Brother hadn’t been content to simply expose the Eon Clan through the Martial Alliance.

“See anything that interests you?”

“Hmm… maybe Go?”

“Wagered Go was quite popular once,” Haryang said lightly, “but it’s fallen out of fashion.”

For a man who claimed to have never visited gambling dens, he spoke of trends far too casually.

“Shall we try dice instead? I feel lucky today.”

Feigning reluctance, Yegyeol nodded. “All right. Let’s.”

Without hesitation, Haryang walked to a table lined with dice and long cylindrical cups. Yegyeol followed, masking his intrigue.

If his claim of being bad at gambling was true, it was hard to tell. He lost several rounds in a row, passing coin after coin to his opponents. Each time, Yegyeol quietly replenished his stake from a pouch.

Though, technically, that pouch was his in the first place…

They had gone through several games when someone pushed aside Haryang’s current opponent and dropped heavily into the seat across from him.

“Care for a game?” the man asked gruffly.

Yegyeol’s eyes widened. Wow.

It was none other than Eon Chaegwol.

For a moment, he could only marvel at the timing.

He looked worse for wear—dark circles under his eyes, no trace of the usual smug arrogance. Strangely, though, he didn’t smell of alcohol; only the sharp tang of cheap tobacco clung to him.

So this was the fish my Senior Brother came to catch.

“I was about to call it a night,” Haryang said lazily.

Chaegwol grinned, baring his teeth. “Come on now. There’s more to this place than dice. Try mahjong—or the grasshopper race! That one’s pure luck.”

“If it’s only once,” Haryang murmured, as though conceding.

And so, he stayed—and threw the dice again.

“This can’t be happening!”

By the end of it, Eon Chaegwol was clutching his head in despair.

The man who had looked like a gullible fool, losing round after round earlier, now demolished him effortlessly—winning again and again, whether in dice, mahjong, or the so-called grasshopper race.

He lost one game in ten, perhaps—but to Yegyeol’s eyes, those losses looked deliberate.

Didn’t he say he couldn’t gamble? Yegyeol thought, bewildered, even as he dutifully gathered the money Chaegwol had lost, the pouch now pleasantly heavy in his hands.

The more Chaegwol lost, the more desperately he raised the stakes. Each occasional win only made his greed flare higher.

The grasshopper race proved to be his undoing.

In that game, players bet on a number of insects; whichever grasshopper reached the finish line first claimed all the wagers.

By some miracle—or manipulation—Chaegwol had a decent win rate here. His chosen grasshopper would surge ahead at the last second, overtaking the others dramatically.

That’s… definitely telekinesis, Yegyeol thought, narrowing his eyes at Haryang’s back. But he said nothing.

When Chaegwol finally emptied his pockets, Haryang subtly eased the tempo—winning enough to bleed him dry, but not fast enough to raise suspicion.

In the end, Chaegwol was so stripped of cash that he nearly had to pawn his trousers.

Even the scion of a great clan had his limits.

“Guess the heavens said I’d meet a benefactor today,” Haryang drawled, voice lazy and amused beneath his disguise.

Chaegwol’s eyes burned red with anger.

He had thought he’d found an easy mark—a fool to fleece—only to be the one emptied instead.

“Come on,” Chaegwol gritted out. “Cut me a break. I showed you around, didn’t I?”

“That’s troublesome,” Haryang mused.

“I told you, I’m out of money!”

“Then you could simply stop playing.”

Chaegwol bit his lip until it bled. After a long moment, he spat out the words he hated most.

“Lend me some.”

“Not for free,” Haryang replied smoothly. “Offer collateral.”

It was the response he’d been waiting for.

He gestured casually with his fingers.

“If it’s rare enough—something you wouldn’t find on the market—I’ll give it fair value.”

Chaegwol swallowed hard, then reached into his robe.

What he drew out was a jade token engraved with strange symbols, shimmering faintly under the lamplight.

It was no ordinary trinket.

He tossed it onto the table with a defiant snort.

“For the grasshopper race.”