TSBIRBV Ch 293

Chapter 293. Secret Tryst (5)

Only then did Yegyeol truly register the sensation of those lips against his palm.

The heavy pouch of money he had been holding slipped from his grasp and thudded to the ground. But he no longer had the presence of mind to care about such things.

In truth, he wasn’t the only one capable of mischief in this relationship. The only reason he had been able to maintain control before was because he had been unaware of the warmth that now lingered beneath that skin.

Satisfied, perhaps, that he had Yegyeol’s full attention, the Black Ghost slowly closed his eyes.

He did not lick or graze; he merely pressed his lips to Yegyeol’s skin, soft and deliberate—and yet, that faint contact was unspeakably indecent.

The tingling began at his fingertips, then spread upward in waves, stirring his stomach, tangling his thoughts. Each shallow breath from the man struck Yegyeol like thunder.

He had never known summer heat to feel like this.

Never known air could burn and suffocate all at once.

Unable to push him away or step back, Yegyeol could only endure the half-finished kiss that stole his breath.

Hongyeo, the gambling house, the purpose of this night—every thought scattered. All that remained was the man before him, the one looking at him now with eyes burning like molten flame.

Eyes Yegyeol knew far too well.

Realizing that fact made his knees give out—but his body didn’t fall. Strong arms caught him, as if the man had known he would falter.

He pushed at him, desperate to breathe, twisting his body as if to flee past the column—

But the Black Ghost only pulled him closer.

From behind him came that low, heated whisper.

“I went too far.”

It was a voice on the edge of breaking, as though afraid that if he let go now, he would lose him forever.

Yet, even in apology, there was no false remorse—only that calm, restrained tone.

“Just a moment,” he murmured, “just a moment more.”

Haryang had never begged like this before.

He held Yegyeol until the tremor in his body subsided, then slowly loosened his grip. The embrace—once ironclad, harder than chains of cold steel—fell away almost too easily.

Yegyeol stood unsteadily, his legs still trembling, and stared at him.

“I want to go back,” he said quietly.

No anger, no accusation.

He was simply redrawing the boundary that had already been crossed.

You may come this far, his silence said—but no further.

“I’ll escort you,” the Black Ghost replied.

Yegyeol’s lips parted soundlessly before he nodded.

The same carriage that had brought them waited outside. Inside, Yegyeol peeled off the disguise mask and makeup.

Haryang reached to smooth his hair, tousled from removing the mask, but Yegyeol stepped subtly aside.

Still, for the sake of courtesy—and perhaps vanity—he used a comb to neaten his hair himself.

I could’ve sworn he smiled a little when I did that, he thought.

“It’s best to get off here,” Haryang said after a while. “The coachman says the road ahead is too crowded.”

Without giving any visible signal, he opened the door and stepped down first, then extended a hand toward Yegyeol.

On any other day, Yegyeol would have taken it.

Not because he needed help—he could balance on a tightrope if he wished—but because it was an excuse to touch him, even briefly.

But not today.

Today, he couldn’t.

So he stepped down firmly on his own, refusing the offered hand with a bright, steady stride.

The Black Ghost withdrew his hand as though nothing had happened—neither angered nor embarrassed.

Perhaps it was the inevitability of parting that made Yegyeol’s steps slow as the inn came into view.

He glanced at the man beside him.

When Yegyeol had agreed to let him escort him, Haryang had quietly picked up the fallen money pouch.

Yegyeol could only gape at him, caught between shock and disbelief, while Haryang met his gaze with utter calm.

It’s not the time to protest, he thought grimly. But he did that on purpose.

Swallowing his suspicions, Yegyeol stopped before the gate leading to the inn’s rear courtyard.

This was where they were supposed to part ways.

“I’ll go from here,” he said softly.

“It seems,” Haryang said instead, eyes fixed beyond the wall, “you have a visitor.”

Yegyeol hesitated, following his gaze.

Odd—there was only one person sitting there, yet six or seven others lay sprawled on the ground.

No—seven.

Counting each faint pulse of energy, Yegyeol frowned. Then realization dawned.

Could Peng Moon-hyung have taken them all down himself?

“We should go in together,” Haryang said.

“…I’ll go first.”

He didn’t stop him.

Stepping past the doorway, Yegyeol found the bodies of men dressed in black, faces hidden, lying in uneven lines across the courtyard. Each forehead bore a swollen mark, as if struck by something blunt.

No wonder there’s no blood smell, Yegyeol thought.

It couldn’t be Peng Moon. That man wouldn’t care if blood soaked the floors—he’d just move inns.

Nor could it be Tang Segi; the man might look timid, but he’d never hesitate to use throwing knives.

Then who…

And then he saw the old man.

Seated at a stone table half-hidden by a tree, a tattered cloak draped over his shoulders, sipping tea from a small cup as if it were wine.

Steam rose from the teapot and the cup—despite there being no brazier in sight.

He heated it with inner energy, Yegyeol realized. A master-level cultivator, then.

Beside the old man lay a long bamboo staff. No doubt that was what had left those perfect, round bruises on the foreheads of the black-clad intruders.

Instead of suspicion, what Yegyeol felt was shock—recognition flashing through him.

“Grandfather Jeok?”

The old beggar’s hair was whiter, his face more deeply lined than he remembered, but Yegyeol knew him instantly.

It was the same man who had once guided him from Hangzhou to Kunlun.

At Yegyeol’s voice, the elder’s faded gray eyes lifted toward him—then shifted past him, to the Black Ghost standing behind. Slowly, he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he gestured toward the seat opposite him.

“Sit.”

His face was stern, his tone formal.

This was not the warm reunion of old friends.

“If it’s all right with you,” the old man said quietly, “share a cup of tea with me.”

“…All right.”

Suppressing a wry smile, Yegyeol walked forward and sat down across from him.

Just as he thought the conversation was about to begin, the old man’s gaze flicked to Haryang, who still stood silently nearby.

“I’d like you to step out for a while,” he said.

[If you stay, this child will only keep doubting himself.]

At the telepathic message, Haryang’s lips curved faintly.

[Even if you doubt him, it doesn’t matter,] he replied.

His gaze lingered on Yegyeol’s back—upright and composed, but fragile in ways few would see.

It had always been that way.

[Because to me, he’s real.]

He had no intention of leaving Yegyeol’s side entirely—especially not with assassins having shown up.

Still, if the old man wanted him to leave for the sake of proof, he would play along.

“I’ll handle the cleanup,” Haryang said aloud.

“Go ahead,” Yegyeol replied, waving a hand dismissively before turning back to the elder.

When their eyes met, the old man hesitated, then spoke.

“I came to Wuhan at the request of Young Master Namgung. My name is—”

“I know,” Yegyeol interrupted gently. “Elder Jeok Nogae.”

Even noticing the awkwardness in the old man’s face, he couldn’t help smiling.

Reason dictated he should’ve pretended not to know him—but reason meant nothing in that moment.

Because this man had been one of the few good adults in his past life.

He had fed him three meals a day, given him treats when he could, and found him warm bedding even in an age without sleeping bags.

He had stayed up all night to keep the fire burning, pretending in the morning that he’d slept soundly.

He had cared in ways Yegyeol had been too young to see.

But now, he understood.

So the joy of seeing Jeok Nogae again was sincere—so much so that it startled him.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” he said quietly.

Even after pushing Namgung Un to summon the elder, he hadn’t truly grasped what it meant.

When he’d learned that Old Huang had died in Hangzhou, he had assumed Jeok Nogae was gone too.

The man had already been old when Yegyeol first met him.

Until Namgung Un mentioned him, Yegyeol hadn’t dared hope otherwise.

It was easier not to hope.

If you kept the lid on loss, you could pretend it didn’t exist.

Just as he had when things fell apart with his mother—turning away, pretending not to see, and somehow managing to live on.

He’s aged, but still strong. I guess martial arts really are the cure for everything, he thought wryly, stilling the urge to scratch the back of his neck.

“Do you remember me?” the old man asked. “Beyond the name, I mean.”

“You were part of the Beggar’s Sect. Loved your drink, grumbled all the time, but you were kind to kids. You were an elder then, right? I heard you’re the Grand Elder now. Quite the promotion.”

Jeok Nogae didn’t smile.

“Do you remember where and how we met?”

Yegyeol caught the intent behind his gaze but kept his composure.

“In Hangzhou,” he said evenly. “We traveled to Kunlun together. My Senior Brother—Je Haryang—entrusted me to you.”

“But that’s all knowledge you could’ve gotten from Je Haryang himself.”

The old man’s voice was tired—far wearier than Yegyeol remembered.

“I need proof,” he said softly. “That you’re really that child.”

The warmth of reunion drained away, leaving only cold clarity.

“Proof,” Yegyeol echoed. “Right. That’s why you came.”

He told himself it didn’t hurt.

After all, this meeting wasn’t for sentiment—it was for Namgung Un’s certainty.

Looking the old man straight in the eyes, Yegyeol said, “Before that, may I ask something?”

The elder’s face was a mixture of confusion, hesitation, and disbelief. Yet Yegyeol couldn’t bring himself to resent him.

“How did it feel,” he asked softly, “to meet someone you once knew?”

If Jeok Nogae had seen him as just another stranger, he wouldn’t have worn that expression.

No—the elder feared the possibility precisely because he did care.

He was too old to believe in miracles, too worn to trust in good fortune.

The return of the dead was not something men like him could easily accept.

Still, Yegyeol was grateful. The old man didn’t look at him like a fraud.

Maybe he thinks, like Namgung Un did, that Senior Brother somehow brainwashed me into believing I’m that child.

The evening sun was sinking behind him, painting his silhouette red.

He reached out, overturning the teacup before him.

His shadow, cast in the crimson light, stretched long across the stone table, his movements seeming larger than life.

“I,” he began.

Jeok Nogae looked at him—at the boy he once knew, now grown into a man.

“I’m glad,” Yegyeol said quietly, “to have met someone I missed.”

The tea had cooled. Dipping his fingertip into it, he traced a word upon the table’s surface.

「崑崙」

Kunlun.

The old man’s eyes trembled as he read it.

The characters were straight, balanced—no childish waver in the strokes.

Just as they had been, long ago, when he first taught that boy to write them.

And because they were exactly the same, Jeok Nogae could only sit there, speechless—

Trembling with something dangerously close to awe.