TSBIRBV Ch 3

Chapter 3. The Departed Must Return (2)

It was an unforeseen miracle. As if the tears in his eyes had brushed away the mist, the once-hazy outline of the figure before him came slowly into focus.

The man who held Yegyeol in his arms was a breathtaking beauty, like a sculpture carved out of winter itself. His face—so cold it seemed it would freeze at the slightest touch—was now twisted in anguish.

“Ah…”

A sigh escaped Yegyeol’s lips.

If it had been a stranger, he might have accepted it. But he knew that face. Though the man looked older, more mature, Yegyeol could never mistake the one who had often appeared in his dreams.

If this is an illusion, it’s a cruel one.

His lips trembled as he whispered,

“Senior brother…?”

Je Haryang—Kunlun’s foremost disciple. The man who had been his senior brother in his past life.

“Yes. It’s me. Do you recognize me?”

The man tightened his grip on Yegyeol’s shoulders as he spoke, and Yegyeol stared in disbelief.

He must have hit his head in the crash. There was no other explanation.

Why would my senior brother be here?

This wasn’t even the Central Plains.

Then Yegyeol’s gaze darted around. The riverbank, strangely familiar before, stretched out around him. Beyond the mist, the shape of a towering mountain emerged—so high it seemed to brush the clouds. Its overwhelming grandeur made it hard to breathe.

Kunlun.

“Ah…”

Cold sweat streamed down his back. His body curled inward as the world around him seemed to fade into distance.

“Yegyeol!”

The stench of smoke mingled with the metallic tang of blood. Everywhere—here, there—lay the dead and the dying.

The buildings adorned with dragons, the proud symbols of the Kunlun Sect, were aflame. Scarlet tongues of fire devoured even the wish-fulfilling orb clutched in the dragon’s claws.

Yegyeol gripped his sword tighter, its hilt slick with sweat.

It had only been a month since he was first permitted to wield a real blade. Though the youngest among his peers, Yegyeol’s progress had always been slower than the rest, and at seventeen, he had finally been allowed to take up a proper sword. Back then, the weight of it had filled him with elation.

The cold steel had carried his dreams—a boy’s conviction that one day he would descend into the martial world, slay bandits and demons, and make a name for himself.

But instead of glory, reality came crashing down.

Kunlun’s age-old nemesis, the Heavenly Demon Sect of Xinjiang, had risen in rebellion.

Raising their banner to unify the martial world under their dominion, the demonic cult struck first at Kunlun—the gateway to the Central Plains. The mountain, once wrapped in serene clouds, now echoed with screams and suffering.

The grand signboard of Kunlun, once the pride of the sect, lay split in two upon the ground. From reclusive elders to the youngest disciples, all took up arms against the invaders, but they were vastly outnumbered.

The elite of the Demon Sect, trained in bizarre demonic arts, swarmed endlessly, and even corpses were defiled by the undead servants they controlled.

It was as though hell itself had descended upon the mortal world.

I want to run.

Tears threatened to choke him. The sword in his hand felt unbearably heavy.

He held on only barely. The frontlines had long since collapsed; those who fled fell with throwing knives buried in their backs. Yegyeol survived only because others had died before him.

And yet, even on that hopeless battlefield, one man still shone.

Senior brother…

In the distance, he saw Je Haryang. Leading civilians to safety from within the sect grounds, he stayed behind to hold back the attackers. The blue arc of his sword, Taechung, burned through the chaos like a living flame.

Je Haryang was a prodigy, a talent spoken of with reverence even among Kunlun’s long history of heroes. Elders spoke of his brilliance; disciples whispered of his noble deeds with awe. The sect had long declined in the remote region of Qinghai, but many believed Je Haryang would be the one to lift Kunlun back to its former glory.

Even surrounded, his fallen enemies piled high around him.

Had fate granted him a few more years, songs would have spread across the martial world—songs of the Kunlun hero who crushed the demonic cult’s invasion.

But Je Haryang was a dragon yet to ascend.

“You little brat… you fight well for your age! To think my subordinates would fall like flies!”

The demon lord laughed, his face slick with blood—his own, and that of others. His delight was grotesque.

“Well? Even now, if you kneel and serve me, I’ll grant you the Heavenly Demon’s favor.”

Haryang said nothing, simply readjusting his grip on his sword.

But his movements, once graceful as clouds drifting across the sky, were growing sluggish. It was as if dark, hideous hands had seized his ankles and were dragging him down into the earth.

“Kunlun has already fallen. Even if you bleed yourself dry to defend it, the end is the same.”

The demon lord clicked his tongue mockingly, toying with Haryang’s sword—snatching it, releasing it again—like a cat playing with its prey. The sight was unbearable.

And yet Yegyeol couldn’t bring himself to move forward.

“…Kunlun will not fall.”

Defiance blazed in Haryang’s eyes, the azure glow of Taechung reflecting his will.

“The Demon Sect has trampled Kunlun countless times. But we have always risen again.”

Throughout Kunlun’s history, the Heavenly Demon Sect had been its eternal adversary. To march into the Central Plains without first crushing Kunlun would invite encirclement and ruin. Moreover, their demonic arts and Kunlun’s celestial qi techniques were natural opposites—each the other’s bane.

They were enemies bound by fate itself.

“My death is not the end. Kunlun is not a name that can be slain.”

Each time the Demon Sect rose, Kunlun fell to its knees—yet each time, it stood again.

Je Haryang’s voice carried that truth with unwavering conviction.

Yegyeol used to cling to his blanket at night, secretly listening to the other disciples speak of Haryang’s feats. The hero of those whispered tales—the great disciple of Kunlun—was right before his eyes now.

His chest, once filled with despair, swelled with awe and pride.

“…Is that so?”

The demon lord’s lips twisted into a smile. Yegyeol’s heart dropped. The laughter that had filled the air moments before vanished, leaving behind only killing intent.

Before thought or reason could take hold, Yegyeol moved. He launched into the Cloud Dragon Eight Forms—the very technique his master always chided him for performing too slowly.

A dragon riding the clouds cut across the battlefield in one sweeping motion.

Without even realizing what he was doing, Yegyeol hurled himself between Je Haryang and the demon lord.

A blackened hand pierced through his chest. In that brief moment of hesitation from the startled demon, Haryang’s blade of azure light drove straight through his brow.

“Gah—!”

Je Haryang’s sword slipped from his trembling grip, his hands bloodied. He caught Yegyeol’s collapsing body in his arms.

Yegyeol tried to speak—to call his senior brother’s name—but blood surged up his throat, staining Haryang’s once-white robes crimson.

“Senior… brother…”

“What is… this…?”

Haryang’s face, pale as death despite being spattered in blood, looked down at him in disbelief. Even the man who had faced the Demon Lord unflinching now seemed lost, shaken.

He, the pride of Kunlun, the prodigy all revered—while Yegyeol had always been the overlooked youngest.

“Y-you must live,” Yegyeol forced out, his words broken by blood. Yet there was something he had to say.

“Live. Please… live.”

With a feeble hand, he pushed lightly against Haryang’s chest. The man who had always seemed vast as Kunlun itself staggered weakly from the touch.

Only then did Yegyeol truly realize—his death had saved Haryang’s life.

He smiled faintly, forgetting even the pain. If his senior brother survived, he would carry on Kunlun’s legacy—rebuild its honor, and rise again against the demonic cult.

Strength drained from his limbs. As his final breath slipped away, he closed his eyes.

“No! My disciple! My disciple!”

The desperate cry followed him into silence, unanswered.

Thus, Kunlun’s dream became Yegyeol’s dream.

Yegyeol awoke drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. But his vision was swallowed by darkness.

The sounds of the car crash—his parents’ screams, the shriek of twisting metal—rang endlessly in his ears. His head throbbed as if struck by a gong.

The aftereffects of the rampage had warped his senses, throwing him into a distorted world.

“Ah… Aaaah!”

He clutched at his head, body convulsing.

Wait—am I even touching my head?

There was no feeling at his fingertips. The world blurred—what was visible vanished, what was tangible slipped away. Fear sank its claws deep.

All that remained were sound, pain, and memory. He was back on that highway, reliving the moment of the crash.

Someone grabbed his shoulders, holding him firmly.

“Yegyeol! Yegyeol! Get a hold of yourself!”

He struggled, scratching and pushing at the body restraining him, unaware his own name had been called. Amid the chaos in his head, he thought only one thing—that whoever sought him in this noise must be one of the attackers.

“Get off! Let go of me!”

In his frantic thrashing, his clothes came undone. His captor wrestled him down, pinning him gently onto something soft beneath them.

“Calm down! You’ll bite your tongue if you keep—!”

At that moment, a hand touched his skin—and warmth spread through him, flowing from the point of contact to the very tips of his limbs.

Only then did Yegyeol realize: his vision hadn’t gone dark—something was covering his eyes.

“When will the physician arrive?”

The familiar voice, now sharper, called out to someone nearby.

Yes, before fainting—he had met his guide. And that guide was…

“S-senior brother…”

The words slipped out, half-dazed.

“Yes. Do you recognize me?”

The black cloth covering his eyes had fallen halfway down during the struggle. Through unfocused vision, Yegyeol saw Je Haryang’s silhouette and nodded weakly.

He must have fainted.

It made sense. His body had already been at its limit after the rampage, and the momentary comfort of guiding must have overwhelmed him completely.

Even the strange sensations upon waking made sense now—Haryang must have let go of him while he was unconscious. How could he have known that the man’s touch had been his lifeline?

“It… it hurts…”

Yegyeol murmured, burying himself in his guide’s arms. Not even in his second life had he allowed himself to cling to someone like a child.

Haryang’s arms tightened around his trembling shoulders, still shaking from the memory of death.

“Just hold on a little longer. This time, I swear…”

His voice trembled with a tenderness that Yegyeol didn’t understand. But even so, Yegyeol nodded faintly, without knowing what he was agreeing to.

His body was weak, drained from the outburst. As the world tilted and his strength ebbed, he clutched desperately at Haryang’s robes.

“H-hand… please hold my hand.”

It was a strange request, yet Haryang obliged without hesitation. Yegyeol interlocked their fingers tightly, pressing the man’s hand to his chest as he whispered,

“Don’t leave me alone. Promise me… promise you won’t.”