TSBIRBV Ch 303

Chapter 303. Rumors of the Rivers and Lakes (7)

Samrang let out a sly grin.

“Didn’t think I’d actually get to benefit from Young Master Mun’s antics.”

The slim flute spun nimbly between her fingers, glinting faintly in the air.

When Yegyeol’s dazzling lightning bolt struck, Yonghyeon Zhenren, who had turned instinctively toward the thunderous flash, belatedly noticed Samrang.

The flute whirling between her fingers looked, for all the world, like a new kind of hidden weapon.

Without even confirming what it was, Yonghyeon leapt back, widening the distance.

He’d thought this bodyguard would be easy to subdue, but her hands kept producing poison and hidden blades one after another.

If he hesitated now, he might very well be the one overpowered.

But that was the fatal mistake.

Samrang had been waiting precisely for this moment.

The flute in her hand stopped spinning—she brought it swiftly to her lips and blew.

Damn it!

Yonghyeon’s face flushed crimson with rage.

Not that it mattered yet—no sound had emerged.

“Where do you think—!”

The Wudang’s foremost sword lashed out, his blade slicing her flute cleanly in two. Blood spurted from Samrang’s shoulder where the force had grazed her.

And yet, she smiled brightly, without a trace of defeat.

The signal had already been sent.

All that remained was to hold out until help arrived.

“Damn it!”

Reading her expression, realizing she hadn’t failed, Yonghyeon cursed aloud.

The once serene, disciplined Taoist now looked crude and desperate, face twisted with fury.

“Stop playing around and finish it already!”

At the frantic shout of the foremost sword, Baekyang Zhenren clicked his tongue.

So impatient—still too young.

But he too had no intention of dragging this out any longer.

“Unfortunately, your companion leaves me no choice but to end this quickly.”

He didn’t look particularly tense.

The Mountain-Air Poison was merely a precaution; if he unleashed his full strength, he could crush a mere post-tournament youth like Yegyeol with ease.

No matter how gifted, he’s still a child.

He had to believe that—otherwise, his own unease might consume him.

“It’s a pity,” Baekyang murmured softly. “I would’ve liked the chance to teach you what it truly means to serve Kunlun.”

Yegyeol’s lips curved upward in amusement.

The gentle pity on that smooth, false face was almost sickening.

“Then why didn’t you protect my senior brother?”

The unexpected retort made Baekyang’s eyes widen.

“If he’d returned to Kunlun, he would’ve been the strongest shield you had—against the Demonic Cult, against any threat at all.”

There was no fear in Yegyeol’s tone, only contempt.

Baekyang felt a chill crawl down his spine.

Why is he so calm?

Even if Yegyeol had picked up a few scraps of demonic techniques, there was no way he could surpass the lifetime of enlightenment and cultivation that separated them.

Not to mention—the Mountain-Air Poison should still be active!

And yet his words—those words—sounded as if he knew of things that had happened after the Kunlun Massacre.

“How would you… No. No, of course.”

The Taoist’s voice hardened, nearly spitting.

“That traitor must have told you everything.”

Just the thought of the Heavenly Demon—of that man boasting about once belonging to Kunlun—made his blood boil.

“Traitor?”

Yegyeol’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Watch your tongue.”

A spark of gold flickered from his fingertips, streaking through the air like a whip and cracking against Baekyang’s chest.

“What the—!”

Even though he dodged, the lightning chased him, curling through the air like a living serpent.

That wasn’t sword qi.

It wasn’t even internal energy.

It bent and stretched, never dispersing, crushing anything in its path—even those untouched by it.

Now it was Baekyang who found himself driven back.

He bit down hard, shouting through clenched teeth—

“Sorcery! This is sorcery!”

A bold accusation, coming from someone who’d already branded him a heretic.

“And you,” Yegyeol said flatly, “are the coward who uses poison and deceit to trample over the rising stars of the martial world.”

Then, calmly—almost casually—he added,

“No… you don’t want to kill me, do you? The one you really want dead—is Je Haryang.”

Baekyang froze.

Those golden eyes looked straight through him, through every pretense, every plan he’d devised—to feign kindness, to take a hostage, to use the boy as leverage.

He’s not a puppet…?

Baekyang had thought Je Haryang was manipulating this youth—a mere doll of the Heavenly Demon’s revenge against the righteous sects.

When the man who had vanished into the Ten-Thousand Mountains reemerged, Baekyang had known despair.

How could one escape a ghost fueled by vengeance?

The only silver lining had been his obsession with his old disciple’s likeness.

The Heavenly Demon, Je Haryang—clearly insane.

He had scoured all of Jianghu to find a boy who looked exactly like Mun Yegyeol, and kept him close ever since.

“Any righteous martial artist would want the Heavenly Demon dead!” Baekyang roared, parrying a strike.

“Ah, but shouldn’t martial artists also repay their debts?” Yegyeol countered, voice light.

“What debt is there,” Baekyang shouted back, “when a disciple raised by his sect falls and becomes a dog of the Demonic Cult?”

“I worked for Qinghai Trading Company once,” Yegyeol said suddenly.

The color drained from Baekyang’s face.

“You took quite a bit of my senior brother’s money, didn’t you?”

The whisper cut through the air like a blade.

Baekyang’s head snapped toward Yonghyeon—

and the instant their eyes met, dread clawed up his throat.

I have to silence him—now.

Kunlun had long relied on the support of the Ten-Thousand Mountains.

After the Demonic Cult’s attack, they’d lost their elite disciples, their prodigies—

and were quietly rotting at the edges of Jianghu.

Baekyang had struggled desperately to keep the sect alive.

He was only an elder; his power was limited.

Then, the money came.

Not once, but regularly—vast sums funneled through a merchant guild in Qinghai.

Baekun Zhenren had objected.

But his disciple, Baekyang, had thought differently.

Who’s to say? Perhaps some rich benefactor wished to aid Kunlun out of reverence. Who questions fortune when it comes to their door?

He’d wanted to restore the sect’s glory.

And for that, he’d needed those funds.

So he’d accepted the money—quietly, secretly, behind his senior’s back.

If it’s for Kunlun, what wouldn’t I do?

He swore he’d never used a single coin for himself.

Not one.

So even if his hands were stained, his conscience was clean—or so he’d told himself.

Until Baekun came to confront him.

“Disciple! Do you truly not know where this money comes from?”

His teacher’s face had been filled with despair.

“Qinghai Trading Company! That’s where!”

“Qinghai… you mean—”

That day, Baekyang had vomited everything he’d eaten.

Qinghai Trading Company belonged to the Demonic Cult.

He’d known it once—Je Haryang had approached him through them long ago.

Not long after the truth surfaced, Baekun Zhenren had died.

They said it was natural causes.

Others called it transcendence.

But Baekyang knew better.

Even after his death, the money kept coming.

And he… couldn’t turn it away.

Not for greed this time—

but for guilt.

He remembered his senior’s thin, stooped back.

The man he’d envied all his life.

The man who was gone now.

Damn it all.

He’d wanted everything Baekun had once possessed.

But after his death, Baekyang found himself hollow, directionless.

And so, by force of habit, he returned to the only thing he knew—

accepting the very money that had doomed them.

The Qinghai gold became Kunlun’s lifeline—one it couldn’t sever.

“If you’re going to call him a traitor,” Yegyeol said coldly, “you shouldn’t have kept taking his money.”

Kunlun had fallen into ruin after the massacre.

They had survived only by clinging to Haryang’s generosity.

And now, the same sect that failed to protect him—

dared to slander him out of fear that the truth might surface.

They’d even come to Wuhan, dragging Yegyeol along, to use him against his own senior.

Did they really think he’d let that happen?

“Enough!”

Veins bulged on Baekyang’s neck.

“Such insolence! What could a child like you possibly understand?”

Yegyeol let out a breath that sounded almost like laughter.

“You’re right. I don’t understand.”

His golden eyes gleamed, feral and bright.

“I only heard it secondhand.”

It was true.

He hadn’t even heard all of it from Haryang himself—most came through Samrang, pieced together from hints and whispers.

Even if he spent his whole life listening, he would never grasp even half of what his senior had suffered.

Haryang would never tell him.

“You shouldn’t have died,” Yegyeol murmured softly.

In his past life, he hadn’t been an esper—had no talent for martial arts.

He wouldn’t have been able to save Haryang from that hell.

He would’ve fallen with him.

And yet, he should’ve been there.

“Let’s be honest,” he said with a faint smile. “You didn’t want to side with my senior, but you didn’t mind taking his gold, did you?”

A bitter curl touched his lips.

He’d had enough.

“K—Kh…!”

Electricity slithered along the ground like a serpent, coiling up Baekyang’s legs.

It snapped tight around his ankles, dragging him forward as he screamed.

The sword slipped from his hand.

Yegyeol watched dispassionately.

He felt nothing.

If espers hesitated to kill, the Centers wouldn’t bother with morality training.

He owed this man nothing.

Haryang had already filled every void Baekyang had left behind—

the longing for protection, the reverence for a true teacher, the affection for a beloved.

“You should’ve treated me better in my past life,” he said softly. “I was a lot more naive back then.”

Not truly gentle—but far easier to control.

“A—ah… you… what are you—”

Baekyang’s eyes bulged in horror.

The youth’s words sounded too real—too much like the disciple he’d buried twenty years ago.

“Since I was reborn,” Yegyeol said quietly, “I’ve lived by one principle—‘destroy the past.’ Even if you were my old master, I won’t show mercy.”

His hand pressed gently over Baekyang’s heart.

“I won’t drag this out.”

And then—everything went dark.

Baekyang’s world ended in silence.

Samrang looked down at the trembling hand of the fallen Wudang sword master and spat.

“Well, at least I’m better with poison than those market-rat bastards.”

It had been a brutal fight—faking weakness, feigning retreat, laying traps and poison while pretending to stumble.

She’d nearly lost all her hair from the stress.

The rare fire poison she’d used was gone, and she’d pushed herself past her limits—her body ached, her shoulder throbbed.

Still, alive is alive, she thought.

In the end, pretending to collapse from her shoulder wound had baited Yonghyeon perfectly.

Martial artists always had fragile pride—if they thought their opponent suffered from their strike, they rarely questioned it.

Wiping blood from her lips, she straightened and turned toward Yegyeol.

The crash from earlier had told her something big had happened—

and sure enough, Baekyang lay dead.

She glanced at the body, showing no particular reaction.

“With someone like Baekyang Zhenren dead, it’s going to cause an uproar once they find him. We should regroup with our lord first, and deal with the Wudang sword master’s body—”

“He’s already here.”

Yegyeol’s calm voice cut her off.

His gaze turned toward the darkness beyond Baekyang’s corpse.