TSBIRBV Ch 321

Chapter 321. The White Lotus Cult (4)

 

Jinyoung’s drowsy body swayed forward.

Something hot brushed against his skin, and he jolted awake in alarm.

“Damn it!”

His hand had touched the steaming kettle the servant had left behind. He snatched his hand away at once and stared down in panic.

Though the kettle was scalding hot, his skin showed no sign of burns—only a faint pink flush where the heat had touched.

Even knowing his body could no longer be harmed so easily, it was hard to believe. The sudden, phantom sting made the old pain resurface, sharp and vivid.

Hot. Just like back then.

The image of a young man laughing as he bared his teeth flickered before his eyes—calm most days, but with a look that could turn frightening in an instant.

It had been one summer day, long ago.

Jinyoung had been standing punishment. He didn’t even know why.

Perhaps because the carp under Young Master Wiji’s care refused to eat.

Or perhaps because it ate too much.

Because moss floated on the pond’s surface.

Or because it didn’t.

Because it rained. Or because it didn’t rain.

The reason never mattered.

It was always whatever Young Master Wiji decided it would be.

Wiji Cheon’s temper flared and cooled as quickly as boiling soup, and he would only grant forgiveness after Jinyoung had groveled on all fours, begging at his feet.

That twisted bastard.

‘…That thing underground—was the body in agony, but the mind at peace?’

To even compare such memories at all meant he’d come far enough to breathe again.

Even so, the screams he had heard in the underground dungeons of the Ten-thousand Great Mountains still came to him in his nightmares.

But what frightened him most wasn’t the screams.

It was the nights when no one screamed at all.

He shuddered, recalling the sight he had once witnessed while being transferred.

He’d realized then that even in death, no one left that dungeon.

The dead, too, would never escape.

And when Wiji Cheon—that Wiji Cheon—had pulled him out of that hell…

What had he felt?

A blur. A fog.

Perhaps the desert air was to blame.

The Ten-thousand Great Mountains bordered the sands, dry enough that even summer shadows stayed cool—but not under the sun.

And today, no—yesterday night, Wiji Cheon had roused him from sleep, saying he had yet to memorize the Thousand-Character Classic.

He’d forced him to recite Heaven and Earth, only to claim he’d forgotten again and again, restarting each time from the beginning.

It wasn’t ignorance. Far from it.

For all his vile temperament, Wiji Cheon had been a genius—one of the most gifted among the Seven Demon Generals.

Born brilliant, he seemed detached from everything, so much that people said he had no emotions at all.

At least, that was what Jinyoung had heard.

‘Then why… me…?’

Sweat trickled down his back.

His head spun. Between the blazing sun, the heat rising from the kettle, and the weight that strained his arms, his body teetered and finally tipped sideways.

The kettle slipped from his grasp. The lid clattered open, and boiling water erupted into the air. Jinyoung squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the agony to come.

“Ah—!”

He prepared for the burning pain on his face, chest, and arms—but only felt heat strike the back of his hand.

‘Strange.’

When he opened his eyes, Wiji Cheon was standing there.

At some point, the man had appeared in front of him, one arm raised to shield him.

Only then did Jinyoung realize how hot his own hand was.

He couldn’t even scream; the pain stole his breath. But the man shielding him murmured instead,

“Hot.”

Wiji Cheon stared down at his arm, as though marveling at the sensation.

Beneath the drenched sleeve, the skin was flushed red—scalded. Likely worse beneath the fabric.

Jinyoung’s eyes widened.

“A b–burn… You’re burned!”

He wanted to cry out, but his throat constricted, words choked off as terror took hold.

Was he afraid that Wiji Cheon was hurt? No—impossible.

He was afraid of the consequences.

Even without fault or mistake, punishment always found him.

But if this—this truly was his fault…?

His heart pounded violently as he stared at Wiji Cheon, the favored heir of the Wiji family—first among the Seven Demon Generals, the one everyone believed destined to rule the Ten-thousand Great Mountains.

If his father, the previous master, or his grandfather, the current clan head, discovered their precious heir had been burned because of a mere servant—

Would they kill him quickly? Or slowly?

Perhaps they’d boil him alive.

“Please… Young Master Wiji!”

Jinyoung pleaded, clutching Wiji Cheon’s uninjured arm, trying to pull him away, but the man didn’t move an inch. His jade lotus ornament swayed wildly from his belt, the only thing that did.

“I didn’t know it was hot,” Wiji Cheon said quietly, as though trying to explain himself. “Truly.”

It was the first and only time the great Wiji Cheon had looked at him as if wanting to justify his actions.

For all his composed, adult bearing, in that moment he seemed no older than a child.

“All right. I know, I understand… But please, you must cool your arm at once—!”

Only after Jinyoung’s desperate begging did Wiji Cheon finally move.

Through his treatment, he never once mentioned Jinyoung’s name, never said whose fault it was.

Jinyoung spent the night trembling in dread, expecting retribution.

But the next day, Wiji Cheon merely tossed him a jar of ointment.

That small kindness terrified him more than cruelty ever had.

Because Wiji Cheon was the kind of man who’d wait for Jinyoung to relax… before pushing him off a cliff.

One day, Wiji Cheon seized his wrist, roughly tugging him closer.

He tilted his head as he traced the scar across Jinyoung’s hand.

The wound had long healed, yet the old heat flared anew under his touch.

Jinyoung trembled, head bowed low.

Wiji Cheon gazed at him silently, then released him and walked away.

Perhaps because his own injuries had been worse, Wiji Cheon kept his arm bandaged for a long time.

Jinyoung wasn’t entirely ungrateful.

Had that boiling water hit him directly, with no care or aid to follow, he might have died in agony.

So whenever Wiji Cheon raised his arm and the bandages peeked out, guilt made him lower his eyes.

Until he learned the truth—

that Wiji Cheon had long since healed, and had deliberately burned himself again, just to keep wearing those bandages.

That madman.

With a sigh, Jinyoung pulled himself from the memory.

The burn had vanished years ago; even the scar had faded.

Only when such moments returned, sharp and sudden, did the phantom pain flare once more.

He still didn’t know why Wiji Cheon had gone so far—why he’d deceived him, or what purpose his cruelty served.

But one thing was certain: Wiji Cheon’s mind did not work like other men’s.

‘And now… he returns from the dead only to become the Heavenly Demon?’

The thought didn’t sit right.

Wiji Cheon was never a builder. He was a destroyer.

He didn’t protect or inherit—he annihilated and severed.

“I’ve really gone mad from lack of sleep,” Jinyoung muttered, pressing his fingers to his eyelids as if to rub away the fatigue.

Wiji Cheon was dead. He’d confirmed it himself.

The creation of the Demonic Corpse Soldiers had failed.

Not one of the Asura Blood Corpses he’d produced had retained even a shred of reason.

To think Wiji Cheon still lingered somewhere behind all this chaos was nonsense. It was only eating away at his nerves.

Exhaling, Jinyoung returned to the bamboo slips he’d been studying.

Stationed in Sichuan, halfway between the Ten-thousand Great Mountains and Wuhan, he oversaw communication and record retrieval for the cult.

At the moment, he was reviewing the old property records of the now-fallen Wiji family.

When tracing the hidden fortunes of the ruined Gong Clan, he recalled something Samrang had once said.

“Why mark the missing silver here?”

“Because the servants took it.”

“Then we don’t need to chase it, do we?”

Samrang had shaken her head.

“You think all those servants betrayed their masters?”

“Didn’t they?”

“Maybe not. Maybe some stashed it away to rebuild later—an heir, a branch member, even a bastard. Especially if any servant or subordinate was fiercely loyal to the master, that’s who you should suspect.”

Then she’d smiled—strangely alluring, unlike her usual self.

“We always leave a spare thread behind.”

Then she’d yawned, stretched, and rose from her seat, her sleepy eyes returning to their usual lazy indifference.

“That’s enough for today. I’ll do the rest tomorrow.”

“You’re really going?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Just three more pages. Three!”

Jinyoung had grabbed her sleeve like a desperate child, but Samrang, of course, ignored him.

“Good night. And since I’m like your older sister, I’ll tell you this—your eyes are getting wrinkled lately. Sleep. Stop staring at documents all day. Go out in the sun.”

“If you were my real sister, you wouldn’t leave your brother working alone!”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not. I’m going to sleep.”

“Hey—hey!”

Left to burn the midnight oil alone, Jinyoung had muttered curses under his breath.

Still, ever since the arrival of Lord Mun, Samrang had seemed busier, constantly dragged into one thing or another. He couldn’t help feeling a little vindicated.

Maybe even… grateful.

Not that he’d ever admit it to that venomous weasel of a superior.

“This should do.”

With swift strokes, Jinyoung summarized the movements to be watched and rolled the paper tight.

He tied it to the messenger eagle’s leg and sent it flying, then rubbed the tension from his jaw.

‘If not for Lord Mun…’

He might have noticed the irregularities—but he wouldn’t have dug this deep.

As much as he hated to admit it, Yegyeol’s presence had clearly influenced Haryang in good ways.

“…Do I really have to call him my superior now?”

Murmuring the bitter truth aloud, Jinyoung shut his eyes, face contorted with reluctant despair.