TSBIRBV Ch 340

Chapter 340. Craving (2)

Yegyeol looked straight at him—it was Jinheo, if he remembered correctly.

The young man had been utterly crushed the last time they met, yet here he was again, picking a fight. Yegyeol had to admit—people his age bounced back fast.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it an achievement. It wasn’t something I did alone,” Yegyeol replied mildly.

“The warriors of the Peng Clan say that the Heavenly Thunder Dragon fought the Dragon King himself without being pushed back, and you say it wasn’t done alone?”

Yegyeol, who had long since stopped minding how others addressed him, lifted a shoulder indifferently.

“Ah, then you must not have heard—he was a false Dragon King. Had it been the real one, I wouldn’t have been able to do a thing. Don’t you agree, Brother Namgung?”

“Ah? Ah—yes, yes,” Namgung Un stammered in surprise.

It was the first time Yegyeol had seen the usually composed and refined man stumble over his words. He gave him a curious glance before Namgung Un quickly composed his face.

“The one we fought was not the true Dragon King, but a mere imposter,” Namgung Un clarified.

Even Jinheo, a disciple of the Gongdong Sect, couldn’t brush aside the Namgung heir’s words so easily. His lips twitched faintly, but he forced his irritation down.

“Even so, false or not, to impersonate the leader of the River Alliance… that’s no small feat. Such a man wouldn’t have been ordinary, would he?” Jinheo said, his tone tight with frustration.

“If the Heavenly Thunder Dragon was truly that capable, capable enough to wipe out river bandits single-handedly, then why did Hero Peng himself have to join the expedition to the Yangtze?”

Yegyeol’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Surely, you didn’t use your… friendship as an excuse to drag Hero Peng along, did you?”

What a ridiculous accusation.

It wasn’t as though he thought Yegyeol had commanded the operation. And if he’d heard anything at all from the Peng Clan’s warriors, he should have known it had been an official clan mobilization.

The Heavenly Thunder Dragon’s only claim to fame was winning the Dragon-Phoenix Assembly—and, of course, the widely known rumor that he was the descendant of the strongest martial artist of three centuries past.

But he had no backing. No faction stood behind him.

So how could he possibly command one of the Five Great Houses?

“If Hero Peng had been here, the wounded would have been far fewer!” Jinheo continued heatedly, mistaking Yegyeol’s silence for guilt.

“So many brave young warriors were injured, stepping forward for the peace of the martial world—and you, the head of the Dragon-Phoenix Assembly, stayed behind, untouched?”

His expression brimmed with indignation.

Yegyeol regarded him quietly. A faint smile curved his lips, but his eyes held an unnerving emptiness, an absence of warmth that made Jinheo’s skin crawl.

He realized, with a jolt, that the young man’s eyes would probably hold more compassion if he were looking at a tree—or an animal.

Even if Jinheo barked insults, schemed, or pressed a blade to his throat, Yegyeol’s expression likely wouldn’t change.

Not wanting to show his fear, Jinheo opened his mouth again—

“Enough.”

A limping figure approached—it was Myungwol of the Mount Hua Sect.

Among all those gathered, she was the most visibly injured, yet she hadn’t even bothered to wrap herself in proper bandages.

Her lips were pressed tightly together, and though her expression looked angry, the faint sheen of cold sweat on her brow betrayed the truth—it was pain she was enduring.

“My junior was injured because she tried to stop me,” she said hoarsely.

Each word came out as though dragged through her teeth, thick with guilt.

“It was my fault. What good comes from blaming the head of the Assembly, who wasn’t even there?”

“But Myungwol—” Jinheo’s voice faltered instantly.

Ah, so that’s how it is.

The last time Myungwol had picked a fight, Jinheo had jumped in as well—not because he wanted to stir trouble, but because he had been siding with her.

“That’s enough.”

Yegyeol cut in smoothly, smiling faintly.

He hadn’t been standing there to listen to their little melodrama.

“First of all,” he said calmly, “Hero Peng and I may be sworn brothers, but do you truly think I can command the Peng Clan’s warriors as I please? The clan head himself stands at its helm. If you believe Hero Peng acted independently, you may, of course, send an official protest letter to the Peng Clan.”

His tone was even, neither angry nor condescending.

“Second—those selected for the Yangtze subjugation were chosen strictly by ability.

If you doubt the skills of those here—Brother Namgung, Lady Hwangbo Yulhui, Young Master Tang, or Wudang’s Cheongyong Dojang—then I, as Assembly Head, will gladly arrange a public demonstration to clear your misunderstanding.”

The implication was sharp as a blade: If you have a problem, take it up not only with me but with every heir of the Five Great Houses present.

Jinheo’s face drained of color. He hadn’t planned to drag others into this.

“And lastly,” Yegyeol added, “Lady Myungwol—you should see a healer.”

He didn’t say that her stubbornness wouldn’t make her injuries any less serious, though the thought crossed his mind.

It wasn’t pity that moved him. Rather, it was the faint guilt of someone who bore the name of his senior brother while pretending to play the part of a kind, mature, and dependable young hero.

Sometimes he forgot he was merely acting that role. His temperament had never been that virtuous to begin with.

I was decent enough back during the Assembly, he thought. Maybe it’s just that I’ve been around too many people lately.

For espers, the more crowded the surroundings, the sharper the nerves—regardless of their rank.

“Well then,” Namgung Un interjected gently, “since this is right after the subjugation, it might be better to continue this conversation later.

The smell of iron and blood tends to… make people tense.”

His soft-spoken tone smoothed the jagged edges of the room.

At his calm mediation, Jinheo clamped his mouth shut.

“Both Jinheo Dojang and Lady Myungwol,” Namgung Un said, “are not inconsiderate people like that Jinju Eon Clan heir you dealt with before.

Given time, I’m sure they’ll come to apologize first.”

Yegyeol’s interest piqued. Though Namgung Un’s words sounded conciliatory, the subtle pressure beneath them was unmistakable.

By bringing up Un Chaegwol as an example—the young master who had tried to undermine Yegyeol at the Assembly and ended up exposing his own clan’s corruption—Namgung Un had reminded everyone how that story ended.

The Un Clan was now in free fall, ruined by their own arrogance.

Though Yegyeol hadn’t caused their downfall directly, he had certainly sparked the sequence of events.

Anyone recalling that would think twice before provoking him.

The disciple of the Gongdong Sect bit his lip, then offered Namgung Un a stiff salute before turning on his heel.

“I’ll take my leave.”

Myungwol’s face was pale with exhaustion, but she still gave a polite nod to both men before limping toward the medical tent.

She must have stumbled upon their argument while searching for her injured junior.

“I hope I didn’t overstep,” Namgung Un asked quietly.

“Not at all,” Yegyeol said, shaking his head. “I’m just not good at… dealing with people.”

Especially the part about holding back.

“Of course,” Namgung Un said lightly, “I have no doubt you could have handled it yourself. But if you did, I fear even the barely-injured young elites would end up being carried off on stretchers. And our overworked physicians would never forgive you for that.”

“…What?”

It took Yegyeol a full second to realize that Namgung Un had made a joke.

“Brother Namgung, I didn’t know you could jest.”

“I’m not usually a funny man,” Namgung Un said with a soft laugh.

He looked far more relaxed now than he had in days.

“I’ve only just put on this title, and already people are picking fights—it’s a fresh experience,” Yegyeol muttered, wrinkling his nose slightly.

“Honestly, I didn’t expect Lady Myungwol to stop Jinheo,” he added.

“Ah,” Namgung Un said, shaking his head. “She’s young, and her temper shows it—but her hostility toward you has a reason.”

“Oh? What reason?”

So it wasn’t simple antagonism. That alone caught Yegyeol’s curiosity.

“She holds a grudge because you defeated one of her sect’s disciples during the Dragon-Phoenix Assembly.”

“Ah, you mean Mae Hongrok?” Yegyeol asked, recalling the Mount Hua disciple who had used the Plum Blossom Sword Art.

“Yes. She wanted to prove that it wasn’t the Mount Hua sword that was weak, only that disciple,” Namgung Un explained.

“And who told you that?”

“The same day the Assembly reconvened last time—her senior, Do Bongmaegeom, told me.”

“Oh, I see.”

Yegyeol’s lips curved upward mischievously. “And that Jinheo Dojang—he seems to admire Lady Myungwol quite a bit, doesn’t he?”

Namgung Un hesitated, then nodded with an awkward smile.

Yegyeol’s grin widened.

The Gongdong Sect forbade direct disciples from marrying, unlike their branch disciples. That made Jinheo’s devotion all the more hopelessly amusing.

“If you hear any more about the young elites, do share with me,” Yegyeol said, poking Namgung Un playfully in the side.

For the sake of smoother Assembly politics, it never hurt to be informed.

Namgung Un obliged easily, recounting stories Yegyeol might find useful—from how Moyong Hui’s eighth cousin-in-law had recently bought land,

to how a young martial prodigy from the Shandong Ak Clan, tied to the Jinju Eon Clan by marriage, had broken his arm thanks to Un Chaegwol and could no longer wield a sword.

At this point, Yegyeol thought wryly, Namgung Un probably knew every bit of gossip, celebration, and scandal circulating among their peers.

But when Yegyeol asked how he learned all this, Namgung Un explained that he never went prying—people simply came to him.

His reputation for fairness and wisdom was so high that others naturally sought him out to mediate disputes or handle delicate matters.

This man radiates student council president energy, Yegyeol thought with a hint of admiration.

He could never do what Namgung Un did.

No matter how he sat or spoke, Yegyeol could never project that calm, dependable warmth that made people instinctively trust and confide in him.

In that sense, both Je Haryang and Namgung Un had been born with a gift he didn’t possess.

Well, he thought, his smile tilting into something sharp and mischievous, there’s always another way to get things done.

The curve of his lips deepened—a beautiful but dangerous smile.