TSBIRBV Ch 61

Chapter 61 A Cornered Rat (6)

Dawn broke on the day Qinghai Trading’s ransom expedition was to depart for the Yangtze.

Yegyeol sat in a secret room at the Sichuan branch, listening to Samrang’s briefing.

“You will travel with the valuables Qinghai Trading is sending the Jiaolong King as ransom,” she said. “As requested, the courier side is the Sichuan branch of Black Spot.”

“I’ve only ever tailed a caravan…and now I’m the offering,” Yegyeol said, smiling as if amused.

“Not just any offering. One to be transported in secret—alive, and very troublesome. Frankly, it’s a miracle Black Spot agreed,” Samrang muttered, shaking her head. Even knowing the patter served to hide Black Spot’s tie to Senior Brother, it struck Yegyeol as convincingly natural.

“At first, they considered moving you in a wooden coffin,” she went on. “But Black Spot refused. Even with air holes, too risky.”

Senior Brother, then. If someone could overturn the plan at the last minute, only one person came to mind.

“And then?”

He’d half steeled himself to be a mummy, so the question came dry. Samrang replied,

“We’ll disguise it as a wedding procession.”

“A wedding?”

“There’s no better way to move both a person and precious cargo. Anyone prying into the carriages can be dealt with… thoroughly. And even if someone peeks inside, a red bridal veil hides the face.”

“Red veil… for me?” he said, blinking at the mention of the bride’s crimson net.

“Oh, I neglected to say,” Samrang replied with a sunny smile. “You’ll be the bride.”

— — —

With help, Yegyeol stepped into the bridal sedan and plopped down.

[Isn’t this bride a little… unrestrained?] Samrang’s whisper pricked his ear. He snapped his head around, lips jutting—though she couldn’t see.

The last few hours had been hell.

“Do I really need the wedding robes if the veil hides my face?” he’d protested.

Seizing the chance to torment him, Samrang gave the bridal dressing her all. Flowing scarlet robes, and even a phoenix crown acquired from who knew where. When he tried to flee, she had nabbed him with borderline inhuman reflexes.

“A once-in-a-lifetime wedding must be perfect—from head to toe.”

“We’re slipping out of Chengdu with half a household disguised—this isn’t a real wedding,” he grumbled.

He’d been cast as “bride” to pass off the cargo as dowry. The escort of many martial artists made sense, too: who would question extra guards for a daughter marrying far away? It drew eyes away and let them pass checkpoints smoothly—two birds with one stone.

“Black Spot’s mercenaries will carry the sedan, and the whole procession is hired,” he said.

“No one knows when or where trouble will arise,” she said primly, adding, “Above all, to deceive others, deceive yourself.”

He closed his mouth. On that point, he agreed.

“Fine…” he sighed, raising a white flag. Samrang thumped her chest.

“Leave it to me. I have thirty years of experience in disguise.”

“…From the looks of you, you were born thirty years ago,” he deadpanned.

“That’s how you know I’m a master,” she said.

“Light as possible. Minimal frills,” he pleaded.

“Of course,” she smiled.

And he was swindled.

Breathed and bathed in all manner of oils at the bathhouse, he moved to a room piled with silks.

“Just try this one,” she said.

“Just this?”

He tried five outfits in succession, with fabric draped, pinned, and unpinned a dozen times besides.

“Sixth change of clothes, and twelve rounds of wrapping and unwrapping,” he complained.

“A bride is not made in a day,” she said.

They opened and shut box after box of jewelry, trying rings until his fingers puffed.

“No makeup. Not doing it.”

“I’ll only shape the brows. Hold still.”

“That blade is for eyebrows? Looks huge—and blue.”

“Ah—wrong one.”

“…Heavens, Senior Brother,” he sighed. If they’d done full cosmetics, they’d never leave before nightfall.

“How does putting on clothes take half a day? The sun’s going to set,” he grumbled.

Samrang, done with her doll, looked pleased.

“It suits you.”

He stared at his egg-smooth, glossy face in the mirror, suspicion creeping in.

“You’re not getting back at me for making you work, are you?”

He had, admittedly, made mischief: as a guard’s charge, he’d colluded with Green Forest to bury Tang in their first run; he’d opened dealings with a perilous black market; he’d pestered Senior Brother in a hidden identity; called himself Je Haryang to the Beast-Faced Tiger; and even demanded a whole village be purchased.

“Perish the thought,” Samrang said blandly. “We’ll pass the gates just before they close. I’m only making full use of the time.”

Absolutely deliberate.

A dozen retorts sprang to mind—but he shut his mouth, taking in the reflection after all was done.

In the full-length mirror Samrang brought stood a perfect bride.

Taller than most women, he still somehow looked slender—the robe’s “tricks,” no doubt. Wide sleeves covered his masculine hands.

A touch of brow shaping softened the lines; the boyish face turned androgynously beautiful. The phoenix crown helped, drawing focus elsewhere.

Samrang draped the red veil and said,

“Best not to use it, but if you must speak, I’ve prepared a draught. It thins the voice—but it’s hard on the cords, so use sparingly.”

“Chew? Or swallow?”

“Pop it in your mouth; it will melt. Swallow once it liquefies.”

Adjusting the last folds, she paused.

“Oh—and it may cause drowsiness.”

“Give.”

He answered without hesitation. Fear of dozing mid-route did not bother him.

Proper sleep aids hardly worked on espers; neither did most drugs. It sounded like “innate poison immunity” to martial ears—an emperor’s dream body, impervious to assassins’ toxins.

But for espers, a body that purged all medicines was a curse. Awakening without a guide meant pain and insomnia; no remedy worked. Even narcotic analgesics had meager effect, only building tolerance.

Once, he’d seen an esper poisoned by a monster’s venom from beyond a Gate—stuff that melted asphalt. Without antidote or guide, the senior writhed for half a day… then stood up as if nothing had happened. With guiding, recovery would have been faster.

After similar cases, the Center concluded espers were not immune to poisoning; rather, they had self-detox capacity and regenerations faster than damage. They survived by outpacing harm.

“If I must give urgent orders, I’ll knock on the sedan wall three times, then—after a pause—twice more,” Samrang said, demonstrating: knock-knock-knock. Knock-knock.

“Got it. Please look after Baembeam,” he said.

“Of course.”

He offered Baembeam to her. The little serpent, always climbing to his wrist, sat primly in Samrang’s palm and wagged its tail.

He wanted to bring it. But Namgung had insisted on escorting “the newly freed guild master” after ransom.

How could he refuse? With the foremost of the Five Great Houses offering help, to decline would draw suspicion on a staged exchange.

The problem: if Baembeam were seen, the beloved creature might be seized; worse, he could be accused of colluding with a demonic faction to smuggle spirit-beasts.

“Are you sure you’ll be fine alone? If anything goes wrong…” Samrang asked, worry outweighing joy even with Baembeam in hand. She still thought the lightning came from the “Millennium Thunder-Horned Python,” not Yegyeol himself. His oddities remained, to her, only suspicions.

For one who obeyed her lord above all, even a tiny “what if” could not be ignored.

“Petty thieves will be handled by the mercenaries,” he said, twirling a lock of hair.

“Even if someone knows this is the guild master’s ransom, it’s the same. The transfer is secret via Black Spot, and the recipient is the Jiaolong King. Who would be so foolish as to make enemies of both Black Spot and the River Alliance?”

Such a fool wouldn’t even get close through Black Spot’s net.

“Then… we proceed,” Samrang said, convinced but unhappy, and withdrew.

She had opposed this to the end, wanting to accompany him to the Yangtze herself. He had refused—for if discovered, the blow to Qinghai Trading, his gift from Senior Brother, would be severe.

He wouldn’t mar the present he’d been given.

And so, a beautiful bride mounted the bridal sedan.

“Move out.”

The door shut; a guard’s voice drifted in.

Yegyeol straightened, feeling the air cinch tight the instant the door closed. A faint, acrid scent eddied inside.

His brow creased, chest constricting—but he betrayed nothing. A hastily assembled wedding; it wouldn’t be strange if the interior lacquer hadn’t dried.

In the age when mercury counted as cosmetic…

At the gate, he took Samrang’s draught and passed inspection with a delicate voice.

“My head’s heavy,” he thought. The drowsiness was stronger than a modern cold pill. With a long road ahead, he closed his eyes, thinking a short doze harmless.

But when he surfaced again, invisible flames licked inside and out.

Hot…

Heat crushed him awake; his breath came shallow as the world swam. He’d meant to steal a moment—without a guide, any sleep would be shallow and any anomaly would wake him.

Yet without the slightest sign of attack, a sudden upheaval seized his body.

Heat surged—violent, climbing; he writhed in the sedan.

— — —

Footnotes:

• Bridal veil (홍개두) — Traditional crimson veil for the bride; here used to conceal Yegyeol’s identity in a covert “wedding” convoy.