Chapter 85: Sword-Hidden Villa

Compared to the enigmatic Divine Sword Manor, the Sword Vault Manor’s reputation in “Dynasty” was far more prominent. It owed its fame not to hidden masters or supreme martial prowess, but, as its name suggested, to the collection of famed blades and legendary weapons.

Sword Vault Manor was renowned for its vast collection of exceptional arms; and where there was collecting, forging was never far behind. The craft of forging, in turn, was closely tied to the master smiths who shaped the weapons. It was much like a prosperous city, thriving on a robust economy and drawing in multitudes of talented individuals.

Though not quite a city, Sword Vault Manor, in scale and influence, came close. Centered around it, a lively marketplace had formed within a ten-mile radius—bustling with traders, taverns, inns, pawnshops, escort agencies, and, most notably, countless stalls selling raw materials, smithies, weapon shops, and grand arms exhibitions.

In this flourishing region of Jiangnan, Sword Vault Manor was the greatest source of weaponry. Many players flocked here, eager to purchase equipment, with most of the goods being the handiwork of master forgers. Swords, sabers, staves—all could be custom made; even rare and unconventional arms were available, provided one could pay the price in gold or silver.

But a truly sublime weapon could not be bought with mere riches. Most were held in the vaults of Sword Vault Manor, and to obtain a famed blade, one had to pay a commensurate price.

Thus, the smiths here considered it an honor to gain entry to the manor. Players, in turn, took pride in being counted among its disciples. To be received as a guest within its halls was a rare honor indeed; at the very least, it meant privileged access to blueprints and weapon news—a far easier path than endlessly slaying monsters in search of loot.

Gazing at the grand, bustling “Divine Sword Town,” Zhang He could not help but recall the desolate Feiyan Manor. Both were manors, yet the fate of the Feng couple was truly tragic. Had that barren place possessed even a tenth of this prosperity, Feng Fei’s end might have been different, and Zhang He would not be here today.

Sometimes, the world worked in strange ways—fortune and disaster could change in an instant, beyond all mortal reckoning.

Perched on the mountainside, Sword Vault Manor was vast, severe, and ancient in style. A slender waterfall hung from the peak, its cascade mirrored by the bamboo groves below, painting a scene of breathtaking beauty. From afar, the manor seemed a picture within a painting; yet no image, however skillfully rendered, could capture its poetic grace.

At the manor’s gates, in the center of the forecourt, stood a five-meter-tall stone sword, its elegant lines and ancient air testament to the manor’s deep heritage. Beside it, a stone stele bore the calligraphy of a renowned master, displaying to all “Dynasty” players the inner realm of the host:

“Drunken song after tears; dreams end without a trace. Forget the sword in hand—loneliness has already taken root.”

What profound insight these lines held. At first glance, they seemed mournful and resigned, but upon reflection, they spoke of unrivaled mastery and the solitude of greatness.

Such poetic things, however, were generally lost on young Zhang—unless, of course, they involved beautiful women, which unfailingly captured his attention.

Fat Mantis had not even had time to announce their arrival to the manor lord when Zhang He sighed, “Why is it you again?”

A tall, graceful figure at the gate turned, her look of surprise mirroring his. “What are you doing here?”

Zhang He could only offer a wry smile: “Because Steward Fat here thinks I’m involved with the Judge of Life and Death.”

Zhong Shuman was not surprised by this—if Fat Mantis believed Zhang He was part of the demonic cult, she would have found it plausible. The boy always seemed to bring unexpected “surprises.”

After a brief exchange, Zhang He learned that after the Peony Pavilion incident, Zhong Shuman had been rescued by Young Master Qi, while Hua Feihong and Ma Junmei had already returned to Mount Shu on urgent business.

“I don’t get it,” Zhang He said. “If you want to thank Young Master Qi, why come to Sword Vault Manor?”

His words were barely finished when a voice rang out at the gate: “It is an honor to receive a hero such as Miss Zhong. Now that both of you have graced us with your presence today, my humble manor is all the more splendid. Permit me to play host and invite my friends to join me in a gathering worthy of Lord Xinling—what say you?”

Turning, Zhang He saw the elegant Young Master Qi, whom he had met at the Peony Pavilion. Anyone would feel at ease before such a refined gentleman.

Even the typically aloof Zhong Shuman allowed herself a faint smile. “Young Master Qi is the lord of Sword Vault Manor.”

Zhang He was taken aback. No wonder, he thought—so this was his true status. It explained why, on that night at the Peony Pavilion, even the high-minded Fairy of Music had treated Qi Shiqi with such respect.

“A minor reputation, nothing worth mentioning. Please, come inside,” Qi Shiqi said with a welcoming gesture.

Fat Mantis interjected, “Lord, those eight who returned—”

Qi Shiqi cut him off at once: “A trivial matter—later. Today, let me and my friends drink our fill with Miss Zhong—just drink our fill…”

Fat Mantis said no more, bowing and withdrawing, seemingly well accustomed to his lord’s scholarly amusements.

Though the manor’s courtyard lacked dazzling flowers and trees, every bridge and stone exuded an air of refined antiquity. In a cool pavilion by a clear pond, the three sat around a table, their jade cups brimming with fine “Green Bamboo Wine.” The appetizers—vinegared crab roe, velvet chicken slices, marinated cucumber, and pickled peanuts—were exquisitely prepared.

It was clear Qi Shiqi not only delighted in imitating the ancients within “Dynasty,” but was also a true connoisseur of food and drink.

Sensing their thoughts, Qi Shiqi laughed, “Brother Wu, does my manor’s fare not suit your taste?”

Zhong Shuman jumped in, “Of course he finds it delicious, but now that his appetite’s sated, he still feels something is missing.”

Qi Shiqi laughed. “With friends like you two visiting today, if I offered only food and wine, it would be a poor welcome indeed.”

Zhong Shuman’s eyes gleamed. “You mean…”

Qi Shiqi smiled, “Miss Zhong is a hero and has seen much of the world; Brother Wu is no ordinary man either. If you do not mind, I would invite you both to appreciate some swords from my collection.”

Zhong Shuman was overjoyed, bowing in thanks. “Thank you, Lord Qi, for your kindness.”

Zhang He’s eyes flickered, as if he had something to say, but in the end he held his tongue.

Beyond the courtyard lay the main hall. Its style matched the garden—unadorned, elegant—but the space was vast and the lighting rather dim, lending the place a chilling austerity.

It was only upon seeing the exquisite leather chest upon the altar that Zhang He realized Sword Vault Manor had established its own sect. Every “Dynasty” player possessed such a leather chest—it was, in fact, a personal storage box. For righteous players, these chests usually appeared in towns, which was why Zhang He always tried to get into a city.

For the evil faction, storage boxes were kept at their strongholds, making it troublesome to replenish supplies. But sect-affiliated players enjoyed a privilege—their storage boxes could appear at their sect’s base, saving them the trip to town. Some sects even had communal storage chests, accessible only with the highest-ranking members present.

Such was the rule of the system, but it reminded Zhang He of the board of directors at “Baolijian” Company.

Sword Vault Manor, however, clearly had no board of directors—Qi Shiqi alone opened the chest.

Zhong Shuman said, “I’ve long heard of the legendary blades in Sword Vault Manor. To see them today is a rare honor. Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Qi.”

“A sword is the gentleman among weapons, yet also a tool of killing,” Qi Shiqi explained gently. “Truth be told, not every sword here is a supreme treasure. Since taking up my post as lord, I have come to love the stories and symbolism behind each blade.”

As he spoke, he drew out a sharp short sword. The moment it left the chest, it shone with dazzling brilliance, flooding the hall with light.

The sword itself had not changed, but the hall now seemed its scabbard, an accessory to the blade.

Seeing its radiance, both Zhang He and Zhong Shuman blurted out, “What a sword!”

“Indeed, a fine sword!” Qi Shiqi’s face showed pride. “Do you know what blade this is?”

Zhong Shuman nodded, “This sword glows faintly blue, yet the light is so strong, the edge so keen, and the blade thick at the center and broader at the ends—it’s not a duelist’s sword. If I’m not mistaken, this is the Demon-Slaying Sword of Mount Shu. Only…”

Qi Shiqi pressed, “Only what?”

Zhang He interjected, “Only, the people of Mount Shu use long swords, and short swords are rare. Though this blade is sharp, its hilt is pink—delicate, feminine, lacking masculine energy. If I’m not mistaken, this was a woman’s sword.”

“Brother Wu, what keen eyes!” Qi Shiqi said in surprise, handing the sword over.

Zhang He was even more astonished upon seeing its attributes. The sword was unremarkable; on Mount Shu, there must be tens of thousands like it—every player of tier three and above would have one.

Demon-Slaying Sword (Rare), Requirement: Level 60, Attack: 150, Bonus: +20 Internal Power, 20% chance of Critical Hit, 5% chance of Perfect Hit.

Truth be told, its stats were hardly better than Zhang He’s Storm Thunder Staff. Why, then, did Qi Shiqi treasure it so?