Chapter 18: The Divine Crossbow

This stone chamber was located in the northeastern corner of the yamen, close to the magistrate’s private quarters. The martial experts and fighters kept by the magistrate would patrol this area at night, including it within their protective perimeter.

As they arrived at the storeroom’s entrance, it wasn’t long before a man in his thirties, sporting a moustache and dressed as a legal advisor, approached. He gave Old Wang a respectful nod, then produced a bronze key and handed it over.

Old Wang took out another bronze key from within his robe. Each man inserted their key into the stone door of the storeroom.

Immediately, the sound of locks turning echoed, and the stone door slowly opened.

Once the door was fully opened, the advisor glanced briefly inside, but refrained from lingering, perhaps to avoid suspicion, or maybe the magistrate had warned him not to. He took back his key and quietly withdrew, leaving them alone.

“Come in,” Old Wang beckoned, “this matter is far trickier than you imagine. The Heart-Shattering Palm isn’t as simple as you think.”

Old Wang stepped inside as he spoke, and Yao Qian followed closely. He knew that entering this place was thanks to Uncle Wang’s persistent argument; otherwise, with the magistrate’s temperament, he wouldn’t even have considered it.

They entered in succession. The storeroom was built entirely of stone, with two massive pillars in the center supporting the hall. In the middle of the hall stood several large iron chests, their contents unknown.

Around the iron chests stood racks filled with weapons—blades, spears, swords, halberds, forks, clubs, axes, and more.

Yao Qian’s eyes gleamed with excitement. He darted over and chose a short blade from the rack, swinging it several times in rapid succession—the air sang with a faint whistle.

“That’s a Fifty-Refined blade, already an exceptional weapon,” Old Wang explained from behind.

“Fifty-Refined? Exceptional?” Yao Qian’s eyes widened. Their current sabres were only Twenty-Refined at best; who would have expected that any random blade in the storeroom would reach Fifty-Refined?

He set the short blade down and examined the rest of the weapons. Clearly, any weapon stored in the official arsenal was at least considered exceptional.

He picked several long and short blades to try, but none felt quite right, so he returned them.

Clang!

Just then, a sharp metallic sound rang out behind him. Yao Qian turned to look.

Old Wang was holding a single-edged sabre, drawing it from its scabbard.

The blade was about three feet long, its spine curved along the edge, and three blood grooves ran along its sides, dark red as if stained with congealed blood. Beneath the grooves, intricate patterns blurred indistinctly. The blade slanted slightly, a flash of cold brilliance flickered in his eyes, radiating a chilling aura.

The handle was different, about three inches long, fashioned from beast bone and secured with rivets. Simply holding the sabre evoked a sense of unease.

“This blade is called Blood Reaper. Razor-sharp, forged a hundred times; a rare weapon indeed,” Old Wang murmured as he handed it to Yao Qian, speaking softly as if not to disturb the sabre’s dormant spirit.

Yao Qian’s eyes lit up. He grasped the hilt and lifted it—it wasn’t heavy at all, almost weightless.

He swung it several times—swish, swish, swish! The blade’s brilliance blurred into a shadow, and with the final stroke, he struck a spear resting on the rack nearby.

The sound of impact rang out, and the blade sliced through the spear’s head as if through tofu.

A thud sounded as half of the spearhead fell to the floor.

Yao Qian stared, stunned—the cut was perfectly smooth, not a single burr, the spearhead neatly severed.

He drew a sharp breath. Even prepared as he was, he couldn’t help but feel awed.

“What do you think? Not bad, right?” Old Wang watched Yao Qian test the blade, waiting until he was done to speak.

“Excellent, beyond excellent!” Yao Qian exclaimed as he took the scabbard from Old Wang and sheathed the sabre, hanging it at his side.

With his weapon chosen, Old Wang rummaged through the iron chests and produced ten sets of armor and shields, their purpose unclear, but Yao Qian wasn’t concerned.

Once the armor and shields were set aside, Old Wang strode deeper into the hall. Yao Qian, delighted by his new blade, followed, pleased beyond measure—he hadn’t come here in vain.

They walked about ten meters into the hall, where more iron chests were stacked. These were smaller than those outside, their shapes and patterns far more intricate, and their contents unknown.

Soon, Yao Qian’s curiosity was satisfied. Old Wang opened one of the chests, revealing a set of metal components of exquisite craftsmanship—a beautifully ornate hand crossbow.

The crossbow was about the length of a forearm, with an arrow protruding from its mouth, gleaming coldly—a deadly weapon at first glance.

“Uncle, surely not! How could the official storeroom have such a hand crossbow?” Yao Qian’s face changed slightly, shocked.

Hand crossbows were forbidden; their killing power immense. Neither local officials nor wealthy citizens were allowed to possess them. If discovered, it was considered treason, punishable by the obliteration of entire clans.

“Don’t worry. Do you really think the magistrate is some naive fool? Would a fool sit in Pingyang for years, unshaken regardless of his performance reviews?” Old Wang stroked the hand crossbow thoughtfully before speaking.

“If you truly thought that, you wouldn’t even know how you died—or worse, you’d be sold out and count the money for those who betrayed you. If you believe the magistrate’s motive is to rid Pingyang of Old Chen for the sake of the people, you’re underestimating his scheming.”

Old Wang’s words shattered Yao Qian’s worldview.

He stared at Old Wang, his mind replaying images of the magistrate’s plump figure. After a while, his expression grew grim.

In his memory, the magistrate barely registered—he’d almost overlooked the man altogether. But with the magistrate’s authority and imposing presence, he was not someone easily ignored.

Yet he had always overlooked him, recalling only the magistrate’s eccentric tales. How could someone of such inconsequential stature remain in Pingyang for years? Yao Qian knew well—Pingyang was a small town, notable only for its convenient transportation.

With such poor performance reviews year after year, how had the magistrate managed to keep his post?

The more he thought, the more Yao Qian realized there was much more behind the magistrate than met the eye.

“Now you understand. Without even realizing it, you’ve fallen into his web of schemes,” Old Wang warned, vigilant.