“All divine weapons under Heaven come from Furnace-Listening Pavilion.”
Chen Zui had heard this phrase countless times, and he thought he was well prepared for what he would see.
Yet only when he actually stood inside the Arsenal Pavilion did he realize the insurmountable chasm between rumors and seeing something with his own eyes.
The interior of the Arsenal Pavilion was far larger and much quieter than he had imagined.
Viewed from the inside, the three-story pavilion was a completely open, unified space. A high dome hung overhead, from which a beam of skylight poured down through a central circular opening, illuminating a white jade altar at the exact center.
Faint gold light flowed across the surface of the jade altar, clearly inscribed with a protective formation.
The light rippled softly and densely, enveloping every weapon displayed upon it.
What truly took his breath away, however, was the sheer number of weapons displayed inside the Arsenal Pavilion.
From the floor to the vaulted ceiling, the four walls were densely lined with weapons of every shape and size.
Every single weapon was wiped spotlessly clean.
Cold gleams rippled over saber edges, firelight reflected off sword blades, and chilly glints condensed at spear tips...
Protected by the formation, they rested in silence.
Chen Zui stepped forward slowly, his gaze sweeping over weapon after weapon.
On a saber rack, he saw a broad-backed, thick-bladed Gold-Thread Ringed Saber lying horizontally.
He had only ever heard of it from storytellers and unofficial histories.
Supposedly, this saber once belonged to Samtuo, the Saber King who swept across the Western Regions three hundred years ago.
Its last recorded appearance was in a bloodbath in the vast desert eighty years ago, after which its whereabouts became unknown.
Everyone in the martial world assumed it had been lost beneath the desert sands.
It turned out to be right here.
Chen Zui’s gaze moved further forward, landing on a jet-black sword.
The sword’s blade was nearly twice as wide as a standard longsword, with a heavy spine, yet its edges were as thin as cicada wings.
It was ink-black throughout like dark jade, shimmering with a faint, cold sheen under the dim light of the formation.
He recognized this sword.
Molin.
It was the personal sword of Dugu Que, the number one swordsman of Nanling forty years ago.
Forged from some unknown material, it weighed three times as much as an ordinary longsword and possessed matchless sharpness.
Dugu Que was known as the Undefeated of Nanling; he had achieved fame in his youth and brimmed with high spirits.
Yet he was defeated by a single sword strike from Shen Xingzhi back then. Disheartened, he cast aside his sword, went into seclusion, and was never heard from again.
His sword, too, was right here.
Further ahead leaned a Fangtian painted halberd against the stone wall. Thunder patterns were branded into its shaft, with faint arcs of lightning flickering along the grooves.
Beside it lay a pair of water-diving daggers with dark blue tips. Even through the protection of the formation, Chen Zui could feel the chilling qi condensed at their points.
Next to those was a Flower-Cleaving Great Axe, its surface cast with an ancient character Chen Zui could not recognize. The strokes were sharp and fierce as if carved by blades and axes; merely staring at it for a couple of breaths brought a wave of slaughterous intent washing over him.
Chen Zui took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
He had seen many weapons in his life.
But those were ordinary iron, mundane arms.
Every weapon in this Arsenal Pavilion, however, was the lifeblood creation of a master weaponsmith, a witness to countless grudges and feuds in the martial world.
If any single weapon here were brought out into the martial world, it would trigger a bloodbath.
And those martial artists who fought till their heads bled just for a divine weapon would likely never know that these legendary arms rested so quietly inside Furnace-Listening Pavilion's Arsenal Pavilion.
This alone showed just how much Qi Tianchen trusted him.
He continued forward, his eyes scanning each weapon in turn.
Chen Zui paused before a longsword that was verdant green from end to end.
The blade was like a pool of clear autumn water, its radiance restrained, its sharpness hidden.
A fine sword, but too eye-catching.
He then lingered briefly in front of a dagger faintly shimmering with purple qi.
Two small ancient seal characters were engraved on its spine, looking like the words "Zidian."
A fine sword, but even more eye-catching.
Bypassing Zidian, he looked at a few more, shook his head, and kept walking.
After passing the third row of sword racks and reaching an obscure corner in the deepest part of the Arsenal Pavilion, his steps finally came to a halt.
Standing in the corner was a plain ironwood sword rack.
The rack lacked the faint glow of protective formations and the backing of a jade pedestal. It was placed casually in the corner, looking as though it had been forgotten for a long time.
A sword lay horizontally upon the rack.
Its sheath was made of plain ebony, devoid of decoration, inlays, or patterns. Even the metal fittings were just ordinary brass, already covered in a thin, dull coat of tarnish.
Chen Zui reached out and lifted the sword from the rack.
It felt slightly heavy in his hand, a bit weightier than a standard longsword, but nowhere near as exaggerated as Molin.
He gripped the hilt, whose wrapped hemp rope had long since been worn smooth and shiny.
He slowly drew the blade.
Three cun of the blade emerged from the scabbard, showing no dazzling light nor chilling frostiness.
The edge was a dull silver-gray, resembling the bottom of an iron pot blackened by smoke, lacking any sharp or aggressive presence.
Chen Zui unsheathed the sword completely, holding it up to examine it closely.
There were no inscriptions, no symbols, and nothing on the blade to indicate its identity.
It was just a sword—a sword as ordinary as could be.
Yet when Chen Zui’s eyes landed on the base of the blade, he paused slightly.
There was a faint, dark-red pattern there, as thin as a strand of hair.
The pattern extended roughly half a cun upward from the crossguard, resembling a deliberately wiped bloodstain or an inner glow seeping through the blade.
He flicked his finger lightly against the blade.
Clang—
The sound was deep and hollow, without any lingering resonance.
Like a stone dropped into a dry well, it gave a muffled thud and fell silent.
Chen Zui suddenly smiled.
He slid the sword back into its sheath, turned around, and walked toward Qi Tianchen.
Qi Tianchen was standing in front of the white jade altar, waiting for him.
The old man’s gaze swept over the sword in Chen Zui’s hand, his eyebrows rising slightly in surprise.
He did not ask, however, merely stroking his beard.
“Senior,” Chen Zui said, stepping up to him and raising the sword slightly, “this is the one.”
Qi Tianchen looked down at the sword—so plain it bordered on shabby—and remained silent for two breaths before looking up, his gaze locking onto Chen Zui’s face.
“Are you sure?”
Chen Zui nodded. “I'm sure.”
Qi Tianchen stared at him for a good while before a faint, knowing smile gradually formed on the corners of his lips.
He reached out, took the sword, turned it over to examine it a few times, and lightly tapped his fingertips against the sheath, producing a dull thud.
“This sword has no name.”
He handed the sword back to Chen Zui and walked toward the exit of the Arsenal Pavilion with his hands behind his back, his tone flat as water.
“Even this old man cannot remember how long it has rested in the Arsenal Pavilion.
I only recall my late master saying when he was still alive that this sword belonged right here.”
He reached the entrance and looked back at Chen Zui.
“Since you chose it, then that is your affinity with it.”
Chen Zui looked down at the sword in his hands, hung it at his waist, and cupped his hands to Qi Tianchen.
“Thank you, Senior.”
Qi Tianchen waved a hand and stepped out of the Arsenal Pavilion.
“Don't be so quick to thank me.
If you clash with someone in the future and can't even cut through their weapon, don't blame this old man for not warning you.”
Chen Zui smiled and followed him out.
“I will try my best not to fight anyone, then.”
“You? Not fight anyone?”
Qi Tianchen clearly didn't believe a word of his nonsense.
Chen Zui rubbed his nose and smiled with a hint of sheepishness.
“I'll try.”
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