Chương 104: When the Lantern Finds You (1/3)

No elegant guard took form beneath the Fiend's trembling, soot-stained fingers.

No silk tassel was prepared for displays of graceful swordplay, no ornamental flourish to catch the eye of sect elders or satisfy the vanity of tournament grounds.

The Jiuli Fiend, having personally felt the terrifying density of Shi Yan's fleshly body—that unnatural, almost primordial solidity that had resisted the System's spiritual probing as easily as stone resisted wind—forged precisely the kind of weapon such a body demanded.

A butcher's weapon.

A true Heavy Saber.

The entire process took less than a quarter of an hour. The Fiend worked at desperate speed, each movement sharp and efficient despite the tremor in its massive limbs, as though fearing the slightest delay might cause the "Supreme Master" to withdraw his mercy.

Its four active arms moved in frantic synchronization—two pumping the iron bellows levers with relentless rhythm, forcing the corpse-gas flame to roar white-hot and hungry, while the other two wielded the twin hammers in alternating strikes that rang out like war drums through the enclosed stone chamber.

Each impact sent visible shockwaves rippling through the bone dust carpeting the floor, and the stalactites overhead quivered with every resonant clang, shedding tiny fragments of calcified mineral that tinkled faintly as they struck the bedrock below.

The steel—once proud Cloud-Mirror orthodoxy, tempered by sect formations and imbued with residual spiritual purity—was methodically brutalized into submission, folded again and again into the corrupted marrow of the demonic femur. Yin and Yang, corruption and purity, fused under the Fiend's manic expertise into something neither righteous nor wholly profane.

The rippling patterns emerging along the blade's surface resembled the grain of ancient wood, or perhaps the flow of water frozen mid-current, a testament to the violent marriage of incompatible essences.

With one final ringing strike—a blow so forceful it sent a tangible wave of displaced air sweeping across Shi Yan's armor, rattling the phosphorescent moss clinging to the cavern walls and briefly snuffing out several patches of ghostly luminescence—the Fiend lowered its hammers. The weapons hung slack in its upper hands, their pitted heads still radiating heat that distorted the air above them in shimmering waves.

Its middle arms, freed from their earlier task, seized the massive, smoking slab with the rune-carved iron tongs, gripping the weapon blank just below the unfinished tang. Without hesitation, the Fiend plunged it straight into a deep stone vat—a crude basin carved directly from the cavern floor—filled with black, viscous sludge.

The substance was a foul mixture of demon blood and liquid ash, its surface glistening like tar under the forge's dying glow, thick enough that it clung to the sides of the vat in slow, oozing rivulets.

A great plume of hissing gray steam rushed upward, violent and sulfurous, erupting with such force that it momentarily obscured the Fiend's entire upper body. The acrid vapor clawed at the stagnant air, spreading in roiling tendrils that curled toward the stalactites above before dissipating into the shadows. The stench intensified—burnt corruption mingling with the metallic tang of cooling steel and the rancid sweetness of demon ichor boiling away into nothingness.

When the steam at last thinned, condensing into oily droplets that pattered softly against the bedrock and darkened the bone dust into sticky paste, the Jiuli Fiend lifted the weapon from the vat. Streams of black sludge ran down the blade's length in thick, viscous trails, dripping heavily from the unsharpened edge and pooling at the Fiend's clawed feet. The metal had darkened further, its surface now gleaming wetly in the phosphorescent light, transformed into something lightless and hungry.

It did not immediately present the weapon.

Instead, the Fiend shifted its posture with painstaking reverence, its chitinous joints creaking softly as it adjusted its grip. Supporting the massive blade horizontally across its four lower palms—the middle and lowest pairs cradling the length like an offering to distant heaven—the demon approached Shi Yan with slow, measured steps.

Each footfall sent faint tremors through the bone-dusted floor, and the heavy leather apron it wore swayed gently, the stitched faces upon it seeming to writhe in the unstable light, their sewn eye sockets still weeping thin streams of dark fluid that traced glistening paths down the Fiend's torso.

When it stood before the silent, masked figure, the Fiend dropped to its knees with deliberate care, avoiding the sharp crack of impact that might be interpreted as disrespect. Its massive frame folded into abject submission, the leather-stitched head bowing so low that the blind, sewn features nearly touched the cold bedrock, the thick throat visibly working as it swallowed hard against its terror.

"It is finished, Great Senior," the Fiend whispered, its voice barely more than a rasp, each word trembling with the weight of desperate hope and lingering dread.

Shi Yan stepped forward, his boots disturbing the bone dust in faint, pale clouds. Reaching out with his right hand—the unarmored arm—he closed his fingers around the thick, leather-wrapped hilt. The wrapping was crude but functional, still slightly warm from the quenching process, the texture rough against his palm, providing solid purchase.

He raised it by sheer bodily strength, lifting the weapon free of the Fiend's trembling palms without visible effort.

It was a monstrous weapon. From the rounded, unadorned pommel to the blunt, brutal tip, the Heavy Saber measured nearly five feet—longer than most men stood tall.

The blade was a hand's breadth wide at its base, tapering only slightly toward the end, and the spine measured more than an inch thick, a solid ridge of fused metal and bone that spoke not of elegance but of overwhelming, crushing force.

Its surface was a deep, lightless black, the color of a moonless sky or a sealed tomb, and beneath that darkness lay a faint rippling pattern—subtle undulations visible only when the phosphorescent glow struck at certain angles—where the orthodox steel had been hammered into the demonic bone, their essences intertwined like the braiding of rope.

It bore only a single edge, the cutting side following a shallow, deliberate curve that ran the weapon's full length before terminating in a blunt, heavy tip. This was no thrusting blade meant to slip between ribs or find gaps in armor joints. It was designed for sundering—for splitting pauldrons, crushing helms, and cleaving through layered defenses with the inevitability of a falling boulder.

"Does... does its weight accord with Great Senior's divine vessel?" the Fiend asked nervously, daring to lift its stitched face just enough to direct its blind gaze—or perhaps the spiritual sense that replaced sight—toward Shi Yan's masked visage. The thick fingers of its lower hands twitched anxiously against the bedrock, nails scraping faint grooves into the stone.

"Is the balance to your satisfaction? Does it fall short of the Master's august standards? As instructed, this lowly one did not dare inscribe any formations or arrays upon the steel, lest its pure emptiness be disturbed. Is Great Senior pleased?"

Shi Yan did not answer at once. His bloodshot steel-gray eyes, visible only as faint glimmers through the dark slits of the Iron-Yaksha mask, remained fixed on the weapon in his grip.

Hmm, quite heavy.

He weighed the saber in his hand, adjusting his grip subtly, feeling its astonishing heaviness settle into his muscles and tendons like an extension of his own skeleton. The balance was surprisingly good despite the brutal dimensions—the weight distributed evenly between hilt and blade, allowing for controlled strikes rather than wild, unguided momentum.

It must have weighed at least a hundred and fifty pounds. Possibly more.

No normal cultivator could lift this, not with any degree of control. Even a peak Tier-1 cultivator would struggle with it, forced to channel Qi into their limbs just to keep the blade steady. Perhaps only that famous Body Cultivator—the one whose name was whispered in the outer markets as a legend of brute physicality—could lift this without spiritual reinforcement.

Yet in Shi Yan's unarmored hand, the weapon felt natural, almost instinctive. He felt as though it had been forged as a natural extension of his arm, a tool perfectly matched to the dense, unyielding reality of his transmigrated body.

He flicked his wrist with practiced ease and rolled his shoulder, testing the range of motion, feeling how the weight shifted through the arc. The muscles of his forearm flexed beneath the Stoneback Boar hide gambeson's sleeve, and his boots adjusted their stance slightly, grounding him more firmly against the bone-dusted floor. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Then he swept the saber sharply through the empty air in a sudden horizontal cut, the motion clean and controlled despite the weapon's absurd mass.

VWOOM.

The air itself let out a shrill cry, violently parted by the enormous blade moving at near-unnatural speed. A fierce gust surged through the forge, scattering the lingering ash from the fossilized shell-anvil in spiraling eddies and sending the bone dust swirling outward in pale, ghostly waves. The nearest patches of phosphorescent moss flickered wildly, their faint glow momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer disturbance.

Even the stalactites above seemed to shudder, their surfaces catching the chaotic reflections of the forge's dying embers.

The Fiend flinched violently, its massive frame recoiling as though struck, all six arms drawing inward protectively as the displaced air washed over it.

[Scanning Artifact: Demonic Heavy Saber (Medium Furnace-Grade)] The familiar translucent screen materialized before Shi Yan's vision, its cold blue text hovering steadily against the sulfurous haze.

Looking at the transparent display, a quiet surprise flashed across the portions of Shi Yan's face visible behind the mask—a faint widening of his bloodshot eyes, a slight tension in his jaw.

Ohh? It became a Medium Furnace-Grade?

He had expected something functional, serviceable—a weapon suited to his current tier and limitations. But Medium Furnace-Grade implied durability and efficacy well beyond basic craftsmanship. The Fiend's terror-driven efficiency had produced something genuinely formidable.

Once again he forgot to ask about artifact grade standards in this world. The System provided classifications, but their practical meaning in cultivation hierarchy remained vague. Still— But it should be strong enough, right?

The weapon's sheer physical presence suggested it would hold up under significant punishment. And for now, brute-force reliability mattered far more than spiritual refinement.

Then Shi Yan let the blade rest, lowering it with controlled ease until the heavy tip touched down against the stone floor with a dull, resonant thud that sent faint vibrations through the bedrock. The sound was final, authoritative, like the closing of a vault door.

It was perfect.

It was exactly the kind of blunt-force trauma delivery system his brute-force build required—no wasted elegance, no unnecessary flourish. Just raw, crushing lethality concentrated into five feet of blackened steel and demon bone.

Now it's perfect.

His eyes—still cold, still analytical—then shifted downward to the Fiend kneeling before him. The demon's stitched face remained pressed low, its massive shoulders hunched in submission, every line of its posture radiating desperate, trembling hope.

The target is desperately seeking validation to ensure its own survival.

Shi Yan's expression remained utterly impassive behind the Iron-Yaksha mask, but his thoughts moved with clinical precision, sorting variables and outcomes with the detached efficiency of his former military training.

But if I express satisfaction openly, it assumes the transaction is over. Closure brings relief, and relief breeds complacency. If I remain stoic, the lingering paranoia guarantees it will never attempt to track, curse, or sabotage this gear in the future. The unknown variable is the ultimate deterrent. Uncertainty keeps threats dormant.

Complicated psychological theater, but that's the cost of leaving the other party suspended in a vague state of unresolved dread. Better to be feared as an enigma than understood as merely strong.

So Shi Yan reversed his grip on the Heavy Saber, rotating the weapon smoothly until the hilt pointed downward and the blade angled upward over his shoulder. With a practiced, fluid motion—effortless despite the weapon's massive weight—he willed the bio-locked spatial pouch at his hip to open, the simple mental command activating the artifact's recognition protocols.

The reality-warping seam parted seamlessly against his body heat, the dimensional pocket yawning open with no visible shimmer or distortion, merely a subtle absence where three-dimensional space folded inward upon itself. He guided the massive weapon into the void-space within, and it vanished without sound or resistance, swallowed into an emptiness that defied physical law.

The Fiend watched the spatial interaction with wide, terrified apprehension, its blind face somehow tracking the weapon's disappearance with whatever spiritual sense allowed it to navigate the world. Its thick throat worked convulsively, swallowing hard as its mind clearly raced to interpret what it had just witnessed.

There was absolutely no Qi fluctuation involved in opening the pouch—no telltale ripple of spiritual energy, no surge of cultivation force. To the demon's senses, the act must have appeared as effortless and incomprehensible as breathing, a manipulation of reality so far beyond ordinary means that it could only be the work of supreme-level mastery.

It only further solidified the demon's belief that it was witnessing the miraculous workings of a supreme entity, some hidden master whose power operated on principles the Fiend could not even begin to fathom.

With the objective successfully secured, Shi Yan turned his attention to the matter of payment.

The original sum resting on the anvil—that colossal, petrified reptilian carapace, its jagged ridges and thick, calcified scutes blackened by centuries of relentless hammer strikes and corpse-fire tempering—was composed of the scattered silver taels and small handful of low-grade spirit stones he had initially placed there. They sat untouched where he had left them, gleaming faintly in the phosphorescent gloom, their modest value seeming almost pitiful against the magnitude of what had just been forged.

Shi Yan reached into his spatial pouch with deliberate slowness, his right hand disappearing into the dimensional fold. He did not extract silver. He did not retrieve the original payment.

Instead, he withdrew a second, smaller leather sack, one he had kept separate from his general inventory—a pouch fully loaded with twenty medium-grade spirit stones, each one radiating a density of spiritual energy far exceeding the low-grade specimens on the anvil. These were resources he had looted from the dead Cloud-Mirror Sect Elder, stripped from the corpse before its final desecration in the Black-Ash Marsh.

He didn't just place them respectfully on the anvil's dark surface. He didn't hand them over with ceremony or acknowledge the gesture with words.

He tossed the heavy pouch with casual indifference, the motion smooth and unhurried. It sailed through the sulfurous air in a lazy arc and struck the Fiend square in the chest—not hard enough to injure, but with enough force to make the impact unmistakable—forcing the demon to reflexively catch it with its upper hands or risk the precious contents spilling across the filthy floor.

The Fiend's entire body went rigid, its chitinous plating scraping faintly as it clutched the sack against its torso with trembling fingers. Slowly, as though afraid the pouch might contain something dangerous or illusory, it lowered its blind gaze and pulled open the leather drawstring with its blackened nails.

The moment the rich, pure radiance of the medium-grade spirit stones spilled outward—each gem glowing with soft, steady luminescence that cast dancing reflections across the Fiend's stitched face and sent pale light rippling over the nearby surfaces—the demon's jaw fell open behind its leather mask. The thick throat convulsed. The six arms quivered as though struck by lightning.

"F-For me?" the Fiend gasped, its voice cracking with utter disbelief, completely unprepared for this turn. Its stitched face tilted upward slightly, blind eyes wide with shock despite their sewn state.

"Great Senior... this... this is worth far more than the raw materials... far more than any service this lowly one could provide..."

Shi Yan had already considered this point during the forging process, his thoughts moving through the angles and implications with cold efficiency even as the hammers had rung out and the flames had roared.

A supreme master—the unseen authority the Fiend believed stood behind Shi Yan, guiding his every move from some distant, incomprehensible vantage—would never haggle over such trifles with a cowed servant.

A true powerhouse scattered wealth with casual disdain, as though material resources were no more significant than autumn leaves falling from trees, tossed aside without thought to remind all witnesses that the gulf between realms of power was as vast as heaven and earth, unbridgeable and absolute.

By paying in excess—by offering compensation so far beyond the agreed sum that it bordered on absurdity—Shi Yan was not showing kindness, nor was he offering reward for exceptional work.

He was deepening the illusion, reinforcing the narrative, making plain through action rather than words that in the eyes of such a "Master," the forging of a personal weapon was no more than a minor errand, a trivial task hardly worth notice or careful accounting. The overpayment was not generosity. It was contempt disguised as indifference.

More importantly, it would ensure that the Fiend remained fearful and obedient, its mind locked in paranoid reverence rather than nursing resentment in secret and awaiting a chance for vengeance or sabotage. A demon paid fairly might seek to balance accounts later. A demon paid extravagantly would never dare disturb the incomprehensible entity that had so casually exceeded all expectations.

Or in simple terms, this is the best way I can think of to act like those arrogant young masters from the cultivation stories—the ones who throw spirit stones around like copper coins and never bother to count the change.

Then Shi Yan offered no further words. No acknowledgment of the Fiend's stammered gratitude, no dismissal, no command to rise or depart.

He did not threaten it with consequences for failure. He did not glance back to confirm the demon's submission or witness its reaction.

He merely turned away from the Six-Armed Jiuli Fiend—a smooth, unhurried pivot on his heel that sent a faint swirl of bone dust spiraling outward—and strode with measured, deliberate steps toward the dark, curving stone stairway that led upward into the greater maze of the Midnight Ghost Market. His boots struck the bedrock in steady rhythm, each footfall confident and untroubled, the sound gradually fading as he ascended into the sulfurous mist that clung to the upper passage like funeral shrouds.

Thus he left the demon kneeling amidst soot and cinders, still clutching the sack of spirit stones to its chest as though it were a sacred relic, its massive frame bowing again and again toward the empty air even after Shi Yan's figure had vanished completely into the haze.

The Fiend's stitched face pressed repeatedly against the cold stone, its thick throat choking out wordless prayers of gratitude and terror to the silent shadows, convinced beyond all doubt that it had been graced—and spared—by something far beyond its comprehension.

Although, Shi Yan reflected as he climbed the rough-hewn steps, the phosphorescent glow of the market's upper levels beginning to replace the forge's dying embers, he knew those spirit stones possessed little to no value to that Fiend in truth.

Most of the real payment the demon had already extracted—not in silver, not in gems, but in lifespan. The cost of wielding corpse-fire and binding Yin-corrupted bone to Yang-forged steel was measured in years shaved from one's existence, vitality burned as fuel for techniques that defied natural law.

The Fiend had paid that price willingly, desperately, to satisfy what it believed was a supreme master's whim.

And Shi Yan had simply walked away, leaving it to believe the illusion was truth.

Far above the commotion of the forge, removed from the choking sulfur and the raging Yin-flames that still sputtered and hissed in their stone vents below, the Midnight Ghost Market remained as cold and silent as a realm suspended between life and death.

The air here was different—thinner, carrying the faint mineral tang of deep earth and stagnant water rather than the acrid reek of burning corruption. The ambient temperature dropped noticeably, enough that breath might mist faintly were any living soul present to exhale. Phosphorescent fungi clung to the walls and ceiling in irregular patches, their sickly green-blue glow providing just enough illumination to navigate by, casting everything in wan, ghostly half-light that seemed to drain color from the world.

On the edge of a suspended bridge woven from ancient rib bones—massive, yellowed structures lashed together with fraying sinew and lengths of blackened iron chain—spanning the still, lightless waters of the Sump far below, a lone figure knelt soundlessly within the depths of overlapping shadow.

She wore a dark, weather-worn cloak over close-fitting leather armor, the outer garment's hem frayed and stained with the grime of long travel. The leather beneath was scuffed and scarred, practical rather than decorative, designed for swift movement and minimal noise. Every buckle had been wrapped in cloth to prevent telltale clinking. Every seam was double-stitched for durability.

A massive broadsword, its blade concealed beneath layers of oil-treated wrappings to prevent any chance reflection of light, lay slung horizontally across her lower back in a specialized harness, positioned for a swift two-handed draw over her shoulder should defense become necessary. The weapon's size and placement spoke of someone accustomed to facing threats that required overwhelming force to counter.

Her breathing was so faint it was nearly imperceptible, each inhalation shallow and controlled, the exhalation released slowly through parted lips to avoid even the softest whisper of sound. This was the result of a specialized concealment technique—one taught in sects that valued stealth and infiltration—used to suppress the natural rhythms of life and evade the spiritual senses of wandering Netherworld beings whose perception operated on principles beyond mere sight or hearing.