Chapter 29
Chapter 29
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 29
Chapter Title: Death Comes and Goes [Fainting and Awakening] (4)
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"This is the place."
The old woman led Four Thousand Four into a rundown barn.
The barn was piled high with dry straw. There was nothing else noteworthy about it.
However...
Four Thousand Four spotted it.
Pop!
A bright light gleamed in his eyes.
"Heh! You're truly an unfathomable one. I hid the armory so carefully, and yet...?!"
The old woman clicked her tongue in amazement.
And she was right to be surprised. Even seasoned martial artists couldn't easily find the armory hidden in the barn. Yet Four Thousand Four had discovered it—not through martial arts, but with his sharp eyes alone.
"No need to guide you, then."
Four Thousand Four simply bowed his head.
"Take your time looking around... Better to pick one that fits your hand than something flashy."
"I don't have an eye for weapons. I've only ever grabbed whatever came to hand and used it."
"Choose a weapon that suits your hand."
The old woman repeated herself.
A weapon that suits his hand... It sounded like she meant one he could use right away.
And that interpretation was spot on.
"We won't teach you weapon techniques, and you won't have time to learn any special martial skills besides. So pick one you can wield immediately."
"Understood."
Four Thousand Four nodded obediently.
He needed a weapon. And if possible, one that fit him perfectly.
"Heh heh! I'm already curious what you'll pick."
The old woman chuckled and stepped aside.
Four Thousand Four watched her go for a moment, then strode toward the back of the barn without hesitation.
There was an entrance leading underground. It was covered in straw, but he had noticed the subtle trembling of the stalks.
A阴 wind rising from below had caused the movement.
He swept away the straw, revealing a wooden panel with a handle, just as he expected.
'The armory...'
He gripped the handle and lifted the panel.
A wooden staircase appeared. No dust billowed up as anticipated, nor was there any musty odor. It was pristine, as if freshly cleaned.
The armory was impeccably organized.
This was where Wild Boar had taken his twin axes.
Fox had claimed his throwing blades here.
There were plenty of other weapons, but they had each taken ones they could use right away.
Wild Boar wielded his twin axes with the mastery of long years of practice.
He was the epitome of stillness amid motion. Motionless as a mountain one moment, then suddenly swinging his axes—the strike scattered foes like ancient bedrock crumbling to sand in an instant.
Wild Boar lived up to his name.
Most pictured a wild boar as a massive beast charging with tusks bared, snorting fiercely.
But Wild Boar barely moved.
He stood like a post with axes in hand, then whipped them out in a blur too fast to follow.
Once he moved, it was over.
That seemed to be his true martial art. He'd likely held back before—perhaps due to lost inner energy or to conceal his skills.
He couldn't afford that now.
When Vanguard came, they'd have to move immediately, unleashing their true prowess or die.
Wild Boar had honed his axe techniques with total devotion over the past month.
Fox had taken throwing blades from the armory. Yet Four Thousand Four had never seen him use them.
All he'd witnessed was Fox practicing his footwork.
Fox moved like a butterfly, soft and graceful. Sometimes like a leopard, swift and agile. Leaping like a tiger, landing lightly like a cat. No wind whistled in his motion, and his landings were as silent as if he'd never moved.
The Fox of Bireung Mountain hadn't possessed such footwork before.
He'd learned it here from the old woman—in just one short month, she'd made him proficient.
Of course, Fox's footwork wasn't perfected.
Far from peak mastery, he'd achieved perhaps one or two layers of attainment—at best four or five. Not even half.
Even so, it looked impressive.
Four Thousand Four imagined Fox attacking with throwing blades amid that nimble footwork.
It would be devastatingly powerful.
Fox had chosen well.
Wild Boar and the Fox of Bireung Mountain had selected weapons perfectly suited to their martial styles.
There was no rule against taking more—one could even take dozens if desired. But they hadn't been greedy, taking just one each.
That was enough.
Too many weapons became a hindrance in real combat, weighing one down and impeding movement.
Better to travel light.
Now it was his turn to choose.
Whoosh!
He lit a torch. The flames revealed weapons filling every corner.
"Ah!"
Four Thousand Four was stunned by the sheer number.
He'd expected a few dozen at most in an armory... but even a quick glance showed hundreds—nearly a thousand, perhaps.
Each gleamed with a deep, jet-black sheen.
Forged from ink-black cold iron, they were said to be hard enough to cleave diamonds.
If the old woman's words were true, these were extraordinary weapons.
No, her words rang true. The cold, sharp auras from Wild Boar's axes and Fox's blades confirmed it.
Even a novice would covet them.
"Incredible."
Four Thousand Four murmured despite himself.
He stopped before a sword rack.
From massive blades only a brute like Wild Boar could swing to dainty shortswords, countless swords lay arrayed.
All exceptional weapons—his feet halted of their own accord.
Unthinkingly, he reached for one.
Sheathed, it hid its edge. Yet even so, he keenly sensed the bloodlust emanating from it.
These swords knew blood.
They weren't fresh from the forge, waiting innocently for an owner.
These had masters before.
Some had been drawn dripping from gore.
Not tempered in blood during forging, but stained from slaying foes—or perhaps their own wielders—without proper cleaning.
He smelled the thick tang of blood from them.
'Killing swords... these are killing swords.'
Four Thousand Four shuddered at their murderous intent. He could almost feel them shredding his flesh. Their aura was that ferocious.
The blade rack was no different.
Blades spilled more blood than swords. Not always, but wounds from blades were generally wider and deeper, bleeding profusely.
Killing blades, like the killing swords.
He sought a weapon for killing. In that regard, these were unparalleled.
Swords tempted him at the sword rack, blades at the blade rack.
Wielding such a weapon bred unshakable confidence—no one could touch him.
Yet Four Thousand Four passed them all by.
Peerless for martial artists. Irresistible for assassins. Still, he felt no attachment, moving on.
He knew himself—what kind of man he was.
He wasn't skilled enough for these. An unskilled hand wielding them would be devoured by the weapons themselves.
He wanted one he could use freely, without worry.
He passed the spear rack.
Splendid spears everywhere... not a single one felt graspable.
The whip rack, too.
Fine whips abounded—leather ones, iron ones.
All caked in dried blood.
Spotless to the eye in broad daylight, no trace of blood visible.
But he saw it.
He passed the axe rack where Wild Boar had chosen.
From great axes to hand axes, every variety.
All passed.
He stopped at the bow rack.
Bows spilled no blood when killing. Arrows might run red, but the bow stayed pristine.
Yet he heard the blood-cries from these bows.
They'd shot men before. Seen targets crumple from arrows.
Same with swords and blades. Their edge and killing intent too intense to touch. Grasping them felt like surrendering his soul, turning into a murderous demon.
Still, he paused because...
One didn't reek of blood.
A small wooden bow.
This "wooden bow" was a rectangular wooden tube with two arrow slots. Load arrows inside, release with spring tension—a concealed hand crossbow.
It fired short arrows barely two palm-widths long.
Short range, weak power.
Beyond a short distance, lethality plummeted. Even direct hits often caused minor wounds. Armor could deflect them.
Not for combat... women's playthings for games and leisure.
Four Thousand Four's gaze fixed on it.
Not a true hidden weapon or bow, with negligible lethality—useless, even counterproductive in battle.
He picked it up anyway.
Weapon acquired—no need for more. He browsed the rest idly.
His steps halted again.
Before a dark weapon tray, likely where the Fox of Bireung Mountain chose his throwing blades.
Other weapons sat on racks; hidden ones on small wooden trays.
Trip-bows, flying swords, locust stones, mother-son balls, coins—hundreds of varieties.
Who knew so many hidden weapons existed?
Yet only one caught his eye. The rest faded; just that one...
Handcuffs.
Yes, handcuffs—the common kind for binding wrists.
He pocketed them.
No intent to use as weapons or bind anyone. Why take them? He didn't know. If pressed... he just wanted them.
As he took the handcuffs, he grabbed the dagger beside them.
A bit longer than standard, not quite a shortsword—awkward size.
He disassembled it, separating hilt from blade.
The hilt bore bloodstains. The blade was pristine, fresh as if just forged and handed over.
No plans for them. But he felt content, satisfied—like he'd gotten exactly what he wanted.
"Wh-what is that?"
"What do you plan to do with those? Are those weapons?"
Wild Boar and the Fox of Bireung Mountain cried out in unison.
They couldn't comprehend Four Thousand Four. No matter how they tried, it made no sense. Everything he'd brought out was utterly useless.
"Shoot people with this?"
Fox held up the wooden crossbow.
"And this? What for?"
Wild Boar lifted the handcuffs with a pitiful look.
"Didn't like the hilt? Why take just the blade?"
The old woman was equally baffled, tilting her head at the bladeless hilt—no, the bare blade.
Four Thousand Four grinned at them.
They didn't understand. That these alone in the armory bore no blood. And these... he'd ensure they never tasted blood.