Chapter 84: The Plump Mantis

A sharp, piercing clang echoed, shrill and jarring. Zhang He had enough experience to know at once: his assailant’s weapon was not only keen, but wielded with considerable strength.

He turned to see the attacker standing firmly, head lowered as he inspected the eight corpses on the ground. The man was of short and stocky build, yet his attire was lavish. Arched brows, a round face wearing a perpetual half-smile—if not for the curved sword gripped reversed in his hand, and the sudden, ruthless strike he had just delivered, Zhang He might have mistaken him for a shrewd, middle-aged merchant grown plump with prosperity.

The stout merchant seemed to smile at the bodies, though it was less true amusement than the unchanging expression fixed upon his face, always as if on the verge of laughter. After a moment, he finally looked up and greeted, “Hello, friend!”

“I am not well,” Zhang He replied.

“Oh?” The merchant seemed surprised. “What troubles you?”

Zhang He’s voice was cold. “Because you nearly killed me just now.”

The merchant finally laughed. “Apologies, truly. That was not my intention.”

Yet on the stone slab where Zhang He had stood, a thin, pale sword mark was freshly carved—its placement precise, the strength behind it undeniable. To claim that was unintentional left Zhang He both exasperated and amused.

“But this time, I am quite intentional.” With those words, the merchant lunged forward.

Despite his bulk, he moved with surprising speed, like a gust of wind—his agility, too, was not to be underestimated. His curved sword was held reversed, hilt forward, blade pressed tight along his right arm—almost identical to Zhang He’s own technique, as though he meant to hand the sword to his opponent.

Zhang He was already wary. He stepped back, body shifting sideways, and unleashed his Wind and Thunder Staff—a weapon he was wielding for the first time. Still unfamiliar with its weight, and wary of his opponent’s strange approach, he dared not meet the attack head-on, instead sweeping the staff in a horizontal arc as he sidestepped.

This was a clever move, probing the enemy’s depth by exploiting the staff’s reach. The merchant proved his mettle—his wrist twisted, and the curved sword swung upright. He actually took the staff’s blow head-on with the blade. Few would call that wise.

Most players in “Dynasty” knew that the sword was renowned for its agility and versatility, and when facing heavy weapons such as axes, broadswords, or hammers, rarely would one parry directly, especially with a static block. Yet this merchant not only did so, but matched Zhang He’s strength blow for blow.

The clash of staff and sword rang out, the Wind and Thunder Staff shuddering back three or four feet, while the curved sword quivered, humming with the force absorbed. Clearly, they were equal in strength.

Zhang He’s expression shifted as he prepared to change tactics, but the merchant merely slid backward, gliding away like a fish for several meters, raising a hand. “Wait!”

Zhang He halted. The merchant smiled. “You didn’t kill these people.”

Zhang He kept silent, watching him intently.

“Because you alone could not have killed all eight.”

“Oh?”

The merchant pointed at one of the corpses. “Look at this one. The mark on his forehead was made by that cinnabar brush. It’s not a fatal wound, but it takes immense strength to leave such a mark—strength you do not possess.”

Zhang He was no fool; he understood now. The merchant’s earlier attack had been a test, suspecting Zhang He might be the killer. The fight was to gauge his strength and preferred weapon, to deduce the reality of the scene.

In these times, few players were truly gullible. Now, the merchant’s demeanor at last matched that of a true, shrewd businessman. He bent once more to examine the corpses, muttering, “All eight were killed by the same hand.”

Zhang He, curious, prompted, “Oh?”

The merchant explained, “All the wounds in their chests were made by a sword tip, each precisely seven-tenths deep—not too shallow, not too deep. Judging by the wounds, it was the same sword. Though these eight weren’t high-level, all just first rank, it would still be difficult for anyone to kill them all face-to-face.”

As they spoke, the eight corpses began to dissolve into light and drift away. The merchant nodded. “Fifteen minutes of ghost mode has passed. They all returned to the city at nearly the same moment—proof the killer dispatched them simultaneously. The murderer must be formidable indeed.”

Zhang He regarded the merchant with newfound respect. “You have a keen eye.”

“I dare not claim so,” the merchant replied modestly.

“Since I’m clearly uninvolved,” Zhang He said, “may I go?”

“I’m afraid not,” the merchant replied.

Zhang He sighed. “Then what do you want?”

“My name is Fat Mantis,” said the merchant.

Zhang He stifled a laugh; the name suited him perfectly.

Fat Mantis clasped his hands politely. “Do you know what lies three hundred miles ahead?”

Zhang He shook his head—he hadn’t the faintest idea, having never traveled so far from home.

Fat Mantis said, “Ahead, three hundred miles, lies a mountain and a lake—Emerald Peak and Greenwater Lake.”

“Emerald Peak… Greenwater Lake… Divine Sword Manor!” Zhang He’s eyes widened in recognition.

In the lore of “Dynasty,” the name of Divine Sword Manor was truly legendary. Newcomers might not know, but veteran players remembered well. Among all the great sects in “Dynasty,” only a few had yet to see a player ascend as their master—Shaolin, Wudang, Emei, the Beggar’s Sect, Huashan, Shushan, and the like. It wasn’t that none had risen, but the requirements were so exacting, the martial arts so profound, the path to mastery so arduous, that only NPCs held those positions for now: Master Xinhu of Shaolin, Zhang Sanfeng of Wudang, Abbess Miejue of Emei, Master Kumei of Huashan…

Should a player surpass these NPCs in strength, reputation, chivalry, and merit, the sect’s leadership would pass to them. Conversely, this only underscored the strength and prestige of these sects—far beyond those of Qingcheng, Tang Sect, or the Yangtze River League.

Divine Sword Manor, though low-key in the martial world, had yet to see a player even as steward, let alone as lord. All its senior positions remained in NPC hands: the steward was Manager Xie of Greenwater Lake, and the lord was the famed Third Young Master Xie Xiaofeng—proof, again, of the manor’s unparalleled martial arts.

But Zhang He was not so easily impressed. He frowned. “Divine Sword Manor? So what? What’s it got to do with me?”

Fat Mantis bowed again. “Two hundred miles past Divine Sword Manor, and one hundred miles from here, stands Hidden Sword Manor. I am its steward. These eight were disciples of Hidden Sword Manor. They have fallen here, and you are the first to arrive at the scene. I would be grateful if you would accompany me back to our manor and recount what you witnessed to our lord.”

His words were polite, but the meaning clear: he wanted Zhang He to come along, to clear up any misunderstandings—or, in truth, because he did not yet trust him.

Zhang He, meanwhile, was secretly shocked. He had no idea what the connection was between Hidden Sword Manor and Divine Sword Manor, but Divine Sword Manor was an official sect. Little was known of its history, and that very mystery made it all the more formidable. If even a mere steward of Hidden Sword Manor possessed such swordsmanship, how terrifying must the disciples of Divine Sword Manor be?

After a moment’s thought, Zhang He agreed. “Very well, I’ll go with you.”

His acquiescence was not for any deeper reason than this: perhaps at Hidden Sword Manor he could replenish his food and water, perhaps repair his equipment. With such a high evil value, he could not enter any major towns. He might as well wander and see what opportunities the world might present.