Chapter 167: Expect No Mercy

Words : 1413 Updated : Oct 4th, 2025

Chapter 167: Expect No Mercy The Sword of Red Run bobbed playfully in the air, its blade catching the moonlight like a grinning mouth full of silver teeth. Its glowing crimson eyes widened to comical, doll-like circles—too big, too bright, swimming with an eerie, childlike curiosity that made the skin crawl. "Ooooh, reeeally?" it cooed, its voice a singsong lilt dripping with sticky-sweet suspicion. "Master sent you widdle humans to inspect through his preciousss Treasury House? For cultivation items?" It spun in a slow, dizzy circle, humming a off-key tune—then jerked to a stop, its tip hovering inches from their faces. "And you saw him? Talked to him?" The Sword’s voice dropped to a whisper, thick with longing and something far darker. "Did he... did he mention me?" A pathetic, whimpering edge crept into its tone—like a forgotten puppy begging for scraps. "Did he say Red Run was his goodest blade? That he missed me?" Lordi stepped forward, his voice sincere yet measured. "This one encountered Senior Brother Krogh Hanz in the Frigid Sanctum beneath the Ancient Stone Well, deep within the rear mountains. Though he remains bound in secluded cultivation there for now, he spoke of his deep yearning for his Soulbound Spirit Sword. He entrusted me with this task—to examine the Hanz Clan Treasury House, retrieve the cultivation resources he requires, and return his mighty flying sword to him in Frigid Sanctum." His words carried just the right balance of truth and diplomacy, carefully chosen to soothe the sword’s formidable presence. Donovan’s gaze flicked toward Lordi for only an instant before he continued, his tone unwavering. "I encountered Senior Brother Krogh Hanz in the Ancestral Shrine’s main hall. His orders were just as Junior Brother stated—to inspect the Treasury House." A deliberate pause. "But he also entrusted me with returning his mighty flying sword to him... at the Ancestral Shrine." His voice remained composed, selling their shared deception, yet his eyes held a trace of caution as they lingered on Lordi. The Sword of Red Run let out a sound like a tea kettle boiling over—a high, shrill "Pbbbbt!" of childish disgust, its blade vibrating with exaggerated indignation. "Ooooh, you met somebody, alright!" it sang, twirling in a mocking pirouette. "But it wasn’t my master, no no no! That was the Ju-On! The filthy little faker!" Its crimson eyes pulsed like infected wounds, swirling with petulant fury. "It loves playing dress-up, that one! Wriggling into dead skins like a nasty little maggot!" The Sword suddenly slammed to a halt midair, its tip quivering inches from their eyeballs. "And now I can’t tell who’s lying!" it wailed, its voice fracturing into a chorus of metallic screeches. "Is it you? Is it Ju-On?" A horrible, wet gurgle bubbled up from its core. Donovan pressed their advantage, his voice steady and unwavering. "Our orders align—even if one of us encountered a Ju-On imposter, the true Senior Brother Krogh Hanz would still demand the Treasury House be inspected... and certain cultivation items retrieved." His words wove a careful justification, threading their deception into something the sword might accept. The Sword of Red Run suddenly went perfectly still—not like a weapon at rest, but like a spider frozen mid-pounce. Its crimson runes pulsed erratically, casting sickly red shadows. "Tee-hee... let’s play a game!" it chimed in a voice dripping with saccharine malice. "You get... oooh... one itsy-bitsy incense stick’s burn time!" The blade twirled playfully, tracing glowing afterimages in the air. "Run along now, peek in the Treasury, then come right back to tell me..." It abruptly dropped all pretense of cheer, its voice splitting into a chorus of metallic shrieks: "WHO. IS. MY. REAL. MASTER?" The sword’s tip began vibrating violently, producing a sound like a hundred knives being sharpened at once. "If I don’t like your answer..." it giggled, suddenly sweet again, "I’ll pick my favorite chew-toy tonight! Maybe the pretty girl? Maybe the brave boy? Ooooor..." It pressed its icy flat against Donovan’s cheek in a mock-caress. "...the liarrrr who thinks he’s sooo clever?" "Sooooo..." it crooned, bobbing excitedly, "do we have a deal? Pretty pretty please with blood on top?" The last word stretched into a wet, gurgling noise as its runes flared hungrily. "You’ll answer reeeal nice for Red Run, won’t you? Won’t you?" The scent of burning sandalwood suddenly filled the air as an incense stick somewhere began its fatal countdown. Lordi and Donovan exchanged a glance, their hearts heavy with the weight of the sword’s ultimatum. But the Treasury House’s promise was too tantalizing to abandon, its treasures a potential key to their survival and rise. How could they abandon or back down in front of this opportunity? They nodded, their resolve hardened by necessity. As they prepared to enter, Emma spoke up, her voice firm despite the fear in her eyes. "Mighty Sword Born, those two have never set foot in the Hanz Clan Treasury House. In such little time, how can we be sure they’ll find what Senior Brother Krogh Hanz needs?" Her voice was steady, unshaken—not a challenge, but an offering. "Let me join them. I can monitor and guide the search... and ensure nothing is overlooked." There was no urgency in her tone, only quiet certainty. Hearing the words, Lordi and Donovan turned to her, their gazes sharp with appraisal—testing her nerve. Emma didn’t flinch. Her eyes remained fixed on the bloody sword, unwavering. "My closest senior brothers are trapped in your Sword Formation," she said, voice soft but iron-strong. "I could never abandon them or betray you." The words were simple, but they carried the weight of an oath. No desperation, no bargaining—just quiet resolve. The estate around them hummed with unseen dangers, but Emma stood firm. The Sword of Red Run let out a delighted giggle, its blade shivering with barely-contained excitement like a child about to tear open a present. "Okaaaay~!" it sang, bobbing up and down in the air, its crimson eyes spinning in dizzy circles. "All three of you can go play in the big Treasury House! Won’t that be fun?" Suddenly it slammed to a stop, its tip hovering just between Emma’s eyes. "But listen carefully, little mice," it whispered, its voice dropping to a sticky, venomous purr. "If you don’t emerge within the time it takes an incense stick to burn out..." A single drop of molten metal sizzled from its edge, landing between their feet with a hiss. "...expect NO MERCY!" With that, The lake’s surface, once a mirror of tranquil moonlight, shattered into chaos. Water roared as if awakened from centuries of slumber, twisting into a spiraling maw that descended into the abyss. At its heart, a ghostly archway shimmered into existence—a threshold of worn stone and carved sigils, its edges blurred as though the very air resisted its presence. The treasury’s entrance, long concealed beneath myth and ripple, now beckoned. Without a word, the trio plunged into the vortex without hesitation. The cold embrace of the water never came; instead, an unseen force gripped them, pulling them through a barrier that hummed against their skin like the breath of some primordial beast. Then—silence. The air here was thick, laden with the weight of ages. It carried the scent of polished cedar and tarnished metal, of incense long burned to ash, and something deeper, older—the iron whisper of dormant power. The trio landed upon stone smoother than glass, their footsteps echoing through a chamber that stretched beyond sight. Shelves lined the walls, towering into shadow, each laden with relics that pulsed with a muted radiance. Blades and swords rested in ornate scabbards, their edges still keen with the memory of blood. Jars of translucent jade held swirling mists that coiled like living things. Scrolls, bound in sinew and gold, hummed with sealed knowledge. And between them, scattered like fallen stars, were artifacts of shapes that defied reason—a mask with too many eyes, a chalice that drank the light around it, a dagger whose blade was not metal but a shard of frozen midnight. The light here was neither torch nor sun, but something in between—a glow that clung to the artifacts themselves, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to shift when unobserved. The air trembled, not with wind, but with the low, resonant thrum of spells woven into the very foundations of the vault. Not like a weapon at rest, but like a spider frozen mid-pounce. Its crimson runes pulsed erratically, casting sickly red shadows.

Chapter 167: Expect No Mercy

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