It was a spear.
In one of the closer wall cradles, a long black haft rested in silent poise — steel-edged, with faint swirling patterns inlaid down its length. The head was slender, leaf-shaped, sharpened to a perfect silver-gray point that glinted faintly even in the soft light.
A small placard sat beneath it, affixed directly to the wall:
"Stonetongue – Forged by Disciple Qiu Ran"
That was it.
No dramatic story. No boastful inscription. No glowing enchantment.
Just a name and a forge mark.
And that was typical, Riven supposed.
Low-grade artifacts didn't come with sweeping histories or flashy effects.
Afterall the only thing differentiating them from normal weapons was their ability to channel qi.
Still. That alone was already worth a lot.
A weapon infused with qi would have more power than one without it.
That would win fights and save lives.
Riven looked down at his hand.
Then looked back at the spear.
Either way, he wouldn't be able to use a spear.
Not with just one hand.
He passed by without hesitation, the soft hush of his footsteps swallowed by the vault's strange quiet. Most of the closer walls were lined with similar polearms — some simpler, some more ornate. A few had red-tasseled necks. One had a jagged crescent hook instead of a spearhead. But they all had one thing in common.
They took two hands.
Or at least one and a half, minimum.
He moved past them.
Into the next row.
Swords now. Dozens of them.
Single-edged sabres. Double-edged jian. Wide-bladed executioner types. Even a thin whip-sword curled like a dead snake around its mount.
Each had its own box label:
"Windreaver – Forged by Disciple Hao."
"Petalsteel."
"Unnamed. Maker Unknown."
Still no extra information. Still no dramatic descriptions of hidden power.
Riven let his fingers brush a hilt in passing.
Cool to the touch. Smooth. Balanced.
But again — he would tie up his only hand by using a weapon as such.
And he really didn't like that.
He walked further.
Beyond the main corridor, the vault opened slightly — a wider chamber lined with irregular alcoves.
Here, the weapons got… weirder.
A folded war-fan, feathers made of dull gold segments.
A chained sickle with the chain wrapped in a snake-scale pattern.
An arm-mounted buckler with nodes built into the rim.
There was even what looked like a flute — silver inlay, too heavy to be musical, probably meant to rupture eardrums with qi resonance, but too low quality to actually be able to use that ability.
Otherwise why would it be in the low-grade artifact weapon section?
As he passed more and more items, each of them got stranger.
Not necessarily more powerful.
Just… different.
And that's when he saw them.
Off to one side, tucked beneath a small glass display, a cloth-lined tray rested in a recessed alcove.
Inside it: a neat set of five slender throwing needles.
They gleamed faintly in the light. Not showy. Not jagged. Just smooth, silver-grey steel — slightly longer than average, with pinched necks and tapering heads. Perfectly uniform.
The name plaque read:
"5 Pins – Artifact Set. Crafted by Unknown."
As usual, there was no flourish to the description. No promise of murder. No legacy.
But something about it drew him in.
Maybe it was just the fact that he could use these and still have a free hand.
Or maybe it was because he'd just chanced upon a needle art before.
Riven stared.
Then slowly crouched beside the tray.
He picked one up.
It was cold.
Light.
Sharp.
More than that — it felt quiet.
Like the weapon itself didn't want to be noticed.
He turned it between two fingers.
The engraving near the base was barely visible — a set of concentric loops, thin as spider silk. Maybe the sign of the maker.
His fingers brushed over the rest in the tray. Five total.
A good number to start with.
He wouldn't have to find new ones anytime soon.
Well. If he got lucky he wouldn't have to fight again soon at all anyways.
If he could find a map home in the city, he might be able to live a more peaceful life again.
He shook his head.
That would have to wait.
No matter how much he hoped he'd find a map and have everything return to normal, he couldn't waste the chance to become stronger and be prepared for all eventualities before that happened.
He looked over the needles for a second longer before making up his mind.
This is it.
Picking up the entire tray, he turned and stepped back toward the door.
That was when he realized, that it hadn't even been closed yet.
The elder still stood just outside it, arms folded, one thick eyebrow raised as Riven stepped out into the hallway again — tray in hand.
He didn't say anything at first.
Just looked down at the five slender needles, then back up at Riven.
Then again at the needles.
A long pause.
"…Needles?" the elder finally asked, voice more gravel than curiosity.
Riven didn't flinch. "Yes."
Another pause. Then a faint grunt.
"Alright."
The man rubbed the side of his beard, clearly debating whether to say something else.
He knew that the only needle martial skill in the sect was a legacy from a courtesan, donated a few years ago as a peace offering. Elegant, intricate, and technically impressive… but rarely practiced. Especially by men.
For a disciple like Riven to pick something like this?
Unusual.
But the elder ultimately chose to keep his mouth shut.
Riven wasn't a fool. If he picked it, he had his reasons.
"I'll keep the token, then." The man tucked it away without ceremony. "If you want to collect another weapon in the future, you'll have to come by with another token."
Riven nodded once. "Understood."
The elder gestured loosely toward the main exit. "Go on, then."
"Bye." He turned, case in hand, and made his way back out into the cold midday light.
While he was busy collecting all his rewards, the time had passed, already leaving the dewy morning behind.
The sect's mountain paths had begun to shift again — disciples moving in streams between halls, pavilions, and dorms. Everyone with their own tasks, their own ambitions. Riven walked through them like a rock in a river, his expression calm, eyes forward.
No more distractions.
Vaern had told him to come by once his rewards were handled.
And so, Riven followed the winding stone path up toward Master Kaels estate — his pace steady, heart silent, the needle case quietly in his hands.
Vaern had said that his residence was not far from there.
Once there, Riven paused:
A few sparrows perched on the residence. A breeze shifted the trees. But no disciples lingered. No sounds of sparring or training. Just the soft whisper of leaves brushing against tile.
He looked around for a bit, until he found a small path leading towards the side.
Remembering Vaern's words he followed it until eventually he reached a rather sizable house.
Simple, low-roofed, half-shadowed beneath a sloped canopy of vine-draped wood. The door was slightly ajar.
He raised a hand to knock—then stopped.
A flicker of qi pulsed faintly from inside. Subtle. Deliberate. Like a barrier sealing off sound.
But still somehow something dangerous seemed to emenate from within.
He narrowed his eyes, angled his body just enough to peer through the opening—
And froze.