Chapter 27: Buying Weapons

Li Banfeng and Qin Xiaopang agreed on the deal and prepared to go to Kuwu Mountain to harvest Snake-Spotted Chrysanthemums.

That night, Qin Xiaopang returned home to pack his belongings and invited Li Banfeng to stay at his house for the night; Li Banfeng politely declined.

Residential cultivators must remain inside their residences for at least two hours daily—that was the most basic cultivation rule, and Qiao Yuesheng’s example stood as proof; Li Banfeng dared not break it.

They agreed to meet at the noodle shop at eight the next day, but Li Banfeng had no watch or any timekeeping device; by the time he arrived, it was nearly noon.

It wasn’t Li Banfeng’s fault for oversleeping—in the Suishenju, there was no distinction between day and night, and his sleep quality was simply too good.

Qin Xiaopang was anxious: “Brother Li, why are you only here now? We need to hurry—first, let’s go to Ligou.”

“Why go to Ligou?”

“To buy some proper tools.”

Li Banfeng was puzzled: “Aren’t we going up the mountain to pick herbs? Isn’t a shovel and a sack enough? Do we really need to buy anything in Ligou?”

Qin Xiaopang shook his head: “No time—when we get there, I’ll explain.”

Qin Xiaopang treated Li Banfeng to two bowls of Yangchun noodles, ate eight himself, then, fully energized, they ran together to Ligou.

Li Banfeng used only three-tenths of his strength; Qin Xiaopang struggled to keep up behind him. Food cultivators, once fed, far surpassed ordinary people in speed and endurance, barely matching travel cultivators.

Earlier, walking slowly from Ligou had taken Li Banfeng most of the day; now, running back, he arrived in under two hours.

Qin Xiaopang, out of breath, led Li Banfeng straight to Paifang Street.

As soon as they stepped onto the street, Li Banfeng grew tense—He Family’s old mansion was nearby, and Lu Xiaolan was still inside.

Qin Xiaopang knew nothing of the He Family mansion; he was headed for Feng’s General Store.

The shopkeeper, wielding a feather duster, was cleaning the shelves; seeing them enter, he immediately smiled and greeted them: “Master Qin, haven’t seen you lately—this guest, another favor from you.”

He recognized Qin Xiaopang and also recognized Li Banfeng—Li Banfeng still wore the hat he’d bought from him.

Qin Xiaopang had no time for pleasantries: “Master Feng, got any good tools? I’m heading out on a job.”

Qin Xiaopang’s business wasn’t something to discuss at the counter; Master Feng called over a clerk to watch the shop and said to Li Banfeng and Qin Xiaopang: “Gentlemen, please step inside for tea.”

Li Banfeng and Qin Xiaopang followed Master Feng into the back room—what he called the back room was even more crowded than the front, shelves stacked high with goods; if not for the tea table in the center, it would’ve been nothing but a warehouse.

The three sat beside the tea table; Master Feng poured tea and lowered his voice: “Forgive me for being nosy—but may I ask, what kind of business are you two undertaking?”

“Kuwu Mountain—picking flowers,” Qin Xiaopang answered directly.

Master Feng paused briefly, then took down a small sickle from the shelf.

The blade was no longer than ten centimeters; the handle was even shorter, just enough for one hand to grip.

Qin Xiaopang stared at the delicate sickle, stunned for a moment: “Master Feng, why are you giving me this sickle? This thing won’t even cut wheat.”

Master Feng was equally surprised: “Master Qin, aren’t you going up Kuwu Mountain to pick flowers? This sickle is perfect for that.”

Qin Xiaopang frowned: “I don’t treat you as an outsider—you’re treating me like a fool. If I wanted a sickle, I wouldn’t come to you.”

Master Feng looked helpless: “Master Qin, you said you wanted to pick flowers—I gave you a tool for picking flowers. Where did I go wrong?”

Qin Xiaopang snapped: “Are you really not getting it, or are you pretending not to? Do you think those flowers on Kuwu Mountain are just any old thing you can pluck?”

Master Feng shook his head rapidly: “This time, I truly don’t understand. Take the sickle if you want it; if not, forget it.”

Amid their argument, Li Banfeng caught on to something.

Qin Xiaopang knew a little about Kuwu Mountain’s secrets—but not much.

He understood a bit of underworld rules—but only a little.

Li Banfeng had grown up in Fuli Academy, working odd jobs to pay for university; he’d met many people, seen many things—he instantly recognized the real old hand: Master Feng.

Li Banfeng quickly intervened: “Brother, I don’t get it either—what exactly are you trying to buy?”

Qin Xiaopang frowned: “A weapon!”

“Why buy a weapon?”

Qin Xiaopang gave only one explanation: “The flowers are easy to pick; the mountain is hard to descend.”

That one sentence clarified everything.

Snake-Spotted Chrysanthemums were valuable; many wanted to pick them, and likely many more wanted to steal them—Qin Xiaopang wanted a weapon for self-defense.

Master Feng clearly understood Qin Xiaopang’s meaning and replied in kind: “A sickle helps you descend; a Green Dragon Blade makes the descent impossible.”

Li Banfeng asked: “What do you mean?”

The shopkeeper smiled: “A man with a sickle is a farmer; a man with a Green Dragon Blade is Lord Guan.

A farmer walks quietly, perhaps encountering a lone bandit—one slash, and the matter is settled.

Lord Guan walks with his Green Dragon Blade—he must pass five passes and slay six generals. Without Lord Guan’s skill, can you even make it down the mountain?”

As he spoke, the shopkeeper brushed his thumb along the sickle’s edge; Li Banfeng, who knew his tools, recognized it as a fine blade.

Li Banfeng said: “How much for this blade? I’ll buy it.”

Qin Xiaopang stared, wide-eyed: “What’s the use of buying this? Let’s go elsewhere—I’ve got connections.”

Master Feng made no effort to stop him: “Master Qin, go elsewhere then. I don’t have the weapon you’re looking for.”

Master Feng was a good man—he didn’t want to get Qin Xiaopang killed.

Li Banfeng insisted on buying the sickle; the shopkeeper asked five hundred. Li Banfeng didn’t haggle—he planned to borrow five hundred from Qin Xiaopang.

Qin Xiaopang winced: “This thing costs five hundred?”

Li Banfeng’s purse was tight; Master Feng noticed.

The day before, this young man had bought a hat and a feather duster from him after being shown the way—Master Feng remembered clearly: this was a reasonable man.

“Young man, may I ask your name?”

Li Banfeng replied: “I’m Li, called Li Qi.”

“Master Li, I’ll let you take this blade on credit—pay me when you return from picking flowers.”

On credit?

Li Banfeng froze.

Master Feng’s smile didn’t fade: “You’re a man who gets things done—I trust you.”

Li Banfeng thanked him and took the sickle.

Master Feng pulled a small shovel from beneath the counter—its blade was over ten centimeters long—and handed it to Li Banfeng: “Some flowers root deep and are hard to pull—would this shovel suit you?”

Li Banfeng took the shovel, examined its shape, felt its edge, and asked: “How much for this shovel?”

Master Feng smiled: “In material and craftsmanship, this shovel’s better than the sickle. Normally, eight hundred wouldn’t be too much—but you’re a discerning buyer. If you think it’s right, seven hundred—take it.”

“Seven hundred…” Li Banfeng hesitated—the item was excellent, but taking more credit felt inappropriate.

Master Feng understood Li Banfeng’s predicament: “Take it and use it. If it suits you, bring the money. If not, bring it back.”

Li Banfeng accepted the shovel and then asked if he could buy a few cloth bags.

Master Feng gave him two: “Two bags are enough—flowers are easy to pick, hard to carry down.”

Li Banfeng took the advice; Master Feng smiled: “Is there anything else you need?”

The Suishenju had no windows—no sun or moon, no day or night—Li Banfeng wanted to buy a watch.

Master Feng pulled out a pocket watch—the casing was twice the diameter of a one-yuan coin, gleaming silver, reflective as a mirror.

Click.

He opened the casing—the white dial bore twelve raised, exquisite hour markers.

The crown—the stem used to wind the watch—sat at the twelve o’clock position. Master Feng gripped it, twisted a few times, then pulled it out two notches.

Li Banfeng had seen mechanical watches before: the crown, when not pulled, wound the watch; pulled one notch, it adjusted the time; pulled two notches, it adjusted the date.

But this dial had no date function—why pull it out two notches?

Tick. Tick-tock~

The pocket watch emitted the sound of a music box.

Such a familiar tune—he’d heard it somewhere before.

A mall? A restaurant?

“VIP upstairs?”

Li Banfeng had worked in all these places; he remembered the melody vividly—but couldn’t recall its name.

He hadn’t heard music in a long time.

The sound felt deeply comforting to him.

“How much for this watch?”

Master Feng held the chain: “A watch from Che Man Country—genuine, money-back guarantee. Two thousand two hundred. I can’t offer credit for this.”

Li Banfeng was tempted—but the price was staggering.

Qin Xiaopang grew impatient: “What’s the use of buying this? Just buy a clock!”

Master Feng smiled but said nothing.

Qin Xiaopang urged them to hurry; Li Banfeng scanned the shelves for anything else useful. His gaze suddenly fixed on a strange object.

It was a wooden cabinet—ancient redwood, the size of two stacked bedside tables—with three metal trumpet-like flowers on top.

More precisely, they weren’t trumpet flowers—they were three actual trumpets: one large, its bell wider than a plate; the other two much smaller, each about the size of a fist.

“Is this a phonograph?” Li Banfeng’s eyes lit up—he’d seen this on TV, a machine that played music from records.

“Phonograph?” Master Feng shook his head. “This isn’t called a phonograph.”

What it was called didn’t matter.

A phonograph meant electricity existed.

Electricity meant he could charge his phone.

Charge his phone, and this world would be perfect!

Even without cell signal, at least he wouldn’t need to buy a watch.

But Feng the Shopkeeper’s answer disappointed Li Banfeng: “We don’t have anything electric here. This is a phonograph—it doesn’t need electricity.”

Li Banfeng couldn’t understand: if it didn’t need electricity, how could it produce sound?

Only today did he learn that the earliest phonographs had nothing to do with electricity or magnetism—only two things mattered: the needle and the record.

Feng the Shopkeeper placed a shellac record onto the phonograph’s turntable, then pulled a crank from a drawer beneath the machine, inserted it into the phonograph, and turned it vigorously for over a dozen rotations.

This was winding the spring.

Once the spring was fully wound, he released the pin, and the record spun rapidly on the turntable.

Feng the Shopkeeper lowered the needle onto the record, and a song, crackling with static, drifted out from the horn.

“Floating clouds disperse,

The bright moon shines upon us,

Together in perfect harmony,

Let us drink till we’re drunk tonight.”

The moon is full, the flowers bloom.

The principle of this ancient phonograph was extremely simple.

The record bore grooves of varying depth—grooves carved by the needle as it vibrated in time with the song’s sound.

Now, as the needle traced those grooves again, the friction produced sounds that recreated the original song.

This was the acoustic principle of the phonograph.

The sound quality was far from good—it was even somewhat coarse.

But Li Banfeng loved this tune; he listened with great pleasure.

Unfortunately, it was too short—less than three minutes, the needle slid to the end, the spring unwound completely, and the record stopped.

Qin the Fat One sneered: “What’s so great about this? To listen to one song, you have to crank the handle for half an hour—it’s too much work.”

“You don’t have to wind it to listen,” Feng the Shopkeeper said, placing a new record on the turntable.

He brought a metal cup and poured two cups of water into the small horn beside the main one.

Feng the Shopkeeper struck a match and opened a small door at the lower right of the phonograph.

Inside was a hidden compartment, holding a fixed iron box filled halfway with grease, with a wick standing upright in the center.

He lit the wick, and a small flame filled the entire compartment.

Li Banfeng didn’t know what kind of oil it was, but even from afar, he felt the intense heat.

Hss! Hss! Hss!

The small horn on the right of the main horn rhythmically spat out mist.

The left small horn added water; the right one expelled steam.

What kind of trick was this?

Could it be…

The record began to spin on the phonograph.

A steam-powered phonograph?

How precise was this machinery?

Li Banfeng widened his eyes; his education of the past dozen years faced another challenge.

After about a minute, the record’s speed stabilized, and Feng the Shopkeeper placed the needle on the record.

“Butterflies fly away,

My heart is no longer here,

Who will keep me through this lonely night?

I wipe tears from my cheeks…”

Wild grass and idle flowers bloom with spring.

What a beautiful tune.

PS: Dear readers, an important character has appeared—keep your eyes open!

(End of Chapter)