I carefully nudged the fragments aside with my knife, revealing the gleaming object: a dagger, nearly a foot long.

Its hilt was crafted from ivory, intricately carved with patterns resembling tigers, leopards, and wolves. At the pommel, a single red gem still shone with captivating brilliance.

Most striking, however, was the blade. It was incredibly thin, almost like a leaf, forged into a crescent shape, emitting a bright, silvery gleam that sharply contrasted with the dull yellow cast of the bronze weapons nearby.

I knew instantly this must be a rare steel treasure blade from the Qin Dynasty. Steelworking techniques were primitive then, making steel implements exceedingly scarce. To prevent rust, people often preserved their metal weapons with kerosene back then.

This accidental discovery today felt like striking gold.

With utmost care, I lifted the precious blade, wiping the surface with my sleeve; the sheen intensified, growing colder. Under the light, two characters etched onto the blade became clear: "Yin Yu."

Evidently, the blade's name was Silver Fish.

The dagger felt almost weightless in my hand, exceedingly light and nimble.

I had long heard that the prized swords of the Warring States, Qin, and Han periods could slice through iron like mud. With that in mind, I tentatively drew the edge across the adjacent bronze rack.

To my astonishment, the blade sliced effortlessly into the copper weapon rack, a truly marvelous feat.

Then, I picked up a nearby bronze sword, nearly corroded beyond recognition, and began carving at it as if slicing a turnip.

I mused that the Silver Fish blade was more useful than a spear; with this weapon, I could disembowel even those Yù spirits that normal spears couldn't kill with a single strike.

Moreover, ancient blades were rumored to carry Sha Qi (malevolent energy), capable of warding off evil—the older the blade, the stronger the protective power. If this blade was truly over two thousand years old, I wouldn't have to fear the Zongzi (mummies/zombies) anymore.

Lost in thought, I had already carved the rotten bronze sword down to just the hilt in my hands.

I casually tossed the remaining hilt away, wiped the grime from the Silver Fish with my sleeve, tucked it into my waist sash, and continued forward.

In truth, I already had a strong suspicion about the layout of this place.

The moment I saw the first weapon rack, I had almost certainly determined that this area was arranged like a central military tent structure.

Directly opposite that first rack, there should be another one, and the passage between the two racks would lead toward the Marshal's seat. Typically, such walkways were adorned with carpets or animal hides.

Indeed, after only a few more steps, I spotted what appeared to be the decaying remains of an unknown animal hide on the ground, now reduced to black dust and residue.

What surprised me, however, was finding several dark silhouettes lying prone on the ground beside the remnants of the hide.

Though they were distant, I could discern they looked like people.

I quickened my pace, and soon the sight resolved itself: they were indeed several bodies collapsed on the floor.

I counted five and a half bodies; one was missing its lower half.

These five and a half corpses displayed varied postures—some lay flat on their backs, others on their sides, and the half-body was in a crawling position.

Yet, these skeletons shared two similarities. First, they were all clad in the same style of black, right-over-left robed garment, clearly identifying them as Han people of the Qin period. Second, each had a dagger plunged into their abdomen; some still clutched the hilts. Their deaths were not overly violent, suggesting they had committed suicide.

The nearest corpse lay face up, its left hand gripping the dagger buried in its gut, the right arm raised. In the bone-dry, skeletal hand, it still clutched a small, black bronze box.

I drew the Silver Fish from my waist and pried the box free from its grasp.

I directed my flashlight over the box, noting the absence of any markings—perhaps there had been some, but now the entire surface was covered in green patina.

I tried prying at the seam with my hand, but the joints were rusted solid; it wouldn't open.

This wasn't insurmountable, but opening it would require some effort, so I set it aside for a moment.

Next, I used the light to examine the robe on the deceased. It was made of silk, the only material likely to have survived this long.

Despite its age, the fabric was quite thick, embroidered subtly with swirling white clouds and soaring cranes in gold thread. The cuffs and collar also featured golden piping, the lines exquisitely fine—this individual's status in the Qin court must have been high.

Looking further, two items hung from his right hip: an oval bronze plaque and a small white porcelain vial, no larger than a fist.

Since the leather girdle holding them was utterly decayed, I simply used the Silver Fish to sever the rotting belt and retrieved the two objects.

I examined the bronze plaque first. It was a neat oval, featuring a small hole at the top for threading a cord. The front was inscribed in Lesser Seal script: "Ling Yu Temple, Shang Zao Guan Yi." The reverse side displayed the same pattern of white clouds and soaring cranes as the robe.

Guan Yi was the man's name. Shang Zao was a minor official rank in the Qin period, around the seventh or eighth grade, commanding perhaps a dozen subordinates.

The porcelain vial was sealed with wax. I weighed it in my hand; it was light, but a distinct rattling sound indicated small particles inside.

I used the Silver Fish to carefully slice through the wax seal. Shaking a few particles into my palm, several cinnabar-red pills tumbled out.

I brought the pills close to my nose; they carried a heavy scent of saltpeter.

I understood then: this man was likely an alchemical Fire Master, one of those peculiar eccentric scholars of antiquity.

Anyone familiar with Qin history knows that Qin Shi Huang craved immortality, so alchemists were often favored, with no fewer than a thousand working to refine elixirs for the First Emperor.

However, alchemy was divided into two branches: those who prepared the actual elixirs, and the Fire Masters.

The elixir preparers never succeeded and were largely executed.

The Fire Masters, on the other hand, were a class of adepts capable of creating strange substances: Fire Pills that could ignite fierce flames, Mist Pills that produced heavy smoke, and Spirit-Awakening Incense Pills. Rumor had it that the most formidable Fire Masters could even create Soul-Confusing Pills.

The pill in my hand, smelling strongly of saltpeter, was almost certainly a Fire Pill—one that would ignite if thrown hard onto the ground, which was considered sorcery in ancient times.

I inspected the Fire Pills closely; thanks to the wax seal, they were still quite dry. Keeping them might prove useful.

I took out my lighter, reheated the lip of the vial, resealed it, and tucked this bottle of Fire Pills into my own collection.

I then searched the belongings of the other corpses. Besides finding that they all carried a bronze plaque from the Ling Yu Temple, I discovered little else. It seemed, aside from this Fire Master, the others were merely ordinary warriors.

This implied that the Fire Master, whether by rank or capability, must have been the leader of this group.

If he was the leader, the bronze box he held likely contained something like a secret decree or imperial order.

Ignoring the dirt beneath me, I sat near the corpses and began prying at the bronze box's seam with the Silver Fish. After a moment, a sharp crack sounded, and the box sprang open easily.

Under the beam of the flashlight, I saw a scroll of silk, rolled into a cylinder within the box—presumably the rumored edict.

The red cord binding the silk had long since disintegrated. I gave it a gentle tug, and the rope snapped, allowing me to unfurl the silk.

When the silk was spread open, I was startled. The script, dark red and yellowed, was not written with ink, but in blood—it was a Blood Edict.

I knew that Blood Edicts were reserved for the most critical, top-secret commands. The writer wasn't necessarily out of brush and ink, nor was it a show of bravado; blood symbolizes life, or death. Writing an edict in blood meant the contents were matters of life and death.

The Qin Lesser Seal script I had seen earlier was relatively simple, allowing me to decipher most of it. However, this edict was not only written in a hurried, messy hand, but it also contained many complex characters that I could not fully recognize.