Chapter Nine: Trading Swords

Qiubai held the scabbard in his left hand and gripped the hilt with his right, steadying his breath and focusing his mind before swinging the blade. His movements now lacked the raw brutality they once had, replaced instead by a certain lightness, transforming from the pounding of an iron hammer to something more akin to the crack of a whip.

The wild swordsman’s aura had finally diminished somewhat.

Directly ahead of him, not far away, lay the sea. Between him and the water stood a reef, nearly as tall as he was—the target of his strike.

Yet it seemed the distance between Qiubai and the reef was still a bit too great; the tip of his blade passed fully half a meter short of the stone.

"Qiubai, we can set out now."

"Alright."

As he sheathed his blade in response to the voice behind him, a sudden jet of mist sprayed in a straight line from the far side of the reef—a cloud of dust, instantly produced by the friction and force of his attack.

There was no visible exertion in Qiubai’s movement, yet the reef split smoothly in two. The thing called "Sword Aura" had extended the reach of his strike well beyond his physical range. After two months on this island, Qiubai had finally met the standard Ryoma had set for him.

With this goal achieved, the two of them were ready to take to the sea once more. But before that, there was a problem to solve: they needed a boat. And before they could get a boat, they needed money to buy one. Fortunately, Qiubai was never troubled by worldly concerns like money; he already had a plan, and their next destination was—Baron Island, Baron Town, Baron Harbor.

This would be the first time in many months that either of them set foot on the other side of the island.

Qiubai had heard tales of the island’s prosperity in his homeland, which was why he’d chosen it as his first stop. But after encountering Ryoma, that objective had become secondary, and only now did he begin to think about visiting the town.

They traveled along the coast, circumnavigating the island from one side to the other. The island was large, and the journey took considerable time, but it posed no real hardship to their stamina.

After making the circuit, Baron Harbor finally came into view—but the sight before Qiubai, who had known nothing but small villages for over a decade, left him feeling somewhat disoriented.

Crowds streamed endlessly, voices clamored in a constant din, and buildings jostled for space, row after row. Qiubai knew nothing of population statistics, but judging by the size, this place was more a city than a town—perhaps with close to a hundred thousand inhabitants.

It was hardly small.

This island served as a hub connecting the surrounding seas; bustling commerce and a vast, shifting population defined its character.

Among those throngs, there were likely soldiers, marines, pirates, even bounty hunters, and so a city of this size surely had shops catering to such clientele—taverns, for instance, and weapon shops.

Qiubai adapted quickly enough, but Ein faltered, hesitating at the edge of the crowds. This was to be expected; in this lifetime, having grown up only on Whale Island, the total number of people the two of them had ever seen together likely did not exceed a hundred. Now, faced with such a surging mass, her worldview was being shaken to its foundations.

Thankfully, Qiubai was there to lead her—though he had no idea where he was going, either.

He asked for directions as they went, winding through the streets with Ein trailing behind. After half an hour, they finally found what was said to be the largest weapon shop in the harbor.

Specializing exclusively in blades, the store was a perfect fit for Qiubai, and without another word, he plunged straight inside.

"Welcome, sir! What can I—"

The shop was spacious—over a hundred square meters—and the walls were covered in all manner of swords and blades: some of traditional design, others strange and exotic; some for cavalry, some for infantry, arranged on the walls in patterns that at one moment formed an S, at another an M.

Yet it seemed the shop was run by a single proprietor, a man appearing about fifty, with round glasses and a perpetual merchant’s smile.

Qiubai cut him off, slapping the blade he’d just used down in front of the owner—the reason he hadn’t yet put it away.

"A fine fifty-fold blade, famed sword 'Okayama.' Two million Berries."

Qiubai spoke rapidly—what he was doing now could best be described as the legendary act of a sword merchant.

Despite being a man who sometimes liked to reason things out, in certain situations Qiubai was nothing if not direct—especially when it came to business.

The owner adjusted his glasses, examining the blood-red scabbard and unadorned style. With his left hand on the scabbard, he drew the blade with his right.

A restrained murderous aura, a subtle cold gleam, and a simple wave pattern along the edge—this was no ordinary weapon.

The owner inspected it closely, then flicked the blade with his finger, producing that distinctive "sonata" known to all sword connoisseurs.

"A fine sword," he said—years of expertise allowing him to make a quick judgment. "Two million is fair—if it’s truly 'Okayama.'"

In other words, he didn’t believe it was.

After all, this was Qiubai’s 'Thousand Blade'—no way could it be one of the famous fifty fine blades. Qiubai was simply bluffing, trying to pass off an imitation as the real thing.

Did he really think a professional sword dealer would be so easily fooled?

The owner slid the blade back into its scabbard and pushed it back toward Qiubai—a clear sign he wasn’t much interested in the deal.

"Friend, you’re asking too much. You must know, there are certainly more than fifty swords in the world of 'fine blade' quality, but only those fifty fetch two million Berries or more. Do you know why?"

He answered his own question, "Two words: reputation."

The glint on his glasses hid his expression as he spoke.

Qiubai thought, I don’t need you to tell me that. Where there’s fame, there’s prestige; where there’s prestige, prices rise. That’s a universal law, no matter the world.

"Four hundred thousand Berries," the owner offered, slashing the price to a fifth—though it was a steep cut, forty thousand was no small sum. Qiubai realized the man wasn’t as indifferent as he appeared—he genuinely wanted the sword.

Reading the situation, the owner could see Qiubai wasn’t easily fooled; trying to talk him down to thirty or fifty thousand for a high-quality blade was impossible, so he pressed as much as he could within reason.

"One and a half million," Qiubai replied—driving a hard bargain himself, as he truly needed the money.

"Six hundred thousand."

"One point two million."

"Nine hundred thousand."

The owner was just about to declare that this was his final offer, intending to pressure Qiubai, but—

"Deal. But I want cash only."

The owner almost choked—so abrupt! The price was acceptable, but the decisiveness made him feel as if he’d lost out. Sixty thousand might have been enough…

But whatever he thought, Qiubai had the money for a boat.

After the transaction, Qiubai didn’t leave immediately but wandered the shop, soon spotting the most expensive blade on display.

"Is this your best sword?"

While preparing the cash, the owner replied without turning his head, "Yes, one of the Great Twenty-One Blades, the famous 'Kunimitsu.' Interested? Twenty million Berries."

His tone suggested skepticism; who would sell a sword for nine hundred thousand and then immediately buy a famous blade for twenty million? This young man hardly looked wealthy.

"One hundred thousand."

Qiubai seemed to be bargaining.

By his judgment and reason, the blade was almost certainly a replica—what were the odds of finding one of only twenty-one such swords in any random shop?

But that was beside the point.

"What?" the owner snapped, anger rising. "A hundred thousand Berries won’t even buy you the scabbard, young man!"

Qiubai ignored his indignation, tapping the glass case. "It doesn't matter if I can't buy the scabbard. That’s not what I’m after."

"One hundred thousand Berries—for the sword case."

Was this not the legendary tale of buying the box and returning the pearl?

The owner could have exploded. He’d never encountered such a customer—he’d designed the display as a set, seeking the most attractive, harmonious presentation. Decoration was his principle, and a mere hundred thousand Berries was a mockery!

…He sold it.

A hundred thousand for a wooden box—such a profit, such a fool’s bait. Not to sell would mean the owner had been kicked in the head by a horse or trampled by a donkey.