Chapter Twelve: The Demonic Blade of Muramasa

"Is this a real sword?" Fan Li stared, lost in thought, at the weapon displayed beneath the glass case before him.

The object inside was a katana. Compared to the long sabers of China, this katana was noticeably slimmer. Since ancient times, it had served not just as a weapon but was also admired for its elegant form; many famous blades had been preserved as works of art, carrying the symbolic spirit of the samurai. Unlike the blades of other lands, the most notable feature of swords from Yamato was the artistry manifest not only in their ornate fittings but in the very steel itself.

From the very moment the apocalypse descended, Fan Li had longed for a weapon he could wield with confidence. With firearms strictly controlled in China, he harbored no illusions about obtaining a gun; even securing a baseball bat or a watermelon knife would have been a stroke of luck. After all, their destructive power far outstripped the hammer and kitchen knife he currently possessed. It wasn't that the hammer lacked lethality—only that it was too short.

The hammer in his grip was nothing more than a household tool, handle and head together barely forty centimeters. Though it could do damage, landing a blow required getting dangerously close. A longer weapon meant greater reach, less risk.

A long blade was strong, its edge bared and threatening; a short one, treacherous and elusive, concealing its deadly intent. Fan Li understood this well enough, but he was, after all, only a college student, untrained in the use of weapons. For him, a longer weapon always felt safer than a short one.

The katana before him was slender and curved, its blade extended and gleaming with sharpness. It piqued Fan Li's interest immediately.

The room was filled with models of all sorts. Compared to the figurines in the living room, these models were clearly more valuable. In the center of the bedroom, this katana occupied pride of place, a testament to the owner's particular affection for it.

This apartment had been purchased especially to house cherished possessions. The owner need not worry about unruly children from relatives intruding here; thus, the glass case was left unlocked. Fan Li lifted the glass, exposing the katana fully to view.

He gripped the handle and raised it. Only then did he realize that the blade was much lighter than he'd expected. He tested its weight in his hand—barely two pounds.

Examining it closely, Fan Li saw that the katana was not made of iron, but steel. Its mirror-like surface reflected the scarf-wrapped face of the observer. Along the temper line, a cold light shimmered and danced, heightening the sense of deadly sharpness. This was, without doubt, a fine blade. At the base of the handle, two characters were engraved: "Muramasa."

In the hazy corners of his memory, Fan Li recalled that Muramasa was indeed a renowned sword from Yamato, sometimes referred to as a demon blade. Were the internet still functional, he might have looked up its legend. But with the power grid down and all electronic devices useless, the reason for the "demon blade" moniker would remain a mystery for now.

The tale of Muramasa's origins did not concern Fan Li much. After all, no matter how wealthy the blade’s owner had been, he could never have acquired the true "demon blade." The weapon before him was, undoubtedly, a replica.

Still, it would be a mistake to underestimate the art of imitation in China.

Renowned the world over, one of China’s innate talents was the ability to reproduce anything. A single glance, a little contact, and a thing could be recreated with uncanny precision—sometimes even improved in design and function.

The real Muramasa was a weapon from centuries past; its value now lay more in history than in use. No one would dare swing such a priceless sword with abandon, especially after centuries of corrosion that might have rendered its blade brittle—one strong blow and it could shatter to dust.

But this replica was different. To fetch a high price, its materials were beyond reproach. Even Fan Li, a novice, could sense its keen edge; it was a true weapon.

He untied the hammer from its cord and gripped the katana with both hands. The blade was about eighty centimeters long—twice the length of his hammer. A longer weapon meant he could strike sooner and from greater distance when facing an enemy.

"I have to test it first."

Cautious by nature, Fan Li would not recklessly go out to hack at zombies just yet; he feared the weapon might be all show and no substance.

Glancing around, he fixed his gaze on the display cabinet filled with figurines. Such beloved figures deserved a worthy home; every cabinet in the house was made of rosewood, their fine grain testifying to their value. In peaceful times, selling just one of these cabinets would yield a tidy sum. But now, in the apocalypse, the entire county had been ravaged—looking from the window, all he saw was death and flight. Who still cared for rosewood furniture?

In ordinary times, a string of beads could be worth tens of thousands. In chaos, antiques were the cheapest things of all.

Against zombies, a vase was less useful than a hammer; against starvation, a jade trinket less precious than a red bean bun to fill the belly.

Not long ago, these cabinets and figurines had been the owner's treasures. Now, the former master had mutated and collapsed in a pool of blood, and these furnishings became little more than objects for Fan Li to test his blade.

"Ha!"

Fan Li gripped the katana with both hands and swung at the base of the cabinet.

With a soft sound, the slender blade sank into the rosewood without resistance. A moment later, he twisted his wrists and the katana came free.

Examining the blade, Fan Li was delighted to find that, though the cabinet had been gouged with a dent, the Muramasa katana itself showed not a single mark or chip.

Value always had its reasons. In sharpness alone, this katana was leagues beyond his hammer or kitchen knife.

…………………………

A katana, six cans of cola, two bags of potato chips, and a room full of figurines and model kits—these were Fan Li’s spoils.

The food haul had been modest, but the unexpected acquisition of a weapon left him more than satisfied.

He raised his right hand and checked his watch: 3:36. It was still early—perhaps he could search a few more rooms.

Resolved, Fan Li quietly closed the door behind him, abandoned the hammer, and with the Muramasa katana in hand, made his way upstairs…