The smell of the second subterranean level hit his nostrils first.
It was a mixture of arcane dust accumulated over years and the pungent stench of leather grease.
The stone walls oozed a clammy, pervasive chill; the moment his fingertips brushed them, the cold slithered up his skin like a living creature.
Li Fan withdrew his hand, stopping on the final step.
The space opened up dramatically.
Quartermaster Valis stood up from behind his wooden desk, his face rapidly donning a professional, overly eager smile—the standard facade of someone wanting to dispatch a human as quickly as possible.
He pushed a tally sheet to the edge of the desk.
“Collect your basic issue and leave a thumbprint, initiate ranger.” Li Fan didn’t reach for it.
His cold gaze swept across the racks, and he walked straight to the second row.
He lifted a standard-issue mithril armor-piercing arrow, casually twirling it on his fingertips.
The arrowhead flowed with a cold arcane sheen, the wooden shaft polished with utmost precision, its intricate magical circuits clearly visible.
*Clatter.* Li Fan casually tossed the arrow—treasured by the elves—back into the bin like trash.
“Center of gravity is too far back.” The eagerness instantly peeled from Valis’s face, replaced by the defensive posture typical of a High Elf whose pride had been insulted.
“That is a masterpiece crafted by Silvermoon City artisans.
Every single one undergoes three stages of arcane tempering and can easily tear through a troll’s thick hide.” “Too light,” Li Fan picked up another one at random, bouncing it twice in his palm.
His thumb pressed against the midpoint of the shaft to gauge its featherlight feel, his eyes filled with contempt.
“The center of balance is off by three full centimeters toward the back.
In a strong crosswind, this thing will drift.
The arcane enchantment isn’t stable either—under severe impact in real combat, the fragile tail is prone to shattering.” He raised his gaze, fixing Valis’s reddening face with a sharp stare.
“Are you certain something like this can be called reliable in a bloody, brutal battle?” The soft tap of military boots echoed from the entrance of the supply depot.
The footsteps struck the stone floor with a measured, hard rhythm.
Alleria walked in.
She had changed into casual attire, her hair bound in a high ponytail, her skin appearing coolly pale under the underground arcane lights.
Her gaze swept past Valis—who was opening his mouth to call for guards—and landed on the arrow Li Fan was weighing in his hand.
“Go fetch that crate of ‘rejects’ from the storehouse for him.” Valis froze completely, bewildered.
“Commander, those are…” “Bring them out.” Her cool voice left no room for argument, lacking a single wasted word.
Two burly warehouse guards heaved a massive wooden crate covered in thick dust, dropping it onto the stone floor with a heavy thud.
The loose lid vibrated violently, kicking up a cloud of choking grey dust.
When the dust settled, the arrows resting inside were revealed.
The arrowheads bore a dull, dark red hue as if they had drunk endless blood, utterly devoid of flashy arcane sheen.
The shafts were crafted from heavy ironwood.
To the naked eye alone, they were clearly more than double the weight of standard arrows.
Li Fan strode over and knelt on one knee.
He grabbed one at random, feeling its heavy, solid weight immediately settle into his palm.
Scraping his thumbnail lightly against the edge, he tested its cold, hard temper.
Though the craftsmanship looked aged, its physical geometry was virtually flawless.
The rust on it was merely the patina of time, by no means a flaw in fabrication.
His fingers slowly rubbed against the rough shaft for a moment before he squeezed his grip tight.
“Now *this* is meant for killing.” Pulling a rag from his tunic, he steadily wiped the red rust from the arrowhead.
Flakes of rust fell away under the coarse friction, revealing the lethal edge beneath.
“Heavy triangular tip, no fancy blood-grooves, maxed out purely for penetration.
Within fifty meters, with enough draw weight, this will punch right through most heavy armor,” Li Fan remarked as he cleaned.
Alleria leaned against a stone pillar, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Several members of the Silvermoon Council have shown considerable hostility regarding your stay here,” she said suddenly.
Li Fan didn’t even lift his head, continuing his methodical wiping and polishing.
Silence settled briefly over the subterranean room.
“This crate of arrows,” Li Fan said, his hands never slowing, his tone even.
“Who made them?” Alleria took a long look at him, something unfathomable swirling deep in her eyes.
“They’re dead.” Li Fan paused his rubbing.
“You came down to the second subterranean level just to tell me that?” Alleria’s eyes shifted slightly.
“I knew it would be useful to you, so I told you.” “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me.
It’s just information, not a favor.” “I know the difference well.” She fell silent for a brief moment—not long.
Then she turned decisively and walked straight toward the exit.
“The old injury on your left shoulder.” Li Fan’s deep voice echoed in the cavernous supply depot, carrying a subtle resonance.
“After that intense fight in the forest yesterday, your left shoulder was dipping significantly lower as you walked just now compared to this morning.” Alleria’s footsteps paused slightly.
She turned half her face toward him, her expression void of emotion.
Her fingers at her side instinctively drifted an inch toward her left shoulder before she forcibly suppressed the movement.
“You should have a priest take a proper look at it today,” Li Fan said, his voice remaining level.
She turned back with absolute finality and strode away.
She didn’t say another word.
Valis stood frozen in place until the rhythmic footsteps faded into the depths of the corridor.
Wiping cold sweat from his brow, he spoke hesitantly: “That crate of discarded arrows…
Initiate, there isn’t a single person in the entirety of Windrunner Spire’s armory who possesses the draw strength to shoot those to an effective range of two hundred meters.
That’s why they were marked as scrap—their practical combat value was zero.” Li Fan exerted his force, pulling the heavy crate of arrows to his chest as he slowly drew himself up.
“I don’t need two hundred meters.” “…What?” Valis stared, utterly bewildered.
“I only need to punch through whatever living thing stands in front of me within fifty meters.
The weight of these treasures is just right.” Valis swallowed hard, quickly filled in the numbers on the sheet, and handed it over.
Li Fan leaned forward, propping the crate on his thigh to free a hand, and pressed a heavy thumbprint onto the paper.
Leaving the subterranean depot, Li Fan carried the crate of “discarded arrows,” his steps steady as he climbed the stairs.
Just as he stepped into the corridor, he ran straight into Firas.
The proud High Elven ranger still had thick white bandages wrapped around the web of his right hand between thumb and index finger.
Coming face-to-face in the corridor, the two locked eyes intently.
Firas broke the silence first, glaring with hostility at the box in Li Fan’s arms.
“What’s in that crate?” “Rejects.” Firas lowered his head slightly.
His eyes lingered on the arrowheads for a second.
“…Those are prototype heavy bolts meant for siege ballistas,” he said, a hint of shock in his voice.
“Their weight is insane; no ranger could ever draw a bow strong enough to utilize them.” Li Fan looked at him blankly.
“That only proves you haven’t found someone who can handle them.” Firas’s brow furrowed sharply, and he opened his mouth to shoot back a sharp retort.
However, his injured right hand twitched instinctively.
The rough bandage rubbed against his sleeve, sending a jolt of piercing pain through him.
The retort caught in his throat, and he swallowed it back down.
Silent, he stepped aside, stiffly clearing the path.
Carrying the heavy crate, Li Fan strode forward without looking back.