Chapter 545: When Peace Must Be Sought

Several days had passed.

In the lands south of the river, anxious voices rose.

“How is it?!”

“Sigh!”

“What do you mean, ‘sigh’? Speak up!” Lei Laomeng’s tone grew impatient; he gripped the old sorcerer’s arm, his anxiety causing him to squeeze unconsciously—but fortunately, the man’s martial cultivation was utterly mediocre, so the old sorcerer bore no anger.

He looked outside, where a sea of people waited.

Most were soldiers and captains who had fought alongside the Prince of Qin.

The old sorcerer fully understood Lei Laomeng’s and others’ anxiety.

The Emperor of Ying had rallied his final courage and boldness, seeking to drag the Qilin Army into the whirlpool; Li Guanyi personally guarded Zhenbeiguan, and a brutal battle ensued—though it ended in final victory, it was the most perilous battle the Qilin Army had faced since its uprising.

The southern rear had nearly been breached.

Had it not been for that “mysterious divine general” boosting morale, and had Yue Pengwu not returned at the critical moment, even if Jiangnan had held, it would have suffered catastrophic losses.

At that time, Ying had sought to kill two birds with one stone; Tiance Prefecture would have suffered heavy losses.

But Yue Pengwu had returned.

That meant only Li Guanyi stood alone against Jiang Su beyond Zhenbeiguan.

The northern front had briefly stabilized; after returning, the Prince of Qin met Murong Qiushui, learned Jiangnan was truly safe, then went out to rally the troops and held a grand banquet to celebrate—but collapsed into a deep sleep immediately afterward, remaining unconscious for days.

Because the matter was of utmost gravity, the news was sealed.

Yet everyone who knew of it was thrown into panic.

Lei Laomeng summoned the Seven Old Ghosts of the Qilin Army, but these ordinary old ghosts possessed obscure medical skills, skilled only in standardized healing techniques accessible to certain cultivation levels; for Li Guanyi’s condition, they didn’t merely lack knowledge—they were utterly clueless.

So they hurriedly “invited” the reclusive old sorcerer.

The old sorcerer gazed at the array of sweating soldiers and strategists outside, helplessly thinking: surely half the heroes, champions, and famed generals of the realm were gathered here.

Their names alone could fill half a history book.

Yet now each one trembled with dread.

If the old sorcerer said they must leap into the sea to awaken the Prince, this crowd would line up and jump without hesitation.

Especially that fearless man who had directly challenged He Ruo Qinhu, the veteran general of Ying—Yue Qianfeng, who had held the line against He Ruo Qinhu, now had one arm broken and bound, his head wrapped in a thick white bandage, looking far worse than the Prince himself.

Yet he still pushed forward, jostling to get closer.

Yue Qianfeng had fought in grief then, his blood ignited by rage over his master’s death; yet across from him, He Ruo Qinhu had been in a similar state—

The Emperor he had followed since his teenage years lay just behind him.

How could he lose?

How could he retreat?

The battle had raged ferociously; when Yue Qianfeng was dragged back, he was unconscious—but He Ruo Qinhu, under the assault of four famed generals, still spat blood; at that moment, Yue Qianfeng had laughed aloud several times, then toppled backward.

The generals were stunned, believing this foremost fierce divine general of the Qilin Army had died in battle—until a chorus of snores rose from the battlefield; they were astonished to see the general lying in a pool of blood, utterly exhausted and asleep.

He possessed great courage and boldness.

Yet not the slightest concern for propriety.

The old sorcerer offered reassurances, but their voices were too loud.

Finally, the old sorcerer grew irritated, drove them all out of the courtyard; the famed generals clutching apples and other gifts stood awkwardly, and he said: “The Prince needs quiet rest. You lot crowding here are suffocating the air—go all of you.”

Yue Qianfeng beamed: “So the Emperor is alright?!”

The old sorcerer rebuked:

“The Prince is only twenty-two, a martial legend with an exceedingly long lifespan—what’s the problem? It’s you lot who, if you don’t care for yourselves, won’t be able to fight on the battlefield soon—you’ll be carried on stretchers.”

He drove them all out, except Lei Laomeng, who stayed behind; after all, Yue Pengwu had returned so swiftly because of that auspicious divine eagle from the grasslands—Lei Laomeng had successfully persuaded the creature to lend its strength.

The ever-capable Lei Laomeng had won another victory.

He was also composed and steady; after closing the door, he assisted quietly: “Old Master, if the Emperor were unharmed, why hasn’t he awakened yet?”

The old sorcerer said: “Martial legends attain harmony with creation; the Emperor reached this realm before twenty. Even if battling Jiang Su cost him some lifespan and vitality, it hasn’t damaged his foundation.”

“He merely needs rest, absorbing heavenly and earthly primordial energy—it will gradually replenish. The greater wound is within his heart.”

Lei Laomeng opened his mouth but could not speak.

The old sorcerer gazed at the closed door and sighed.

On the pages of history, only the Prince’s great victory would be written—his decisiveness, his calm command of troops—none would know that on that most perilous day, before him stood Jiang Su’s fifty-thousand-strong army, and behind him lay Zhenbeicheng.

Knowing Jiankuang was in peril and Jiang Wanxiang had broken through, Li Guanyi, facing danger in Jiangnan, had no choice but to stake his final reserves.

He didn’t know if he could win, didn’t know if he would die; ahead lay the strongest enemy, behind, peril. Even the strongest man feels sorrow and fear—but then, he had simply pulled the Divine Spear of Annihilation from his shoulder.

Breathing air thick with the stench of blades and spears, feeling the twin stabs of heart and wound, he stood on the battlefield, gripping his weapon tighter, roaring forward, letting the pain in his chest pierce him, letting his eyes turn red.

He could only fight with all his strength.

At that time, even sorrow was a luxury for the Prince; as the ancients said, nothing is greater than a dead heart, and death itself is secondary. The Prince held his weapon, guarding the nation’s gate; after returning, he rallied morale, arranged everything—only then did he earn the right to grieve.

He bore the great vow of universal peace.

Even grief must not be shown outwardly.

The Son of Heaven feels no joy, sheds no tears.

It was not his physical wounds but his inner exhaustion that plunged him into deep sleep; at least in dreams, he might find a moment’s rest—but Lei Laomeng had never lived the old sorcerer’s life, never known the pain of a dead heart.

It was less his physical injuries than the weariness in his heart that dragged him into deep sleep; at least in dreams, there was still a moment’s respite—though Lei Laomeng had never lived the life of an old sorcerer, and knew not the pain of a dead heart.

Upon hearing the impact on his lifespan, he was already deeply troubled, saying:

“Won’t the Elixir of Immortality help?”

The old sorcerer said: “If it helped, would my incompetent granddisciple have died? It merely boosts vitality—but even the Qilin and Divine Dragon have their cycles; how can anything in the world be eternal?”

Lei Laomeng fell silent, then asked: “Then, at least, replenishing vitality would help—can you brew it, Old Master?”

The old sorcerer snapped: “Even if we dug up Hou Zhongyu now, it wouldn’t matter.”

Lei Laomeng sighed in frustration.

Just as he worried, a sound came from within the room, then the door opened; Murong Qiushui staggered out, saying: “Guanyi—he’s awake!”

The old sorcerer’s eyes lit up instantly; he turned and dashed inside like the wind.

Then realizing his lapse, he composed himself, bowed, and stepped in—sure enough, Li Guanyi sat propped against the bed, this twenty-two-year-old famed general of the realm calm and composed, youthful in appearance, yet his temples streaked with white frost, strikingly visible.

After examining him, the old sorcerer asked: “Your Majesty, do you feel any discomfort?”

Li Guanyi replied: “Merely exhausted from the battlefield; once back in Jiangnan and at ease, I simply collapsed. I’ve troubled you, Old Master.”

The old sorcerer studied Li Guanyi, said nothing more, only:

“Your Majesty’s recovery is good. This past while, everyone has been deeply worried. But on the battlefield, the martial energy is too overwhelming; each slash and thrust drains strength and qi, causing great depletion.”

Li Guanyi said: “I understand. Old Master, rest assured—I will cherish my body.”

The old sorcerer sighed, nodded, and turned to leave.

Suddenly, he felt a deep helplessness.

He had seen too much—these men always swore they’d care for their bodies, yet each time rushed to the front, fought for years on battlefields; how many faces had laughed, promising “I’ll return next time,” only to never come back?

He had seen too much—these men always swore they’d take care of their bodies, yet always charged straight to the front. In battle, after years of slaughter, how many faces had laughed and promised, “I’ll come back next time,” only to never return?

Yet most unfaithful to it.

What could be done?

After waking, Li Guanyi propped himself up, met with many generals and friends; he had shattered that threshold, achieving the realm of martial legend—a state not merely of enhanced power, but of profound mastery and control.

His essence, energy, and spirit were full, yet for some reason, his heart remained weary.

The generals, seeing Li Guanyi unharmed, felt at ease; all were greatly relieved. Li Guanyi still had them bring all current intelligence scrolls; he sat by the window, reading each scroll, questioning each general in detail.

Though worried for his health, they knew the gravity of the realm’s upheaval and reported fully.

The long-standing balance, that false peace, had ended; even after the war, Qin and Ying’s borders remained tense, frontier troops constantly on alert, commerce halted, redirected inward.

The lands bordering each other were Zhenbeicheng and the cities previously attacked by Yuwen Lie and others, with mountains and ridges between them, hard to cross; after this battle, both Zhenbeicheng and Yu’an City needed strengthened defenses.

This required vast sums of gold and silver, and manpower.

Meanwhile, casualties were high; relief and recuperation were needed.

And the newly conquered territories of Chen Guo, along with the various forces of the Turkic grasslands, required further control…

War represented the extreme accumulation of contradictions, erupting in the most violent, direct way—but victory or defeat after war is never the end; many tasks follow, demanding relentless effort.

Li Guanyi spent days discussing with Yan Daqing, Master Pojun, and others, arranging all post-war affairs of Tiance Prefecture, establishing its broad direction and framework, before finally allowing himself a breath.

The group exchanged glances, then rose to leave; Li Guanyi walked with his aunt, and as he stepped outside, he saw Jiangnan’s cities still as prosperous as ever—he had been in Jiangnan for seven or eight years; this city was the first place their ideal had taken root.

It was where the fire had first burned, so its transformation was especially vast; Li Guanyi walked through the bustling crowds, yet felt a strange detachment, as if lost in thought—victory had been won, he saw this thriving world, yet he was numb.

Murong Qiushui tried to cheer him, forcing a smile, pointing far off: “Look, Lini…”

Murong Qiushui wanted to cheer him up, forcing a smile and pointing far off, saying, “Look, Little Cat…”

Amid the vibrant, bustling Jiangnan, the young man stood in a dark-blue robe with subtle patterns, sleeves fluttering, white hair falling at his temples, radiating immense isolation and loneliness.

In the bustling, vibrant south, the young man wore a blue robe with subtle patterns, sleeves fluttering as he stood there, white strands of hair falling at his temples, yet radiating a profound sense of alienation and solitude.

[94] Li Guanyi gripped Murong Qiushui’s arm, looked at him, and finally said nothing of his great-grandfather’s departure, nothing of anything else—he only whispered:

Li Guanyi gripped Murong Qiushui’s arm, looked at her, and said nothing of his great-grandfather’s passing, nothing else—only whispered:

Li Guanyi grasped Murong Qiushui’s arm, looked at Murong Qiushui, and finally said nothing of his great-uncle’s departure or anything else—he only whispered:

Murong Qiushui nodded.

Li Guanyi felt himself despicable.

He was using his aunt’s grief, her emotion, to bind her—using this “despicable” method to pull her from sorrow—but he had done it anyway, gently, despicably.

The world is vast; his only remaining blood kin is his aunt.

The world is vast, and the only blood relative he had left was his aunt.

The officials of the Tiance Prefecture handled the busy affairs of this period, and historians recorded them all; Sa Atandi, as one of them, assisted the elders in gathering materials and documenting these events.

Whether it was the Death of the Red Emperor, or Jiang Wanshang’s demise.

Or Ji Yanzhong leaping off the cliff with Princess Changle, the two-front wars.

All were the most turbulent events of this era, events sufficient to leave a bold, vivid mark in the annals; among them were anthologies of civilian affairs, recording the death of the Sword Madman Long Tu.

This was not done to flatter the emperor or to please him by including his kin in the biographies—this swordsman was simply an extraordinary figure who, with his single blade, altered the age to some degree.

Had it not been for Long Tu’s sword stroke that shattered Jiang Wanshang’s destiny,

even if Yue Pengwu returned to the Jiangnan region, it would have been a death struggle.

One sword severed destiny, defeated an emperor—this was the zenith of martial glory in the world.

The annals recording the Qin Prince would never be shown to him, but other sections were submitted; yet this writing contained no lack of praise, and the Qin Prince suddenly flew into a rage—this was the only time Sa Atandi had ever seen Tager in such a state, and the only time the Qin Prince had ever lost composure on the blue stone.

Even the Qin Prince, who had smiled through utter despair, whose fame spread far and wide, pointed to the historical records and said:

“What does it mean that Long Tu is dead?!”

The historian, confused, replied: “The Sword Madman Long Tu severed destiny and vanished; his trace was never seen again, his aura scattered—he died in the world. A swordsman who can die to the world—is this not magnificent?”

It was the standard tone of a scholar.

Whoosh!

The Qin Prince seized the scroll and hurled it toward the historian, who leapt back in terror, face pale—but even then, the scroll did not strike his forehead or any vital spot; it struck his body. The Qin Prince fell silent, then roared:

“He did not die!”

“Not at all!”

“You never saw his body, never witnessed his final strike—how can you say he’s dead?”

“Magnificent? Magnificent what?!”

The civil official turned deathly pale, unsure why the Qin Prince was so enraged; they trembled slightly from shock and fear, but Sa Atandi lifted her head—her young eyes calm, watching the furious Qin Prince, silently puzzled.

Why, when this hero of the world raged, was he so sorrowful, so desolate?

The Qin Prince ordered all ministers and scholars to withdraw; each felt a chill of dread—he had already carved out the world, ruled half of it, a dragon of chaos, galloping through history and legend.

In truth, for all the world’s vastness, no one dared face the Qin Prince’s wrath, and few could truly stand beside him to tell him the truth.

The Qin Prince drove everyone away.

He muttered alone: “Historians and scholars—know nothing of troops, nothing of the world!”

Until finally, a hand rested on the young monarch’s shoulder.

Li Guanyi’s voice fell silent.

The Old Astral Keeper looked at him, voice gentle and serene:

“Long Tu is dead.”

“Little one…”

Li Guanyi instinctively protested: “No…”

The Old Astral Keeper’s voice rose, as if shattering something:

“He is dead!”

The furious Qin Prince, his snarling Qilin form froze, then seemed to lose all strength, slumping; he staggered back, sat upon his chair, stared at the draft of the annals, bowed his head, and said nothing more.

The Old Astral Keeper’s eyes held pity.

The Qilin of chaos now resembled a forsaken cat.

The Qin Prince bowed his head, whispering still: “My great-grandfather’s sword art reached the divine—he took the Life-Extending Gu —he had transcended mortal cultivation—he cannot die; he has merely left…”

“Besides, there is the Crimson Dragon—Zhang Ziyong’s martial arts began with the Ancient Crimson Dragon, so my great-grandfather…”

He spoke to the Old Astral Keeper—or perhaps to himself.

The Old Astral Keeper said: “Even the sun sets.”

The Qin Prince sat alone.

The mighty conqueror of the world now looked like a child.

The Old Astral Keeper sighed; though he had seen such things before, he still felt sorrow, and left quietly, closing the door so the Qin Prince might face it alone.

The Qin Prince sat motionless all night; when moonlight and starlight fell, memories grew vivid.

The civil officials and historians went to visit the few sages who might have calmed the Qin Prince; Wen Qingyu, after deep thought, chose to step back, but Yan Daqing, surprised, said: “The Qin Prince blames the matter, not the person—he will not take out his anger on you.”

He gently comforted them all, promising to bring them back the next day to apologize.

But the next day, when the historians arrived under the leadership of Pojun and Yan Daqing to pay their respects again, they found the Qin Prince alone, cradling his sword, asleep with closed eyes; on the table, the annals lay like a blade—the original record had been erased.

Only a new ending remained: 【The Sword Madman Long Tu shattered destiny for eight hundred years, forgot the sword and entered the Dao, rode a dragon and ascended—he is nowhere to be found in the mortal world.】 Yan Daqing stared at this record the monarch had insisted upon changing.

He watched him, sword in arms, eyes closed, white strands of hair falling at his temples, brows slightly furrowed.

Perhaps the hero who raised his sword and shattered the world, the monarch who forged a new age and a peaceful future, the silhouette all sought to follow—deep inside, he was still that child.

He was merely trying, with all his strength, to hold onto something.

He and his aunt fled across the world; they barely escaped, and facing the dangers of the martial world, he instinctively gripped his sword and halberd—until an old man came with a sword, saying, “I’m here for everything,” and stood before him, shielding him from the storm.

He refused to accept his great-grandfather’s departure; stubbornly, absurdly, he used the emperor’s dignity, the tyrant’s authority, his grandeur and disdain, to leave this childish mark upon the world and the annals.

And this breach of imperial decorum would forever stand alongside 【The Sword Madman Long Tu entered the Dao through the sword, became a martial legend, and rode a dragon to ascend】 in the annals.

………………

When the Ying army withdrew, Yu Wenlie, He Ruo Qinhu, and Qin Yulong led the troops; their hearts remained resolute, yet the entire army sank into a deep gloom, weighed down by the loss of their monarch and defeat in battle.

Among them, He Ruo Qinhu, Qin Yulong, and others struggled to lift morale.

But the psychological blow was too great to be mended by simple encouragement; as morale sank nearly to the ground like a fallen sky, the vanguard suddenly halted.

Autumn had deepened; the heavens and earth stretched vast and desolate.

A dragon steed, an old man, a dark cloak hanging like a towering mountain—solemn, bearing the divine spear Jiemie, which had pierced the Qilin of chaos—majestic, cold, hard, yet utterly trustworthy, impossibly strong.

The gloom shattered; the sorrow enveloping the entire army was torn open anew. Jiang Su galloped forth, ignoring Yu Wenlie, He Ruo Qinhu, and Qin Yulong; he dismounted, raised the divine spear Jiemie, and walked step by step through the ten thousand troops.

He reached the monarch’s coffin.

Jiemie spear planted in the earth, the Divine General Jiang Su knelt, his broad palm rising to press against the coffin’s side, voice low:

“Your Majesty… I have come.”

The three armies wept in grief.

Vast and desolate heavens—when the Ying Emperor returned, all of Ying country wore white; Jiang Gao and Jiang Yuan donned mourning, and along the capital’s road to the palace, commoners spontaneously draped themselves in sackcloth, paper money fluttered in the air, white as snow covering the earth.

The Divine General Jiang Su carried the coffin, supported the spirit.

In a haze, it was as if years past, snow falling heavily, Jiang Wanshang aged—he carried Jiang Wanshang through the palace, Jiang Wanshang saying: “From now on, it’s yours—I must die…”

The Divine General Jiang Su remained silent, as if still carrying Jiang Wanshang, still bearing the great Ying state, step by step forward—just as he once carried the exhausted young Jiang Wanshang, asleep from training, through the world of smoke and fire.

“No matter what, we will break the Qilin.”

In the wind of Jiangnan, the Qin Prince brushed his wooden sword, his resolve unchanged.

“We have walked a thousand, ten thousand miles—surely we must win.”

Paper money fell like snow; the Divine General stubbornly upheld the Ying realm; Jiangnan’s long wind remained as before; the Qin Prince still bore the nature of his youth.

In the south and north, at the world’s two ends.

In the annals, this year lost many a Divine General and Qin Prince—yet they whispered softly:

“It will… be…”

“Peaceful.”

Of all heroes under heaven, none possess a heart as iron.

They will not turn back.

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