Chapter 546: The Sun Will Set, But It Will Rise Again!

Nan Hanwen lifted his head, gazing at the sunlight outside, and yawned.

His eyes reflected the Jiangnan of this season—the wind carried a faint chill, not biting, not the piercing cold, perhaps because so much had happened this year.

Chen Dingye died by blade, the Great Khan fell on the battlefield, the Sword Madman rode a dragon and vanished from the martial world; the Ying Emperor held his sword and faded from the realm.

And that last Red Emperor extinguished himself in a blazing fire, bringing an imperfect yet complete end to eight centuries of elegance and spirit.

The Chen Emperor, the Ying Emperor, the steppe’s overlord, the divine archer who shot down flying eagles, kings and knights—all rose one by one in the past sixty years, revealing their talent and edge, drawing and holding the world’s gaze.

As if all were heroes destined by heaven.

Yet these mighty rivals, clashing in the tide of their age, withered one after another within a single year.

When Nan Hanwen was young and studying, Dan Tai Xianming made him read history; one reading wasn’t enough, nor a second, so he grew angry, reading only in the mountain shrine, too lazy to cook, instead boiling porridge, letting it cool and solidify, slicing it into blocks, and shoving cold rice into his mouth when hungry.

He endured such hardship for years before achieving anything.

Full of youthful vigor, he went to ask Dan Tai Xianming—only to be assigned the post of a servant by the middle-aged Confucian. Nan Hanwen stood stunned; Dan Tai Xianming smiled and said, “First, let you strive hard, fight fiercely—then I’ll tell you that diligence has no meaning.”

“This is my first lesson to you.”

“The world’s rules are like this.”

“The effort you expend yields no use; you read much, yet none of it finds application—not all diligence and toil hold meaning.”

Nan Hanwen was bitter then.

But Dan Tai Xianming laughed again: “Yet read the ‘useless books,’ and you’ll taste the hundred flavors within—then train yourself in the ways of the world.” He swept his sleeve and dismissed him; the young Nan Hanwen seethed.

Now, recalling it, the Confucian’s bearing then was calm and upright.

Though Dan Tai Xianming called them useless books.

Yet Nan Hanwen still felt those days of reading history steadied his heart—only then, in middle age, could he remain in Chen Guo; now, with white hair and aged face, he carried yet another kind of bearing.

Looking now at Jiangnan, at the world, he suddenly felt the same as when he was young, reading history.

Nan Hanwen brewed tea.

In times of chaos, every beginning is lively.

Heroes here, bandits there, rising one after another—you finish singing, I step onto the stage, clashing, witnessing the age of great struggle, the heroic last stands, the prodigies of youth—all eventually wither, and so the era turns its page, entering the next golden age.

The fiery spirit of heroes begins in bustling noise, ends in profound solitude.

Perhaps so.

Even the wind of Jiangnan carried a faint chill.

Outside, the young attendant swept fallen leaves; after Qu Hanxiu’s death, Nan Hanwen adopted him as his page. When that great master of ritual passed, he left Nan Hanwen many scrolls.

Nan Hanwen picked up Qu Hanxiu’s writings and continued compiling new rites and laws.

What is called “rites and laws” is merely morality and statutes.

In his surviving records, Qu Hanxiu wrote: “I once discussed the future of the realm with the Qin Prince, and glimpsed his spirit and inner tides. Frankly, his vision was too far-reaching—he had forged his own system, with the lofty perspective of standing atop a high tower.”

“But too lofty.”

“Higher than what the common people of this age, or nine-tenths of them, could comprehend; even nine-tenths of the remaining one-tenth could barely glimpse a fraction of his inner tides. With such vision and spirit, to act beyond ordinary means would surely fail.”

“Boy, do you know what ‘ritual’ is?”

“Ritual is morality—you and I…”

Here, the record paused. The ink settled and blurred into a dark patch; then, after a moment, it resumed. Nan Hanwen could sense, in that pause and the resumption, a great deal of ease.

“It should be you. Remember: rites and laws are the steps and bridges built between the hearts of the people in this age and the vision the Qin Prince holds. One is too high, the other too low.”

“Only by restraining with ritual and disciplining with law can we move forward gradually.”

“The words ‘rites and laws’ are not some terrible, monstrous thing.”

“What is terrifying and hateful is merely [decay and obsolescence].”

Qu Hanxiu’s writing carried disdain. The saying goes, “See the writing, see the man”—one can discern character from the strokes. But that’s inaccurate; the truer truth is, when reading an elder’s words, it feels as if he never left, still chatting idly.

Nan Hanwen couldn’t help smiling: “Still the same, Master Qu.”

“Seems scatterbrained, yet always drops astonishing words.”

He turned the page.

Qu Hanxiu’s writing grew urgent: “Also, remember, boy—after you finish compiling the new rites and laws, you must write my name on it! Absolutely must!”

“I, too, deserve great fame!”

“Don’t say it’s vulgar!”

“Achieving fame and glory is precisely what we Confucians seek in life. What we despise are impostors. Is it not our duty to pursue true renown, earned through upright deeds, passed down through millennia?”

“Remember! Don’t forget!”

“Or I’ll come find you every year…”

Nan Hanwen closed the scroll.

The young attendant entered with tea, seeing Master Nan Hanwen pressing his temples. He tiptoed to place the tea set on the table, then poured the tea, puzzled: “Master, what’s wrong?”

Nan Hanwen sighed: “The words have been bothering my eyes.”

The attendant was confused.

How could words bother the eyes?

Can eyes hear?

Nan Hanwen said nothing, only smiled as he drank tea, picked up his own scrolls, glanced at the pile of Qu Hanxiu’s life’s work on the table—he would learn these words, then record new ones.

And pass them on to future generations?

He suddenly smiled.

He had a brilliant idea!

You said you wanted eternal fame—but you never said what kind of name!

So Nan Hanwen decided to preserve Qu Hanxiu’s scrolls, and that letter—wise and free-spirited, yet shamelessly greedy for glory, as if shouting into people’s ears for recognition.

Future generations, too, would be bothered by this fellow’s words!

Nan Hanwen smiled, looking at the scrolls, murmuring: “Old thing.”

Go speak to the people of a thousand years hence!

He rose and left, walking through Jiangnan’s streets. The people’s faces were calm now, slowly recovering from the war—Jiang Wanxiang was dead; Jiang Su personally carried his coffin.

A true mourning of the realm.

Thus, all Ying Guo now grieved the Emperor’s death—whether real, feigned, or a mix of both—and beneath that sorrow lay deeper problems.

Jiang Wanxiang was dead; the realm was unsettled.

His two sons were both in their prime.

Who would bear the burden of Ying Guo, and become its great Emperor?

Or rather—

Who has the capacity, the spirit, to stand against the Qin Prince?

At this thought, the people of Qin felt a quiet pride—the confidence born of peace had begun to emerge, the foundation of a golden age.

After the Qin Prince awoke, the morale of the Qilin Army and the order of the Tiance Prefecture swiftly recovered. The scholars of Tiance Prefecture began implementing the Qin Prince’s orders: calming the people, promoting agriculture and sericulture, comforting soldiers, preparing for the coming great war.

All moved steadily forward.

Nan Hanwen walked through the streets, past a familiar vendor, to a government office beneath Tiance Prefecture.

Seven years ago, Tiance Prefecture was merely a hollow title.

Back then, under pressure from the imperial clan and warlords, the last Red Emperor, Ji Zi Chang, had no choice but to bet on this bold youth—a boy who led a band of ex-bandits and outlaws, crossed ten thousand li, and accomplished a staggering feat.

He granted him the highest title possible, allowing him to establish his own prefecture.

“Tiance” was then just an empty honor.

Now, beneath this office, twelve bureaus were established. Across the vast expanse of ten thousand li—from the western peaks of the Sacred Mountains of the Thirty-Six Tribes, to the eastern shores where waves crashed into the sea, from the northernmost volcanic steppes to the southern swamps and mist-laden mountains of the southwest—

On these vast roads, relay stations were built, horses galloping day and night.

Eagles soared in the sky.

Carrying Tiance Prefecture’s orders to every corner.

Influencing every region of the realm, shaping this age—even steering its very direction.

This place truly was Tiance.

The Khan’s Strategy!

Nan Hanwen nodded to the Qilin Army guards at the gate, showed his token, then entered with his scrolls—when he saw a girl with dark skin and large, bright eyes hurrying out, her waist bearing the historian’s token and a dagger with a horn handle.

Behind her, a boy of sixteen or seventeen carried a halberd and shouted:

“Hey!!!”

“Sa A Tan Di!”

“I was just joking! Don’t be so angry!”

She was Sa A Tan Di, historian of Qin, Assistant Compiler.

And behind her, Xue Changqing, Captain of the Qilin Army’s Elite Guard, third-tier realm, her bodyguard—both had uncovered Ying Guo’s infiltrators days ago. Xue Changqing had broken through in battle, nearing the fourth tier.

He had strong martial talent from youth, and now, following Sa A Tan Di into this age, he had grown immensely—though still prone to childish tantrums and clashes with her. Two of the most outstanding youths in the Qilin Army.

He has indeed made great progress, but sometimes still throws a young master’s tantrum and clashes with Sa Atandi; they are two of the most outstanding young figures in the Qilin Army.

Sa A Tan Di bowed formally, then left.

Xue Changqing dashed past, then stopped, stepped back, and saluted:

“Ah—it’s Master Nan.”

Then she stepped back rapidly, bowing in greeting:

“Ah, it’s Master Nan.”

“Mr. Nan, hello!”

“Goodbye, Mr. Nan!”

Xue Changqing greeted them, then sprinted off shouldering his battle halberd. Nan Hanwen watched the two with a helpless smile; among the younger generation of the Qilin Army, several had emerged, each excelling in their own field.

Nan Hanwen continued forward.

He again saw Prince A Shi Na pacing toward him, reporting on the stability of the steppe. They nodded and exchanged greetings; this prince had broad shoulders and had grown with extraordinary speed since the Great Khan’s death.

He had been granted his father’s long spear by the Prince of Qin.

He then sealed away the spear; gradually, this prince withdrew from the battlefield, leaving both his armor and his father’s spear behind in the Central Plains, often traveling the steppe to pacify the Turkic people.

As the Governor of the Northwestern Circuit, his status and authority were considerable, yet he remained deeply respectful and submissive.

When A Shi Na came to Chen Guo for the grand sacrifice ten years ago, Nan Hanwen was the official in charge of reception; A Shi Na greeted him proactively: “Old Master, long time no see. How is your spirit?”

Nan Hanwen smiled: “I merely address a few minor concerns for His Majesty; it is you, Lord A Shi Na, who travels tirelessly across the land—how weary you must be.”

A Shi Na’s expression was calm: “All for the sake of the world.”

Their relationship was not particularly close; during idle chat, they spoke of the current situation: Prince Duan Qingyu had returned to the southwest, and the Array Chief had gone to the border city with Ying Guo to reinforce the city’s great array.

Zhenbei City, the mightiest fortress under heaven, was at least a comfort.

But defenses elsewhere remained insufficient and needed further strengthening.

General Chen Wenmian, in countless battles, successfully breached key passes and attained the Eighth Heaven Realm. At his age, such martial prowess and achievements fully inherited the Wolf King’s legacy; frankly, the Wolf King at that age could not have defeated Chen Wenmian at his age.

Xiao Wuliang’s arm was injured again, and Guan Shier’s temper had grown slightly more irritable because of it.

Xue Shenjiang had not destroyed the mechanisms he had created—rarely good spirits.

But this good mood would collapse instantly if that fellow opened his mouth—not a trace would remain.

The academy founded by disciples of Master Wenzhong held great weight throughout the Jiangnan region; yet upon entering the Tiance Prefecture, they learned Master Wen Qingyu was absent.

“Is Wen Qingyu gone?!”

Feng Xiao, holding a wine jug, fell into thought.

Yan Daqing waved his hand irritably: “Gone where?”

“Several others remain in the Xuegong. He and the Stick Monk Thirteen went to the Xuegong and managed to bring them back.”

Feng Xiao said: “Oh, I see.”

Nan Hanwen was somewhat surprised: “Are you referring to Su Wang, Qilin, Zi Yang Zhenren, and the Living Buddha? I’ve only heard that Master Wen Qingyu’s ingenious strategies are famed throughout the land.”

“Does he also excel at persuasion?”

“These figures are all renowned scholars of the age—they’re not easily swayed.”

Yan Daqing said: “Yes, but it doesn’t matter—they brought gifts.”

Nan Hanwen asked: “Oh? What gifts?”

Yan Daqing spoke casually: “An Xuanbing-grade rope, a stool, a thousand-day drunkenness that makes even martial legends and Grand Masters feel intoxicated, and a compound Mafeisan combining one hundred and seventy-three medicinal effects.”

Nan Hanwen’s smile froze: “Huh??”

His eyes widened.

What are you saying, Master Yan Daqing?!

Feng Xiao patted Nan Hanwen on the shoulder, offering mock reassurance: “Get used to it. Back in our youth, we all used this exact method to bring them in.”

Nan Hanwen’s expression grew more bewildered.

What?

The others merely joked and teased—this was something they could laugh about from their youth. Yan Daqing took the dossier Nan Hanwen had written, supplementing the rites section of the legal codes.

Nan Hanwen said: “By the way, how is His Majesty?”

Yan Daqing replied: “His Majesty is unharmed—he has awakened and is still recuperating. His martial prowess is peerless, already at the pinnacle of the world; battlefield injuries are no concern.”

He still concealed much.

Li Guanyi had awakened, appearing as usual, but Yan Daqing, who had known him since youth, understood his nature—he could sense that though his demeanor showed no abnormality, his heart likely still bore hidden suppression.

It had been some time since Li Guanyi rebuked the historian.

Gradually, in daily life, Li Guanyi let go of many emotions and accepted the passing of his great-grandfather; only then could he step away from his deliberately busy routine and tend to Murong Longtu’s residence.

As he opened the door, sunlight streamed along Li Guanyi’s figure into the room; the furniture was neatly arranged, as if the old man had merely stepped out for a stroll or fishing and would return soon.

Li Guanyi stood still for a long while, then slowly entered.

He looked at everything here.

The deceased’s belongings remained, giving him the illusion that the old man was still alive—as if, in a moment of daze, the elder would walk up behind him, pat his shoulder, and call his name.

Li Guanyi walked quietly through every corner, arriving at the elder’s desk, where he saw a scroll and several items. He opened the scroll and found it was the basic sword manual the old man had prepared.

It was the sword classic now taught to children across the land—simple, effective, directly targeting the core of martial cultivation. Murong Longtu had revised it repeatedly, refining it, integrating the martial methods of Motian Sect, sufficient to forge an unshakable foundation in any cultivator.

Li Guanyi gazed at the sword manual left by his great-grandfather; every posture, every movement had been drawn by the old man’s own hand. As Li Guanyi’s fingers brushed over the drawn sword forms, a small object slipped out as he turned the page.

It was a letter.

It fell onto the desk. Li Guanyi froze, placed the manual aside, picked up the letter, and remained silent for a long while before finally gathering the courage to open it.

“Guanyi”

The first thing he saw was Murong Longtu’s handwriting.

Li Guanyi’s thoughts paused, then he continued reading quietly:

“If you are reading this letter, then I will not be returning.”

“I have heard of the world’s changes and know you alone guard Zhenbei Pass. Jiang Wanxiang has come with eight hundred years of heavenly dragon-tiger fortune—it is time for me to draw my sword. How could I let the younger generation shoulder all the weight of the world?”

“Jiang Wanxiang possesses so-called eight-hundred-year dragon-tiger fortune.”

“But it may not withstand my blade.”

“In my life, wielding the sword, to meet such an opponent at last—this ending is satisfying, a good thing. After I am gone, do not grieve, do not suffer—just carry on as usual.”

“Though I say this, I know your nature—you will surely feel sorrow.”

“Hah, childish!”

“The Daoist Supreme forgets emotion; the Green Robe Guest is too attached to it. Yet emotion is precisely where we belong. If you grieve, then weep boldly—or sing aloud in laughter. But after all that, leave it behind!”

“Pick it up, put it down. Deeply emotional, yet not drowned in emotion.”

“That is the joy of the Jianghu.”

“Also, there is one more thing to say.”

“Qiu Shui’s nature is outwardly hard, inwardly soft. Had you not been there, Qiu Shui could never have endured so long. Precisely because she had to care for you, she overcame hardship and pressed forward even at seventeen.”

“Guanyi, lean on Qiu Shui more. Only then can she find her way; as for you, I have no worries—only one piece of advice on cultivation.”

“Your path is the unification of the Nine Provinces, yet it remains external seeking. Though this path may earn legend, it remains bound by the Daoist, Array Chief, and Immortal realms.”

“Only one word: [Reverse].”

“Only by reversing what you once clung to, by letting go of your former crutches, can you forge a true [Self]—only then can you stand shoulder to shoulder with me. Also, here is one clever trick for wandering the Jianghu.”

“Know this: chewing dates and walnuts together yields a rich meaty flavor—definitely try it!”

Li Guanyi froze.

The letter had been carefree until the end, then landed on a mundane culinary tip. After all this effort, it ended with a food trick. Li Guanyi, upon reading this, could not help but smile lightly—this sudden shift from the elder’s tone made him laugh.

That single laugh released the grief and blockage in his heart like a flood—as if his great-grandfather were still here, still caring, still joking with him.

So near, yet so far.

And behind the words of the letter, the old man seemed to be smiling at him, then turning away, waving his hand calmly.

Murong Longtu.

Gone!

When Li Guanyi stepped out of the room, he was dazed—but looked up and saw the small courtyard was crowded. He saw Murong Qiushui seemingly playing the qin, beside her the silver-haired girl, expressionless, yet her body slightly stiff as she withdrew her gaze.

Don’t see me, don’t see me.

Nangong Wumeng coughed, studying the patterns on the wall intently.

These patterns—so intricate, hmm?

Who stuffed banknotes into the cracks?!

Li Zhaowen smiled with ease, his hands clasped behind his back, gripping his robe’s hem tightly.

The Old Astronomer was climbing the wall.

The Old Tortoise sat beneath his buttocks.

Xue Shuangtao watched Li Guanyi quietly; Murong Qiushui pressed the qin strings, pretending indifference to avoid revealing her worry and disturbing Li Guanyi. Li Guanyi held the letter, his gaze sweeping over these people who cared for him.

It seemed as if the wind of Changfeng swept across this flourishing world and Jiangnan.

He had sat alone in the Sword Madman’s room, reading the letter, mourning the departed—unconsciously, three days had passed. Now, at sunrise, far across heaven and earth, layers of clouds stretched, and a great sun slowly rose.

Golden sunlight bathed the earth and the mortal realm.

It shone on aching Xue Changqing and the historian girl ahead, passed over the academy founded by Master Wang Tong’s disciples, crossed Nan Hanwen as he walked the Qu Hanxiu path, touched A Shi Na, who had sealed away the Great Khan’s boldness and resolve, passed over the youth carrying the Canglang Blade and the child beside him.

Inside the academy, Fan Qing’s voice was calm: “As the great sun rises, let this thought remain in your heart: we are the sun—radiant, brilliant, illuminating ourselves, dispelling darkness. Come, draw your sword!”

“Yes!”

Children of six or seven, from Jiangnan to the Western Regions, from the forests of the Western Regions to the northern border passes, their expressions solemn, swords in hand, raising a single finger to summon their blades toward the heavens—countless mortals.

Li Guanyi’s sorrow and heaviness slowly dispersed.

Yes, as the Old Astronomer said, the sun that breaks through clouds will also set.

But the sun will rise again.

The setting sun does not wish its successors to sink into gloom.

We are the sun!

Li Guan’s heart was clear and calm; he took a deep breath, looked at his aunt, and grinned: “Auntie.”

He paused slightly, then smiled as usual:

“I’m hungry.”

??Please support the God’s Ranking Campaign, friends~

?Click the top-left corner of Qidian