Chapter 590

Epilogue · The God of Wealth and the Beggar Spirit (Part One)

Among the mountain ranges that once bordered the territories of the original Guo of Yi and the Guo of Chen, numerous martial sects had taken root, flourishing over the past several centuries.

“In my day, our sect stored countless martial manuals, housed many martial masters, and wielded divine weapons. Amidst the chaos of the age, wandering heroes roamed the land—some upholding justice, others wielding their strength to dominate regions—each finding their own place.”

“When fame and fortune were won, one would wash one’s hands clean of the martial world, retire with a few disciples, and wander freely among mountains and rivers—how graceful, how joyful, how delightful!”

“But that was long ago.”

“Now…”

“Everything’s changed.”

On Qing Mountain, in a pine forest, an old man leaned on his staff and sighed deeply.

Recalling past glories, he merely sighed again. Today, the realm was unified, laws strict, order stable; wandering heroes had faded from their former glory. Moreover, the Great Qin’s system for nurturing children was thorough, making it hard to find children willing to join their mountain sects.

The sword was sheathed; the realm was pacified.

The martial world?

The martial world is gone.

No more reckless brawling, no more swordplay roaming free—now, even gathering disciples was difficult. Though the great sects still looked impressive on the surface, internally, a quiet generational gap was already forming.

Only by lowering the barriers to mastering advanced martial arts could they hope to attract disciples.

“Hey, with the realm now pacified, for us… truly…”

“Will the martial world disappear?”

His gaze fell across the mountains. The disciples around him fell silent. Wind swept over cliffs, trees rustled, leaves swirled—one spun down and landed in a stream, sending ripples across its surface.

Soon, those ripples were crushed beneath iron hooves.

BOOM!!!

The hoofbeats were not dense, nor were the horses galloping fast—but they were heavy, steady. These were Great Qin warhorses. A group of a dozen or so riders led a man with thick gray temples and deep wrinkles on his forehead, as if he often frowned in deep thought.

Logically, the mountain path was rugged, winding, dotted with streams and boulders—unsuitable for cavalry. Yet these riders were exceptionally skilled, navigating the forest as if walking on flat ground.

Especially the leader, the middle-aged man.

His shoulders relaxed, his demeanor calm—he held the reins with one hand, idly.

He made no gestures, gave no whistle, swung no whip. Even the hand holding the reins showed no effort—yet the horse moved with uncanny intelligence, leaping or halting as if guided by his will.

If a supreme swordsman achieves unity of man and blade, this rider achieved unity of man and horse. And yet, while effortlessly guiding his heavy warhorse through mountains and valleys, he extended a finger, pointing enthusiastically at the surroundings:

“That way, thirty li out, lies the Great Qin’s most stable iron mine—the very one General Nangong got lost and found.”

“Here, ha! When we and His Majesty made a forced march, General Nangong got lost right here, then jumped off the waterfall. We were terrified, scrambling down in panic—guess what happened?”

“We were frantic. He? Nothing happened.”

“He broke through a cultivation level.”

“For a while, every brother wanted to jump off cliffs. Master Yuwen Tianxian scolded us all to hell—ha ha! Especially that brat Yuwen Hua…”

As he laughed recalling old tales, he only then realized the people he spoke of were gone. What had once been cherished, joyful stories now felt like hidden knives.

Lei Laomeng’s mouth moved faster than his mind. When he realized it, his heart already ached slightly—Fan Qing had lost an arm; their Master had been killed; Yuwen Hua, who’d once dueled him secretly countless times, had died at the hands of former comrades.

Every time he spoke of the past, his heart ached.

People say that after enduring countless trials, one sees glory and fame—but no one says that when you turn back, your old friends are forever gone.

Lei Laomeng’s smile no longer carried the careless, unburdened glee of youth. Back then, he was young, robust, his laughter louder than an ox’s bellow.

Now, he was different.

He was a Marquis now.

In his youth, he had ridden with the young Emperor across mountains—his body once lean and strong, now gradually thickened. His temples had turned white, yet his eyes held a new measure of authority.

Perhaps the only thing unchanged was his mastery of horse-riding.

Since entering the mountains, circling several Great Qin mines and visiting old comrades, Lei Laomeng had raced straight toward a specific location, pausing often to consult the map tied to his waist.

“About right. This is the place.”

“Tsk. Why did Nangong girl vanish so suddenly? I wonder what happened.”

Lei Laomeng muttered, leading his scouting unit through winding paths until they found it—a secluded spot surrounded by mountains, thick woods, and flowing rivers.

In the flat land encircled by mountains stood a Daoist temple.

The temple was quiet. Outside its gate, several young girls in Daoist robes practiced sword forms; others brewed medicine. On the roof of the inner hall, a woman in Daoist robes lay sideways, propping her chin with one hand, yawning as she flipped through Daoist scriptures.

Beside her, a tray held sliced apples.

Cut into little rabbits.

The woman lazily picked up the rabbit-shaped pieces with a toothpick and put them in her mouth.

Chew. Chew.

A young girl nearby obediently massaged her master’s shoulders.

So comfortable. So languid!

The woman stretched luxuriously, murmuring: “So this is what it’s like to be a Master?”

Lei Laomeng’s lips twitched.

Though the woman had disguised her face—the most beautiful in the realm—and used star-reading arts to obscure her aura, her lazy, catlike demeanor? Even if turned to ash, Lei Laomeng would recognize her.

He halted his warhorse, stared at her, and drew a deep breath.

His inner Qi surged as he bellowed: “Lady Nangong!!!”

“Long time no see! How are you?!”

“Hahahaha!”

The woman lounging in the sun shot upright, eyes wide. The tray beside her nearly slipped off. The expressionless girl snatched it up in a flash.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

The remaining five apple pieces were caught safely.

As for the last one—

A petal of apple spun down.

The Daoist woman leaned back, opened her mouth, and precisely bit the slice midair. She tossed it, swallowed, chewed, then flipped off the temple roof—twisting midair, light as a feather, landing with ethereal grace.

“Phew. Close call. Almost wasted it.”

The woman in Daoist robes swallowed the apple, clapped her hands, then raised her eyebrows. Even with her disguise, her eyes—though dimmed by seventy percent—still radiated tenfold beauty.

The temple’s young disciples stared at the newcomers. Martial world and court were always worlds apart. A dozen armored horsemen arriving at their small sect made them nervous.

But their Master paid no mind. She rolled up her sleeves, stormed over, and kicked the big man’s shin. He winced in pain: “Hey, Lady Nangong, we’ve shared life and death! After all this time, why hit me the moment we meet?”

“Lady Nangong! Lady Nangong! I call you Lady Nangong!”

“Lei Laomeng, can’t you keep your mouth shut?”

Nangong Wumeng gritted her teeth.

Lei Laomeng, seeing her face unchanged, marveled:

“The Gongsun family’s disguise mask truly works!”

Even her blush is hidden!!!

Nangong Wumeng’s hand gripped her sword hilt, eyes cold: “What did you say?”

Lei Laomeng quickly corrected himself: “I meant, Lady Nangong, your cultivation of heart and nature has truly improved!”

Nangong Wumeng released her sword hilt. “That’s better. Lei Da, why bring these dozen scouts with you?”

Lei Laomeng chuckled: “Come now, after all these years, do you think I’d harm you? The Right Chancellor said: ‘Nangong’s preparations—how are they coming? Go check.’”

Right Chancellor Yan Daiqing—the boy who once managed logistics for the Qilin Army—is now a renowned scholar, gentle and refined, famed across the land. Yet some unofficial tales claim he excels in ruthless, cunning stratagems.

For example, the great fire that burned away the western tribes’ eastward ambitions and the Wolf King’s schemes—that was the Right Chancellor’s fire.

Nangong Wumeng seemed slightly disappointed, plucking at a strand of hair. “Ah, that matter? Easy. Back when I roamed the realm, I prepared everything long ago.”

“Come inside.”

Lei Laomeng dismounted, had his scouts distribute candies and fruits to the children, then followed Nangong Wumeng into the inner hall. She casually pulled out a scroll, flicked it, and tossed it to Lei Laomeng.

The scroll was heavy, thick.

Lei Laomeng slowly unrolled it. Inside were maps of countless mountains and rivers, the Nine Provinces and Four Seas—precise scales, terrifyingly comprehensive: nearly every mine and resource in the realm was marked.

Extremely detailed.

One could imagine how the artist, over six or seven years, had walked every inch of the land, smiling, thinking deeply, imagining how the recipient would feel upon receiving this gift.

Each stroke, each ink line, painted the world they had walked together.

Clumsy. Earnest. Exhausting. Diligent.

She had always been watching His Majesty’s figure run ahead.

Nangong Wumeng sat on her master’s chair, pouring herself tea.

Lei Laomeng, this rough soldier, traced the scroll—knowing the countless hours of labor, sensing the affection in every stroke—even he felt a pang. Only he knew how hard the journey had been. He said:

“So this… you walked every path yourself. You painted this world for His Majesty.”

“Is this your dowry?”

“Nangong.”