Chapter 592: Epilogue: The God of Wealth and the Beggar Spirit (Part 3)

Side Story: The God of Wealth and the Beggar (Part 3)

Tu Shengyuan gobbled down the fruit in two or three bites, tossed the pit aside, wiped his fingers on a nearby tree trunk, and beamed with excitement—by heaven’s mercy, he’d gone through hell just to sneak over here!

Damn it, even he thought it was weird.

First, back in the Central Plains, the Xue family’s imperial affair—fine, he fled to the eastern seaboard and ran into a whale-fisher, then in the Western Regions he met Li Zhao, okay, okay, I can’t fight you, but can’t I just run away?

This time, this old man crossed thousands of mountains and layered ridges.

I’ll hide deep in the mountains!

I wonder what trouble could possibly land on my head this time.

Tu Shengyuan flicked his sleeves, smugly: “If anything really happens, I’ll just tear up this gavel and eat it!”

“But how could that possibly happen?”

“The Emperor is far beyond the horizon, while this old man hides among mountains and rivers—how could anyone find me? Hahaha! Compared to today’s peaceful realm, the martial world suits me far better!”

Tu Shengyuan was utterly delighted, brimming with enthusiasm.

In high spirits, he climbed to the peak of this mountain, gazing far off at rolling, lush hills, spotting hidden martial sects clinging to slopes and ridges, and seeing young martial youths walking through the valleys.

Youth knows not the taste of sorrow.

They know nothing of the martial world’s fading.

They know nothing of their masters’ troubles—only laughter and chatter.

The wind swept past the youths’ sleeves; Tu Shengyuan’s temples stirred as he smiled: “Let this old man record this, the final martial world of sects.”

“Perhaps a martial world will still exist afterward.”

“But it will no longer be the sects’ martial world.”

“To witness this grand spectacle, to bid farewell to three hundred years of martial world—how vast, how lonely.”

Tu Shengyuan laughed carefree, leapt down the mountain, and greeted the martial youths—he’d spent this time mingling with them, trading tales of secret martial arts, discussing peerless techniques, and recounting the grandeur of this three-hundred-year chaotic martial world.

Speaking of beauties like jade, of sword qi like rainbows.

How free, how magnificent.

But such good days lasted only a few days before news suddenly spread like wildfire through the mountains and martial world—when it reached Tu Shengyuan’s ears, the old man was drunk on a rock.

The monkey wine from the mountains, though less potent than city liquor, was brewed from fruit—sweet, smooth, and quite delightful.

But its effects were messy and quick to hit the head.

Half-asleep, he heard rumors of martial contests for brides, heroes gathering, a rare martial world event—until then, he was too lazy to care.

Until a young swordsman in blue robes said: “They say this huge commotion is because the new Daoist temple’s abbot is the most beautiful woman in the world!”

“And she wields a divine weapon.”

“And possesses the secret scriptures of the ancient supreme sect, Yin-Yang Cycle Sect.”

“That’s why the entire martial world has stirred.”

The drunken Tu Shengyuan felt something was off.

But the mountain monkey wine was too good, too aged—he wouldn’t trade it even for the thousand-day drunkenness brought by that fisherman—so he burped, rolled over, smacked his lips, and went back to sleep.

He didn’t care—he’d seen too much.

He’d been there when the Sword Madman shook the world at the Imperial Academy, when the Western Sword Madman chased Changsheng, and he’d witnessed the entire life of Qin Wu, the greatest martial legend—truthfully, most martial world rumors no longer interested him.

But this one—the Yin-Yang Cycle Sect, the most beautiful woman in the world—

Why did it feel strangely familiar?

Drunk and sprawled on his side, Tu Shengyuan’s Bai Ze manifestation spontaneously appeared—on a level invisible to the naked eye, its face showed a human-like daze.

It looked at the youths, then at the drunken Tu Shengyuan.

Then it raised a hoof and kicked him in the ass.

Tu Shengyuan was drunk; the young martial youths were thrilled.

Someone asked: “You’re full of nonsense—that temple teaches ordinary martial arts, even sends disciples to nearby towns to study characters and arithmetic in the county school—it doesn’t look like a top-tier sect!”

“Probably fake news!”

Teenagers hated two things most: parental scolding and peer skepticism—the youth’s face flushed crimson, his voice rising sharply:

“What fake news? This is the truth, beyond any doubt!”

“It’s—it’s—”

“The storyteller from the Number One Tower said so!”

The Bai Ze manifestation’s eyes widened; one hoof lifted Tu Shengyuan, the other swung—whack, whack—two massive spiritual-layer slaps across his face.

It unleashed shockwaves, cascading gales of wind.

This finally made Tu Shengyuan hear the last sentence.

The next instant, the Grand Master connected every prior word.

What??

His mind froze. The youths, who’d been arguing fiercely, faces red, refusing to yield, suddenly heard a scream.

From beside the rock, among the weeds, an old man shot up.

Drunk, leaves stuck to his body and face, eyes bulging, statue-still—after several breaths, he shrieked:

“Shit!!!!”

Tu Shengyuan jumped up, furious:

“That damn brat is using my name to stir up trouble here!”

“Why do I say nothing, yet shit keeps landing on my head?!”

Tu Shengyuan was innocent.

At least this time, he hadn’t spread the rumor.

But Tu Shengyuan’s survival in the martial world, his knack for escaping disaster, relied on self-awareness—even now, he told himself Li Guan wouldn’t wish this on him, yet his instincts screamed otherwise.

The youth thought the old man misunderstood their gossip, assuming he’d been slandered, so he reassured: “Old sir, what we just said has nothing to do with you.”

“It was the storyteller from the Number One Tower.”

Tu Shengyuan snapped: “Lies!”

His face fell.

Who else could it be—the storyteller from the Number One Tower, whose mouth never shut?

That was his reputation.

Even Tu Shengyuan himself unconsciously wondered: Had he, drunk one night, blabbed about Nan Gong Wumeng hiding among these mountains?

Or had someone stolen the notebook he left behind when he departed the Number One Tower, now using it to cheat and provoke chaos?

Damn it, why did I, for the sake of some “dignity” and “reputation,” leave that secret manuscript behind?

Past me.

What the hell were you thinking?!

Qin Wu’s beloved, dragged into this mess—Tu Shengyuan dared not imagine what would come next. Would there be cavalry trampling the martial world? His scalp prickled; he raced nonstop toward the current site of the Yin-Yang Cycle Sect’s temple.

The closer he got, the more real the rumors became.

Martial folk swarmed—several major sects had arrived, young heroes and famed warriors mingling, calling each other brothers. Gathered together, they concocted ideas—some idiot genius proposed a martial contest for a bride.

“Since heroes have gathered, and the abbot is a martial person too, why not follow our rules? Whoever wins the contest gets the beauty!” Tu Shengyuan heard this and broke into a cold sweat.

He could almost see the Qilin Army’s banners flashing behind their heads.

The temple gate was shut.

Nan Gong Wumeng ignored them—when young, she’d walked the martial world and seen these people’s ways: many heroes, but more scoundrels.

Gate shut. Let them do what they would.

A few relied on their superior lightness skills, attempting to fly over—on the other side, the woman lounging lazily in a reclining chair, letting young girls massage her shoulders and back, enjoying her master’s privileges, flicked her fingers.

Stones on the ground leapt up, landing between her fingers.

She snapped them.

Like arrows from a powerful crossbow, they struck the flyers down—among them, even a sixth-layer lightness expert was effortlessly felled.

The man’s face paled: “Grand Master?!”

Xie Ziran knew her teacher had fallen from a cliff the day she found her—and somehow, inexplicably, broken through to Grand Master. When she asked why, her teacher only said: “Remember who you are, and you won’t lose your path.”

If you don’t lose your path, breaking through is simple.

“Like a master pointing to the moon—you focus on his finger and miss the moon. But I’ve always known what I want—why would I be lost?”

Xie Ziran felt her teacher’s eyes were calm then, like a jade statue of beauty—mesmerizing. She felt a faint pang of unhappiness.

Her teacher: genius, beautiful, earnest, adorable, her laugh soft.

What kind of man was Qin Wu, that her teacher still thought of him?

Outside, the noise grew louder—the martial folk, unable to enter, began fighting among themselves. Another martial Grand Master had arrived, ready to force the gate open. Nan Gong Wumeng lazily thought: fine, let them fight.

Xie Ziran, however, was furious.

She grabbed her broom, ran to the gate, and flung it open, shouting:

“My master is resting—she won’t see—”

Her eyes widened.

The martial folk were everywhere—since dawn, the mountain slopes had been filled with noisy swordplay and shouting, driving her mad. Before opening the gate, she’d planned to strike them down.

But now, every martial person—from the temple summit to the mountain base—lay sprawled on the ground.

All of them.

A wooden sword lay peacefully at the temple gate.

From beneath the Daoist temple gate, a tall young man strode forward, his sleeves swirling as he calmly extended two fingers, and at once, the weapons of the surrounding martial artists clattered to the ground, their chime like the pluck of a zither, like snowfall.

A hall full of flowers intoxicates a thousand guests.

A single sword’s glare chills nineteen provinces.

“Heir of the Sword Madman, Murong Longtu.”

“From the Murong family of Jiangnan, Li Guanyi.”

“Come to deliver a formal greeting.”

The clear-voiced man stepped forward, standing before the temple gate, before Xie Ziran, raising his palm, fingers hanging down, lightly pressing upon the wooden sword—its clear chime rang out, filling the air with sword qi, an invisible, formless force spreading across the entire mountain range.

Startled birds took flight across the mountain, petals fell from a single tree.

“Sword contest for marriage.”

?? Everyone, did you eat zongzi for Dragon Boat Festival?~