There was a kind of trouble called having too much money.
There was another kind called—having way too much damn money.
And yet another kind called—having way, way, way, way too much money.
Mu Shaoan could swear on his own name that he really wasn't joking on purpose. It was only at this very moment that he had come to deeply realize: life was full of suffering, and what use was hard work? Having one fat cousin was enough!
What did it mean to be moved to tears?
What did it mean to gaze up at the bright yet sorrowful sky at a forty-five-degree angle?
You would understand once you sat atop a pile of money—no, a mountain of money.
After taking a deep breath, Mu Shaoan did his best to restore his state of mind to normal. Then he glanced at Li Guokui and Jiang Rong, who stood dazed at his left and right. The two of them were likewise on the verge of mental collapse. Really, really—who could have guessed that their joke-loving master was actually a Pixiu? Just how much wealth had he accumulated?
"How do you two brothers see it?"
Mu Shaoan blinked and threw his arms around Li Guokui and Jiang Rong, looking as though they were all good buddies.
"Martial Uncle, please show some self-respect. I, Li Guokui, am not that kind of person." Cold sweat broke out all over Li Guokui—not because of this ghostly behavior from a certain someone, but because he had thought of the consequences of breaking open the Sword Immortal Grand Hall. Damn, it would be enough for that unfathomable, devil-tempered joke-loving master to whip his corpse ten billion times and then dismember him ten billion times.
He didn't dare shoulder that responsibility.
"Martial Uncle Mu, I just remembered