Another year of fine wind and snow.
At the foot of Little Cold Mountain, within Little Cold Village.
A massive structure overlooking the village stood atop a thick foundation of concrete, stretching across half the area and covering dozens of mu of land, encompassing the homes and fields that had once belonged to dozens of Little Cold Village households.
Red bricks and green tiles, soaring pavilions and painted eaves, carved beams and decorated rafters—magnificent and resplendent, yet carrying the domineering aura of one who held sway over an entire region.
Within the sprawling residence were winding streams beneath small bridges, clusters of gardens, and twisting corridors. Countless skilled martial artists were hidden throughout, guarding the estate's safety.
On the estate's northern side, where it bordered the open land beside Little Cold Mountain, a plaza with smooth stone walls had been constructed. It contained all manner of sandbags, wooden posts, sabers, spears, swords, halberds, and the eighteen kinds of weapons, as well as a small dispensary.
Every day, anywhere from dozens to over a hundred sturdy young men came to this plaza to train. Their martial arts could not be called formidable, but in a small county town—or even a tiny mountain village—they were utterly beyond the usual scale.
At this moment, in a study at the center of the estate, Meng Zhao stood with his hands behind his back, carefully examining the two items on the table before him.
Meng Zhao was now tall and broad-shouldered, with swordlike brows and deep, starry eyes. He carried a mysterious, captivating charm, as well as a vigorous, domineering presence. He was utterly unlike the immature youth he had once been.
Five years had passed in the blink of an eye.
That year, Meng Zhao had obtained the final fragment of the Mechanism Diagram