Path of the Sect Leader

Chapter 11: Farewell to Mount Chuqin

The days blurred into a frenzy of motion—packing herbs for the miasma swamps, haggling with the three sects for the return of personal trinkets, patching torn robes that would never again bear the crimson of Chuqin. Everyone ran until their soles blistered.

Qi Xiu meant to carry the ancestral tablets himself, but in the end it was Elder Qin who brought them, wrapped in plain cloth, and set the bundle at his feet.

“Worship them properly,” the old man said, voice like gravel dragged across stone. Then he turned and walked away without another word.

Night again. Qi Xiu’s body felt like it had been dragged behind a galloping horse—An Qi’s parting gift had been a full-body flaying that left every inch of skin raw. Nothing fatal, just exquisitely disgusting.

He lit incense, set the lamp close, and carved Master’s tablet stroke by careful stroke.

The flame danced, small as a soybean. Sandalwood smoke curled like ghosts of the past. Qi Xiu stared at the fresh wood and felt himself slip back into that windowless cell where he had spent fifteen years. The thick-witted servant. The Finger Monkey that learned to mimic his frowns. A handful of scriptures. That was all his life had been: a piece moved where the sect required, never asking why.

Was Master wrong to use me so?

Is the sect’s rot truly only the fault of a few elders who opened the gate to wolves?

Or did every disciple arrive already hollow, already scheming, already willing to sell tomorrow for a single spirit stone today?

For the first time Qi Xiu placed himself in the leader’s seat and looked outward. The view was dizzying. Everything he thought he knew rearranged itself into new, colder shapes.

“Qi—Leader.” A young voice, still cracking. “I’ve finished packing.”

Qi Xiu did not turn. “Good. We leave for the Southern Border at dawn. Sleep while you can.”

“Yes, Leader.”

The title landed warm in his chest, intoxicating as strong wine. He hated how much he liked it. He told himself not to drown in it. Failed.

“Leader, Senior Sister Qin is here again.”

His temples throbbed, but he went.

This time she came alone—no trailing flock of female cultivators, no child whose wail could crack Foundation Establishment resolve. Only a small boy, hand in hers, eyes swollen from crying.

She looked as though she had wept for days.

No demands about the leader’s seat. Instead she pressed the boy forward.

“His name is Qin Weiyu. Take him south. Treat him well.”

That was all. Then she walked away, back straight, shoulders shaking once, twice, before the darkness swallowed her.

Twelve years old, three Spiritual Roots, clumsy as a newborn colt. Why him? Qi Xiu wondered. A spark kept alive for the Qin bloodline? A message he was too stupid to read?

He handed the boy to Zhan Yuan. “One rule for all,” he said aloud, unsure whether it was promise or warning.

He had barely lain down when the door opened without a sound. Zhan Yuan outside noticed nothing.

“You.”

Qin Siyan.

Crimson robes discarded for lake-blue silk instead, hair bound with white jade. He looked like a poem someone had forgotten to finish.

Without greeting he upended his storage bag.

Crash.

A small mountain of spirit herbs, talismans, broken arrays, ore scraps, half-used pills—everything he had judged not worth carrying into his new life—poured across the floor.

“Master’s legacy,” he said, nudging the pile with one embroidered boot. “I kept the good parts for my dowry. The trash—yours. Payment for all those toys you sent me when we were children.”

He kicked again. A crimson jade array disk spun out, clattering to a stop at Qi Xiu’s feet.

“Core hub of the mountain ward. Without it the formation drops to half strength. Elder Qin dared shut the gate on his own ancestors? Fine. I’ll tear the heart out myself. Let’s see who bleeds more.”

He grinned, feral, delighted.

“Take it south. Demand ransom from the three sects. If they refuse, smash it. Either way they choke on it. Tell them Qin Siyan sends his regards. The An clan has my back now—they won’t dare touch me.”

A laugh, two nonsense sentences, and he was gone, soundless, the way he had come.

Qi Xiu stared at the mess and felt something between laughter and tears.

Fourth-generation leader of Chuqin Sect, who chose to become a live-in son-in-law rather than fight for the seat.

Yet in his own way, perfectly lucid.

Qi Xiu called Zhang Shishi and Zhan Yuan. The three worked until dawn sorting, cramming the best into his Storage Bag, sealing the rest in crates under layered talismans.

Low-grade, yes—Clear Heart Talismans, Spring Return Pills, the unglamorous necessities that keep small sects breathing. But necessities all the same.

No one asked about the Foundation Establishment Pill burning a hole in his soul. No one here, himself included, had the lifespan left to use it. He had not decided whether to bury it with Master’s tablet or sell it for the sect’s last breath.

Another sleepless night.

When the first shaft of sunrise struck the glazed tiles of the main hall, a shadow eclipsed the sky.

Serpent head, goose wings, vast enough to blot the dawn—a second-rank Wind Lizard Goose, reins held by Chu Yuyan.

“The Chu family sends its carriage,” he called, voice dry with amusement. “Time to go.”

Qi Xiu and his nine disciples climbed the rope ladders, bundles on backs, hearts in throats.

The beast beat the air once, twice—then they were airborne, wind screaming past their ears.

Below, the new plaque on the great hall dwindled to a scarlet speck.

Li Hua Sect, they called themselves now.

What a strange, fragile name for three sects that devoured a fourth.

Qi Xiu watched until the mountain itself vanished into morning mist.

Twenty-odd years of his life, slipping away beneath the clouds.

He did not wave goodbye.

There was no one left to wave to.