Path of the Sect Leader

Chapter 13: Departure for the Southern Border

The Ethereal Wood Wind Shuttle lived up to its name.

Carved from third-rank spirit wood and laced with countless lesser materials, the entire vessel glowed a deep, living green. Wind runes crawled across its hull like vines. Once airborne, it slipped through the heavens without a whisper, no roar of displaced air, no tremor, just a ribbon of cyan smoke streaking south faster than any sword light.

The ten survivors of Chuqin Sect were ushered into a modest guest cabin, barely large enough for them all to sit in a rough circle. Every pair of eyes turned to Qi Xiu.

He exhaled through his nose, feeling the weight of that gaze.

Chu Youyan had abandoned them the moment they stepped aboard, striding off without a backward glance, as though a pack of ragged refugees offended his sight. The snub stung worse than Qi Xiu wanted to admit. His perpetually furrowed brows drew tighter.

One pitiful two-cubit storage pouch between them, no servants, no porters; everything else had to be carried on their own backs like common mortals hauling goods to market. Cultivators were supposed to glide above the dust, yet here they were, sweating under crates and sacks while other passengers, sleek robes fluttering, looked down their noses and smirked.

Even little Qin Weiyu, dull as he was, felt the contempt. The twelve-year-old clutched his tiny bundle to his chest, face burning scarlet, trailing behind the others with his head bowed so low his chin nearly touched his collar.

The shuttle would wait two full days for the last migrants. In that time the corridors outside turned into a bustling miniature city: rogue cultivators swapping pills for talismans, merchant alliances forming before the dust of the new land had even settled on their boots, small exchange meets popping up in every common hall. Laughter and the bright ring of spirit stones changing hands echoed everywhere.

Not one member of Chuqin Sect stepped outside the cabin door. They sat in a tight, embarrassed knot, backs to the wall, as if the moment they showed their faces the whole vessel would point and jeer.

Qi Xiu, new to the seat of sect leader, hadn’t yet realized the value of those bustling networks. He simply sat with them, brooding.

At last he cleared his throat.

“This downfall is not your fault,” he said, voice low but firm. “None of you need hang your heads. From today forward, if we stand together, shoulder to shoulder, no one will dare look down on us again. One day we’ll make them crane their necks just to meet our eyes.”

A scattered chorus of “Yes, Sect Leader” answered him, soft, unconvinced. The promise felt too big for ten broken refugees and one half-crippled spiritual root.

Qi Xiu let his gaze travel slowly across each face.

Zhang Shishi, twenty-two. Single earth-aspected spiritual root, ruined like Qi Xiu’s own, stalled at fifth-level Qi Refinement. On his back he lugged the sect’s only decent cultivation aid: a mid first-rank Azure Spirit Stone Prayer Mat, thick, heavy, and earth-aligned. Once an inner disciple with bright prospects, the mat had carried him over the dreaded third-layer bottleneck. He and Qi Xiu had both tasted mockery; hardship had forged an easy camaraderie between them. Right now he was the strongest fighter they had, the future pillar if they had any future at all.

Zhan Yuan, twenty-one, triple spirit roots, the oldest outer disciple. Quiet, unflappable. He and Qi Xiu had carried the heaviest chest of building materials together, eating the worst of the sneers without flinching. When Qi Xiu sent him to deliver a message in town, Zhan Yuan returned with the task completed and not a single complaint. Reliable, steady, the perfect man for logistics.

He Yu, fifteen, twin water-and-earth spiritual roots, the one bright spot in this entire mess. Good enough for the inner sect in any normal year, but he’d punched a Qin clan young master as a child and been exiled to the outer sect as punishment. Instead of breaking, the boy clawed his way to third-level Qi Refinement on his own, then scraped together every spirit stone shard he earned to buy a low first-rank Spirit Water Jade Pendant perfectly suited to his roots. Hard-working, proud, fiercely independent, already the most promising seed for Foundation Establishment among them. And the face beneath the still-boyish frame was already striking: crimson lips, straight brows, eyes bright as stars. Give him three more years and he’d outshine even Qin Siyan, without a trace of that pretty poison the Qin boy carried.

Right now He Yu sat cross-legged, hands cupped protectively around his jade pendant, eyes closed, cycling qi with ferocious concentration. Qi Xiu’s lips curved in approval.

Gu Ji, fourteen, triple roots, the only restless soul among them, rocking side to side, eyes darting everywhere like a bird that refused to land.

Qin Weiyu, twelve, triple roots, the youngest and the only true Qin by blood. He sat staring blankly at the little flowerpot in front of him. Inside grew a waist-high first-rank spirit herb, Black-Stem Marsh Orchid, its dark limbs often mistaken for a sapling. As a small favor to the Qin name, the sect had let him keep it as a cultivation companion. Water and wood essence suited two thirds of his roots. Qi Xiu had already ordered the older boys to carry the pot carefully; the plant would be transplanted in the new land and remain his.

Two days of observation had confirmed it: the kid was slow. Instructions slipped through his mind like water through a sieve. Tell him to fetch something and he’d stand there blinking until someone shoved him in the right direction. Qi Xiu felt a pang of worry.

If he’s still this dim when he grows up, I swear on my Dao Heart I will never hand him the sect leader’s seat, bloodline or no bloodline. The sect’s survival comes first.

The remaining four, Huang He, Yu Jing, Shen Chang, and Pan Rong, all seventeen or eighteen, four spirit roots, the slowest of the slow. Edge-dwellers even among edge-dwellers. Honest to a fault, no grand ambitions, yet when the sect burned they stayed. That loyalty was worth more than any heavenly talent.

Ten men in total. Not a single female cultivator had been willing to follow them into exile. Apart from little Qin Weiyu, none carried family ties in the mortal world. Nothing to fight over, no jealous branch families, no hidden grudges, at least not yet.

Keep the bowl level, favor no one, and unity might actually take root.

Two days later the shuttle’s arrays flared to full power. The massive vessel rose gracefully, then, boom, turned into a streak of cyan across the sky, devouring the distance to the Southern Border.

Ten small figures sat inside a cabin no larger than a village courtyard, carrying the last embers of a dying sect southward through the clouds.