Path of the Sect Leader

Chapter 155: Driven to Desperation

“We hit them. We rob them. How about it?”

Three days later. Tiger Head Mountain. Inside Qi Xiu’s makeshift quarters.

Bai Muhan had quietly sent Min-niang away on some errand. Now only the two of them remained. She opened with that single blunt sentence—and watched Qi Xiu’s eyes widen in genuine shock.

“Rob them?”

“Yes. Rob them.” Bai Muhan didn’t blink. “The peace conference date is set. Anyone with half a brain knows that once Broad Exchange Pavilion steps in, neither the Artifact-and-Talisman Alliance, the Wei clan, nor the Luo clan can defy a late-stage Nascent Soul’s will. The war is effectively over. You’ve been out on patrol. You’ve seen the Luo side with your own eyes.”

She spread the map across the low table between them, finger tracing a careful arc. “Their frontline discipline is collapsing. Sects are already pulling out ahead of schedule. The ones left behind? No one’s even pretending to defend anymore. They’re visiting friends, drinking, throwing dice—waiting for the armistice like kids waiting for New Year’s money. Look here…”

Her fingertip tapped several isolated peaks marked in red ink. “These are the small local sects. Once their garrisons thinned, they became soft targets. Lightly held. Poorly watched.”

Qi Xiu stared at her. For a moment he felt like he was looking at a stranger.

“Robbery might be everyday business deeper in White Mountain,” he said slowly, “but Chu Qin came out of Qi Yun. We were a proper Daoist sect. We’ve always looked down on that kind of thing. And our numbers are already thin. Even one bad casualty would hurt. Why risk it for this?”

Bai Muhan gave a short, dry laugh.

She reached into her storage pouch and dropped a thick ledger onto the table between them. The cover was plain. The weight of it made the wood creak.

“My esteemed Sect Leader,” she said, voice edged with frost, “open it. Please.”

Qi Xiu flipped the cover.

The pages were merciless.

Black River Market’s Ice Chalice Blossom stock—gone. Fifty third-tier spirit stones paid as his own “ransom for survival.” Then the eighty third-tier debt to the Wei clan—ten-year installments starting this year. The Mo grandfather and grandson had left almost everything behind when they defected south, but without a spirit-plant cultivator the sect’s spirit fields would produce less. Without Mo Jianxin’s forging, the workshop income vanished. In three years the decade-long lease on Duoluo Xin’s old shop in Black River Market would expire—another revenue stream cut.

Every annual budget from this year forward was written in red ink. Deep, accusing red.

Qi Xiu’s ears burned. Both of the massive holes in the sect’s finances traced straight back to decisions he had made.

“This…” He closed the ledger. “Worst case, I go back to taking appraisal and divination commissions. Work myself to death if I have to. I’ll fill the gap. But robbery—”

Bai Muhan cut him off. “Robbery? Who said anything about robbery?” Her smile was thin, sharp. “We’re still technically at war until the conference concludes. Killing enemies in battle is perfectly normal. How is this robbery?”

Qi Xiu blinked.

Then understanding dawned.

A slow, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re right. We do need to plan this very carefully…”

…

The next evening. A mountain two peaks over from Tiger Head—still technically on the southern defensive line.

Two tables of cultivators from various sects sat drinking under the open sky. Low-grade spirit wine flowed like water. At one table, Mu Gun—better known as “Shorty Mu,” one of the Mu clan’s three Foundation Establishment cultivators—was cheerfully pouring an entire pot down the throat of a hapless Qi Refining junior. The boy finally toppled sideways under the table, unconscious.

Mu Gun roared with laughter. The others rushed to flatter him—marveling at his capacity, his generosity, his sheer dominance.

“Listen,” someone slurred from the other table, white-haired and red-faced, “right now the Luo aren’t even watching their own back. We rush in, grab what we can, come back rich…”

The speaker—known to everyone as “Old Yu”—swayed in his seat, hugging a wine jar. “I’m telling you, this is the moment. They’re already packing up. Easy pickings.”

Someone jeered. “You’re drunk again, Old Yu. Careful—your precious Sect Leader Qi might drag you home and make you kneel.”

“Ha!” Old Yu slammed the jar down. “Make *me* kneel? I’ll slap that face of his—you watch!”

Laughter erupted.

“Back when he was just Qi Refining second layer,” Old Yu went on, voice thickening with nostalgia and liquor, “I wouldn’t even look at him straight. Now the wheel turns, sure… but if I’d been there at Black River Market’s arena that day, he wouldn’t have embarrassed himself so badly…”

He kept rambling—half boast, half drunken grievance—until Mu Gun’s ears finally pricked.

The short Foundation Establishment cultivator stopped laughing. Excused himself quietly. Slipped toward the rear hall.

…

Three days later. Tiger Head Mountain main hall. Only two people inside.

Mu Xun—the Mu clan patriarch—sat in the host’s place. Qi Xiu kept him company on the lower seat.

“More than ten Foundation Establishment cultivators from various sects are already committed,” Mu Xun said quietly. “Add your two from Chu Qin, and we can sweep the entire Luo sector clean.”

Qi Xiu shook his head. “Our sect is small. I’ve only just reached Foundation Establishment. And Bai Xiaosheng… well, you know what happened years ago. He refuses to meet other cultivators face-to-face. I come from Qi Yun. This kind of life-and-death raiding—it’s not in my nature.”

Mu Xun tried again. And again.

Qi Xiu kept refusing—polite, firm, immovable.

Finally Mu Xun rose to leave, cupping his hands in farewell.

Just as he reached the door Qi Xiu spoke again.

“One piece of advice, Brother Mu. Once blades are drawn, lives are on the line. Be cautious—especially around any vital locations.”

As he spoke, See Human Nature swept silently across the other man.

Mu Xun laughed lightly. “No need to worry on my account, Brother Qi.”

He floated away.

…

Three days before the peace conference.

Chu Qin left three ten-year-olds—Qin Hu, Luo Du, and Qin Sizhao—to guard the home base.

Everyone else gathered in a hidden rear-slope illusion array.

Qi Xiu rested one hand lightly on Chu Wuying’s thin shoulder. The boy stood very straight, face calm.

Bai Xiaosheng, Bai Muhan, Min-niang, Zhang Shishi, Yu Jing, Shen Chang, Yu Deno, Yu Shang, Zhao Yao, Qin Weiyu, Qin Siguo—all of them wore black night-fighting robes. Li Tan stood beside his Wind Lizard Crane, voice low.

“The Mu clan moved out almost in full strength at dusk. I only dared watch from a distance. I don’t know their exact destination or rally point.”

“From Mu Xun’s tone,” Qi Xiu said, “they’re heading east—opposite our direction. We wait for them to start the chaos. When the Luo line collapses, we move.”

Bai Xiaosheng frowned. “What if Mu Xun leaked the plan on purpose? Luring us in?”

Qi Xiu only shrugged. “True or false, they move tonight. Our targets won’t overlap.”

Eyes turned toward the far slope. The target peak was hidden by the ridge line, but every mind had already sketched its shape—gates, halls, weak points.

Qi Xiu crouched to Chu Wuying’s level. “Tonight we need your talent and your artifact. When the fighting starts—don’t panic. Can you do that?”

The boy nodded firmly.

Qi Xiu felt a flicker of relief. The child was steadier at ten than he himself had been at twenty.

Bai Muhan began the final briefing—calm, precise, merciless.

“We go in like this… then like this. If intelligence holds, they should have only one early Foundation Establishment elder. Twenty-odd Qi Refining disciples. No more than five late-stage. The Sect Leader and Uncle Bai bear the heaviest burden: break the array, pin down their Foundation Establishment cultivator, and pull us out if things go wrong. The first half-incense stick is critical. Speed-kill as many Qi Refining as possible. Fewer left alive means less danger for us. First priority…”

“Second priority…”

“Solo kills—loot belongs to the killer. Joint kills—split evenly. Spirit fields, Scripture Pavilion, treasury, secret vault, and anything on their Foundation Establishment elder—all go to the sect treasury. After we return, merit will be assessed separately with additional rewards and punishments. Any objections?”

Silence.

Qi Xiu sighed inwardly.

This was no longer the Qi Yun way. This was pure White Mountain pragmatism. Sink or swim—adapt or die.

They were still technically at war. Killing enemies wasn’t “robbery.” Technically.

But everyone knew what this really was.

A robbery dressed up in wartime excuses.

Because they were broke. Desperately, bone-deep broke.

Qi Xiu added one last instruction. “No harm to mortal elderly, women, or children. Anyone who surrenders without resistance—spare them. Anyone caught fighting over loot or credit will be punished severely. No mercy.”

“Yes!”

The response came in unison—low, determined.

People checked storage pouches one last time: talismans, blades, emergency pills. Tension crackled like dry lightning.

Waiting before battle is always the worst part.

At the third quarter of the hour of the Rat, a streak of warning firework erupted in the distant eastern sky.

Bai Muhan’s voice cut through the dark. “Signal flare. The Mu clan has moved.”

Everyone snapped alert.

On the target peak, a Foundation Establishment elder shot into the air, scanning the horizon. Finding nothing nearby, he returned inside. Moments later the mountain-protecting array flared to full strength—then a single Qi Refining disciple on flying sword streaked east toward the flare.

“Now!”

Bai Muhan’s hand sliced downward.

Black face masks dropped into place. A dozen shadows in black transformed instantly into night-raiders.

Under cover of darkness, they slipped from the rear-slope array and ghosted toward the unsuspecting mountain.