Path of the Sect Leader

Chapter 18: The Yellow Sand Illusory Formation Rises

Qi Xiu raced home beneath a scattering of cold stars, feeding the Wind Array Spirit Boat another precious stone. Exhaustion dragged at his bones, but when faint lamplight glowed from the ruined temple, warmth flooded his chest like mulled wine. All the fatigue suddenly felt worth it.

“Sect Leader!”

A shadow darted from the darkness—Zhan Yuan, standing watch despite the reek.

Qi Xiu opened his mouth to scold him for lingering in the miasma, then caught the frantic widening of Zhan Yuan’s eyes and the sharp jerk of his chin toward the hall.

Outsider inside.

Qi Xiu’s heart sank, but Zhan Yuan’s expression said not yet a disaster. Brows knotting, he strode through the broken wall.

A cyan-robed cultivator sat at the head of the hall, legs crossed, voice flowing like spring water over the mysteries of the Wood Birth Scripture. Nine disciples knelt in perfect rows, drinking in every word. When Qi Xiu entered they rose to greet him; the stranger merely tilted his head in lazy acknowledgment.

Zhang Shishi hastened to introduce them.

“This is Senior Kan Lin of White Mountain, passing through. He Yu and I begged a few pointers. Sect Leader, please forgive our presumption.”

Foundation Establishment pressure brushed Qi Xiu’s senses—gentle, but unmistakable.

So the usual drifter had arrived to shelter, only to find the place occupied. With the sect leader absent, Zhang Shishi had played it safe and turned the awkwardness into an impromptu lecture.

Qi Xiu cupped hands low. “This junior was away. Please honor us by staying the night.”

Kan Lin smiled, warm and open, looking no older than Qi Xiu himself—though he had to be fifty or sixty at least. “Lead the way.”

They gave him the freshly cleaned inner chamber: soft quilt from the mortal village, a low table, four pieces of honey cake on a plate, a tiny glowstone stuck to the ceiling like a captive star. The best Chuqin could offer.

Kan Lin thanked them, entered, and shut the door.

He Yu’s face still shone with unsatisfied hunger. Qi Xiu patted the boy’s shoulder and shot Zhang Shishi and Zhan Yuan a “later” look.

Bedrolls were spread in one long row across the hall. Qi Xiu circulated a cycle of Evergreen Art, watched the youngest drift off, then let exhaustion claim him. Ten sect leader and disciples slept shoulder to shoulder like war refugees, and that was their first night on southern soil.

Dawn revealed an empty chamber. On the little table lay a single first-rank Vital Healing Talisman—payment for the lodging.

Qi Xiu twirled the talisman between his fingers, expression complicated.

“The slip warned White Mountain cultivators are mostly bad news; it also promised Chu Youmin would ‘look after’ us. One night and already the slip is half liar.”

Outside, Zhang Shishi and Zhan Yuan approached, faces grim.

“Food and water bought us a week at most,” Zhan Yuan said. “Flying back and forth for every sack of rice will bleed us dry. And daily washing water—cleansing talismans cost more than mortal servants ever did.”

“No income either,” Zhang Shishi added quietly. “We can’t eat our seed corn forever.”

Qi Xiu had planned to scout the underground pool first, then trade Qin Siyan’s red array disk with Flowing Blossom Sect for a proper large-scale ward that would hide both temple and spring. One stone, two birds: defense and drinking water solved. But he couldn’t speak of the spring yet.

He told them instead about Chu Youmin’s frost, the extortionate price, the future they could expect.

Zhang Shishi kicked at the stone floor. “More contempt? Haven’t we swallowed enough from north to south?”

Qi Xiu forced a smile. “Then we stop swallowing. First, the small array goes up today. At least the stink stays out.”

He called He Yu and the four of them pored over the Yellow Sand manual for seven days. Soil roots helped; both Zhang Shishi and He Yu grasped earth principles quickly.

On the seventh evening every disciple lent a hand planting stone disks into the mountainside according to the diagrams.

Passing rogue cultivators landed from time to time—lone Qi Refinement wanderers looking for the usual free campsite. Seeing ten people already in residence, most simply asked polite questions and left. One even aborted his descent halfway and flew off again.

When the last sub-disk was buried, Qi Xiu stood in the inner chamber, slotted the gifted second-rank stones into the central yellow-jade plate, and raised the sect leader token.

“Rise.”

A low thrumm rolled through the peak. Yellow light flared, then vanished. An invisible dome snapped into being over temple and half the summit. To outsiders below a certain cultivation, Black River Peak now wore a permanent cloak of yellow mist; the temple itself disappeared completely.

The stench died at the boundary. For the first time in a week the disciples stepped outside and filled their lungs with clean air. Cheers broke out like startled birds.

Zhan Yuan paced the protected area, calculating. “Plenty of flat ground left inside the ward. If we raise a few wooden cabins, we won’t have to sleep packed like salted fish anymore.”

Everyone brightened—sleeping ten to a hall had been miserable even with space to spare.

Ancient Gu Ji blurted exactly what the adults were thinking: “But… who here knows how to build a house?”

Ten faces turned toward the empty sky, the same realization settling on them like dust.

Their new life had a roof overhead and clean air to breathe, but everything else—water, food, income, a future—still waited beyond the yellow haze, unfinished and unknown.