Path of the Sect Leader

Chapter 21: Into the Black Mists

Qi Xiu laid out his plan, and the others nodded without hesitation. In a heartbeat, the entire Chu Qin Sect sprang into motion.

Small ships turn fast—that was the one upside of a fledgling sect. Unlike the old Chu Qin Sect, bloated with dozens of Qi Refining disciples, fractured into petty cliques, and paralyzed by endless bickering, the current crew moved like a single blade.

He Yu was the first to leap at the chance. He dragged Zhang Shishi along, the two of them plunging down the routes Qi Xiu had etched onto a jade slip, scouting toward the foot of the mountain. Huang He and the rest fanned out behind them, ready to pull them back if things went south.

Qi Xiu stayed topside with Zhan Yuan and Gu Ji, rifling through their meager stock of talismans, pills, anything that might keep a man breathing inside that black haze. The slip had been blunt: the denser the mist, the deadlier the poison, and the stench alone could buckle a man’s knees. Ordinary defensive wards wouldn’t cut it. Living things rarely lasted long down there, but they still packed a fistful of attack talismans and a bottle of blood- and qi-replenishing pills—just in case.

Pan Rong and Qin Weiyu were ordered straight to their rooms. Rest, nothing else. No arguments.

Less than the time it took a single stick of incense to burn, the scouts came stumbling back, faces smeared with grime, gagging like they’d crawled out of a sewer.

“It’s unbearable,” He Yu spat, sucking in lungfuls of the clean air inside the Yellow Sand Illusion Array as though it were nectar. “Every elemental ward we tried—useless. The poison seeps right through, and the smell…” He shuddered. “Gods, the smell.”

Zhang Shishi looked no better, skin tinged faintly gray, but his voice stayed steady. “Only a Fire-Element Ward keeps the toxin itself at bay. The stench, though? Nothing stops that. You’d lose your mind long before the poison finished you. Among first-tier talismans, only a Wind-Element Ward stands a real chance of handling both. With our cultivation, none of the spells we know will carry us all the way to the base.”

The two of them had pushed deepest. A thin veil of black qi clung to their cheeks—early signs of poisoning.

Yu Jing and Gu Ji both carried water roots among their mixed spiritual roots. Qi Xiu waved them forward. Gu Ji, barely a year younger than He Yu yet still brimming with boyish fire, practically bounced at the chance to finally be useful. He threw healing currents over the pair with reckless gusto, water-light dancing from his palms until his spiritual energy guttered out entirely. For once the kid looked drained, proud, and utterly spent.

Qi Xiu could only watch, his beast spiritual root as helpful as a rock in a rice bowl.

Wind-Element Wards were top-grade first-tier talismans, and the materials Qin Siyan had left behind didn’t include a single one.

“No way around it,” Qi Xiu muttered to himself. “Chu Qin Sect is still green here. We haven’t learned how to survive the Black River yet.” A bitter smile tugged at his lips. “Looks like we’ll have to lean on the Chu Clan after all.”

Decision made, he reassured the disciples with a few calm words, then slipped into the sect leader’s private chamber.

Door sealed, he drew a small wooden box from his storage pouch. Inside lay the jade bottle holding a single Foundation Establishment Pill and a sealed letter—his last will.

Ever since Kan Lin’s visit, dark thoughts had circled like crows. In a lawless crossroads like this, a sect’s fate could flip on a madman’s whim. One unlucky day, one vicious passer-by…

Anything could happen.

If he fell, Chu Qin Sect wouldn’t survive another storm of chaos.

In the letter he had named He Yu heir to the pill—highest potential, only fair. Zhang Shishi would take the sect leader’s seat: no hope of reaching Foundation Establishment himself, perhaps, but upright, meticulous, and growing sharper by the day. Zhan Yuan was smooth, capable, a natural at logistics, yet still too low in cultivation to shoulder the full weight.

Qi Xiu added another sealing ward to the box, pried up a loose floor tile in the corner, and buried it deep. No need to burden them with that knowledge yet.

He stepped back outside, summoned Zhan Yuan alone, and led him into the chamber they used as a storehouse.

“Sect Leader.” Zhan Yuan bowed the moment the door shut.

Qi Xiu pressed a storage pouch into his hands. “We descend the mountain soon—no more delays. Every day we wait, every plan slips further out of reach, and the others’ cultivation stagnates with it. Take this pouch, fill it with whatever we can spare for trade, and head to Chu Youmin’s people in District Nine-Three. Trade for anything—artifacts, talismans, whatever they use to walk those mists. They’ve survived on the Black River’s edge for generations. They’ll know the tricks.”

Zhan Yuan hesitated, brow creasing. “But…?”

Qi Xiu waved the objection away. “You’re wondering why I don’t go myself. Chu Youmin wouldn’t bother with small fry like us. Dealing with one of his stewards? You or me, makes no difference. Find an old hand in District Nine-Three—someone who’s been running errands for them for decades. They’ll sort you out.”

He exhaled, softer this time. “Senior Kan warned me about southern customs. Out here, favors and gifts grease every wheel—just like the mortal world. Back under Qi Yun Peak, we were all Daoist sects; no one stooped to such things. I blundered last time, probably offended someone without realizing. This time you’ll bring proper gifts for whoever receives you. You’re just a disciple, a fresh face—less threatening. Leaves us room to maneuver later.”

Understanding dawned in Zhan Yuan’s eyes. He cupped his fists and bowed deeply. “I’ll leave at once.”

Clean and quick—just like that. Qi Xiu felt a quiet warmth in his chest. Too many Daoist-born cultivators turned their noses up at “worldly” chores. Zhan Yuan never did. Zhang Shishi would have grumbled; He Yu would have sulked. But Zhan Yuan simply shouldered it.

They packed the pouch together—ores, a few low-grade spirit stones, whatever might catch a steward’s eye. Qi Xiu walked him through the route, voice low and steady.

“Watch the market first. Don’t announce why you’re there. You’ll be handling sect logistics from now on—start learning prices. If you spot bulk Cleaning Talismans or anything else we burn through fast and the price is right, grab them. Keep extra spirit stones for the Wind Array Spirit Boat. Once everything’s settled, find a quiet corner, meditate, restore your spiritual energy, then fly straight back…”

He watched Zhan Yuan vanish into the sky on a borrowed artifact, then turned to the others. “Rest. All of you. We move when he returns.”

Noon the next day, Zhan Yuan touched down lightly in the courtyard and made straight for the main hall.

In his arms he carried hope wrapped in black silk.

“One mid-grade first-tier Black Wind Banner,” he announced, voice thrumming with triumph as the others crowded close. “Nothing flashy in attack or defense, but the black wind it spits can shove the mist aside, and it barely drinks spiritual energy. These are Fragrant Iris Pills—not true spirit pills, but keep one under the tongue and the poison can’t touch you. And these—” he lifted a small stack of talismans, “—first-tier Life-Sustaining Talismans. If someone breathes a lethal dose, slap one of these on the chest; it’ll guard the heart meridians long enough for rescue.”

He laid each item out like a general displaying captured banners.

“With this lot, four of us can walk the foot of the mountain without fear.”

A slow grin spread across Qi Xiu’s face.

For the first time since they’d arrived at the Black River, the mists looked a little less invincible.