Path of the Sect Leader

Chapter 27: Wang Wan of Soldier’s Rest

Barely past dawn the next morning, a Wang clansman knocked with a warm invitation: the master of the house wished to receive him at once.

Far more welcoming than Chu Youmin had ever been. Wang Wan’s reputation for hospitality was clearly earned.

The guide was a polite Qi Refining middle-stage cultivator. He explained that Elder Wang rarely stayed in the market itself, but had come in early today, seen the calling card and gift, and—curious about the new southern neighbors—decided to grant an immediate audience.

Qi Xiu entered, offered full junior’s courtesy, exchanged pleasantries, and took the guest seat.

Wang Wan opened lightly, asking after Chu Qin Sect’s origins. Qi Xiu told the truth—almost all of it. The legitimate lineage, the master-disciple tie with Old Ancestor Chu Zhen, even the shameful siege of Chu Qin Peak by the three sects. He simply glided past anything touching South Chu Sect.

He had decided his stance the moment he resolved to ask for help: wave the banner of Chu Zhen loudly—any Foundation Establishment cultivator on the southern edge of Qi Yun would salivate at a connection, however distant, to a Nascent Soul patriarch. As for the ugly parts, Flowing Blossom Sect certainly wasn’t hiding them; better to lay everything bare and appear honest. Truth above the table, careful omissions below.

They spoke, they weighed each other.

Wang Wan looked every bit the kindly grandfather—snow-white hair, rosy cheeks, bright eyes—until one noticed the faint death-qi flickering between his brows. His time was running out. No wonder he spent his days weaving favors like a spider spinning silk for his family’s future.

“So Elder Chu Zhen of our Qi Yun Sect was actually your founding ancestor’s master.” Wang Wan stroked his beard, a trace of genuine regard in his voice. “Your sect has deeper roots than I thought.”

Qi Xiu gave an awkward smile. “Roots, yes—but rotten in the second generation. The old ancestor publicly washed his hands of us long ago.” Better to say it himself than let Wang Wan hear it from someone else and think him a liar.

Wang Wan only chuckled, unsurprised. “He may have said the words, yet here you are in the south, still breathing. Someone pulled strings.”

Qi Xiu dipped his head. “He entrusted us to the southern Chu Clan. Black River Peak is our last foothold.”

A test, then. And Qi Xiu had passed.

Wang Wan laughed aloud, all remaining wariness melting away. “Elder Chu must be nearing two thousand. Old men love leaving favors scattered like seeds. Who knows which sprout might one day shade his descendants? Thirty years the river’s east, thirty years the river’s west—nothing is certain.”

The meaning was plain as daylight: I am also an old man planting seeds. Remember who watered yours.

Qi Xiu bowed from his seat. “Should the day ever come that Chu Qin Sect can repay even a thousandth of Elder Chu’s kindness—or Elder Wang’s—we will not hesitate to shatter body and soul in the attempt. This we swear as Daoist disciples: a single drop of kindness is returned with a fountain.”

Wang Wan’s smile widened, satisfied.

The moment felt right. Qi Xiu gently steered the conversation to his real purpose and asked Wang Wan to act as guarantor for the red-jade array disk trade with Flowing Blossom Sect.

Wang Wan agreed without hesitation. The Wang Clan would notify Flowing Blossom, host the exchange, and personally guarantee Qi Xiu’s safety and fairness.

Just like that, the mountain on Qi Xiu’s back slid away.

He spent the rest of the visit layering gratitude in every shade of polite southern phrasing until Wang Wan was practically purring. When the elder finally lifted his teacup—the universal signal—Qi Xiu rose, bowed deeply, and took his leave.

Behind the screen, a young Wang disciple who had stood silent throughout finally spoke, voice thick with disdain.

“Elder, why waste courtesy on a Qi Refining nobody? Average looks, average bearing, exiled to the Black River—he clearly has no backer worth the name. Why bother?”

Wang Wan’s eyes flashed. “Because it costs me nothing and might one day save my grandchildren. The Great Dao is long and strange; today’s ant may bite tomorrow’s dragon. You youngsters only learned half the stories from those White Mountain loose cultivators—how to carry grudges for a century you understand perfectly, how to plant favors you never bothered with.”

The youth wilted under the scolding, spent ten minutes coaxing the old man back into good humor, then fled.

Qi Xiu, meanwhile, wandered the market like a starving man at a banquet.

Every stall he stopped, every item he didn’t recognize, he asked about—politely, persistently, shamelessly. When the shopkeeper’s patience thinned, he produced a low-grade talisman as apology and doubled the humility. Nine times out of ten the man would laugh and lecture him for an hour.

At night he returned to the inn, bought local travelogues and catalogs, and read by lamp until his eyes burned, soaking up knowledge the way parched earth drinks rain.

Five days passed in a blur of questions and pages.

On the sixth morning a Wang disciple knocked: everything was arranged. Three days hence, in Qi South City—the great cultivation hub on Qi Yun’s southern border—Flowing Blossom Sect would meet him to trade for the red-jade array disk.

Qi Xiu closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a breath that tasted like hope.

The first impossible step was done.