Path of the Sect Leader

Chapter 51: A Dragon’s Head with a Serpent’s Tail

Wang Huan had sent a shipment of grain, and with what they scraped together from nearby markets, it barely kept starvation at bay until autumn harvest. The Chu-Qin immigrants hauled sacks, raised granaries, felled timber, patched roofs; days bled into nights without pause. Even the Lunar New Year passed in a blur of sweat and silence.

Yet on the eve of the Lantern Festival, they raised a vast canopy at the heart of the settlement. Women brought out their last precious scraps of colored cloth, tearing them into bright pennants and ribbons that fluttered like spirit banners from every beam. Streets were sprinkled with purifying water; families fasted three days in reverence. Only then was the Ascendant Assembly deemed ready.

At the first light of dawn, every household gathered beneath the gay canopy. Children of age stood in neat rows, parents’ hands tight on small shoulders. Qin Ji and Old Qin Bo took position at the front, backs straight as sword hilts, the crowd hushed to a held breath while they awaited the immortals of Chu-Qin Sect.

The auspicious hour arrived.

A spirit vessel sliced across the sky like a silver blade. Zhan Yuan stood proud on its prow, waving merrily. “We’re here, we’re here!”

Old Qin Bo’s voice cracked like a whip. “All hail the immortal masters of Chu-Qin Sect!”

Two thousand mortals dropped as one, a black sea of bowed heads rippling beneath the heavens.

Zhan Yuan grinned wide, touched a storage ring, and unleashed a cascade of spirit fireworks that bloomed gold and crimson across the dawn. In that blazing splendor, Qi Xiu’s vessel descended first, followed by Zhang Shishi and the rest, graceful as cranes returning to roost.

The moment their feet touched earth, Qin Ji led the chant, voice ringing clear as temple bells:

“Beneath the banner of Chu-Qin, this humble servant Qin Ji, together with one thousand seven hundred and seventy-one souls, welcomes Sect Leader Qi and all honored immortals! May the sect prosper for ten thousand generations!”

He dropped to his knees and performed the full nine kowtows. Behind him, the tide of mortals followed in perfect unison.

Qi Xiu’s smile deepened, a slow intoxication spreading through his chest. Nearly two thousand voices raised in worship; the sight could make even the most steadfast cultivator drunk on mortal incense and awe. No wonder countless heaven-chosen geniuses stumbled at this very threshold, trading the lonely peak of the Dao for the warm haze of earthly reverence.

“Enough ceremony,” Qi Xiu said warmly. “Let the auspicious hour not wait.”

A brief exchange of pleasantries, and the work began.

This was Qin Ji’s first meeting with the new family head. The young man cut a striking figure: tall, poised, every movement precise. Judging by the flawless preparations, his competence ran bone-deep.

Zhang Shishi and Zhan Yuan took charge of the testing. Two artifacts sat ready: the Spirit-Measuring Mirror (for natal aura) and the Spirit-Measuring Stone (for spiritual roots). Because the tools were merely low-grade, the mirror could only reveal a vague silhouette of one’s innate destiny, but the stone reliably exposed the presence; or absence; of spiritual roots.

He Yu was posted outside the canopy to call names. Clad in fresh crimson robes that blazed against his jade-carved features, he looked every inch the immortal from mortal dreams. Village girls forgot to breathe; their mothers forgot to scold. In their hearts, every cultivator must be this breathtaking, and the immortal realm a paradise worth any price.

Most immigrants hailed from the old Qin clan; discipline came naturally. When He Yu sang a name, the family stepped forward in silence, handed their child to Gu Ji, and watched the little one vanish behind silk curtains.

First came the stone.

Zhang Shishi guided each trembling hand to its cool surface, then poured a thread of qi inside. If spiritual roots lay hidden, colors would flare; wood-green, fire-crimson, mountain-gold, ocean-blue, or lightning-white. If not… nothing. The child was gently returned to waiting parents and led away.

Two hundred and thirteen children in total, most already past eight. The long exodus south had winnowed the weak; infants and elders alike had fallen behind, willingly or otherwise. Only the sturdy remained.

Qi Xiu himself manned the final gate, probing the heart and temperament of any who passed the first test. Talent without virtue was poison; the sect would not drink it.

Yet noon came, then the long afternoon, and not a single child sparked even the faintest glow.

Zhang Shishi shook his head again and again, regret heavy in his eyes. Mortal disappointment hung thick as incense smoke.

By sunset, the gorgeous canopy felt like a mockery. The feast prepared for new disciples who would leap through the dragon gate went cold and untouched. The first Ascendant Assembly of Chu-Qin Sect ended not with thunder, but the limp flick of a serpent’s tail.

Qi Xiu and his people could only gather the dozen-odd households volunteered as servants and slink back to Black River Peak, faces dark as storm clouds. They left Qin Weiyu behind to “reminisce with kin”; in truth, to spare the mortals further shame.

Back at the peak, Yu Denuo found Qi Xiu brooding atop the main hall’s veranda. The merchant had all but become half a Chu-Qin disciple himself, shuttling between White Mountain mortals and Black River Peak whenever trade allowed.

“True cultivators are one in ten thousand,” Yu Denuo said lightly, pouring wine. “If two hundred children yielded even one, that would be heaven-defying fortune. Give them a few generations to settle, multiply; talent will come.”

Qi Xiu exhaled, long and slow. “I was impatient. Seventeen hundred souls; how many children can they bear each year? With such a small pool, even one or two with roots would be a miracle stolen from the jaws of fate.”

Their talk was cut short by a timid voice at the door.

“Sect Leader Immortal, Immortal Yu; the banquet is ready.”

A girl of eleven or twelve stood there, cheeks flushed, eyes lowered. Qi Xiu waved a hand. “Bring it here. We’ll eat on the veranda.”

She curtsied and fled.

The servant households Qin Ji had carefully selected each included one or two flowering maidens; useful for labor, yes, but also hopeful seeds for closer ties with the sect. Qi Xiu saw through the scheme at once, yet could hardly refuse. A cultivator’s restraint was his own responsibility. The sect rules allowed marriage after thirty; Qi Xiu had crossed that line this very year, but he harbored ambitions far above mortal girls, no matter how comely.

Moments later Qin Weiyu returned, flying straight in on his artifact after days of feasting with the clan. Qi Xiu summoned him at once, probing for anything Qin Ji might have said.

Weiyu answered in his usual slow, befuddled way, circling the point like a moth around flame. Irritated, Qi Xiu dismissed him.

Yu Denuo watched the boy shuffle out, then chuckled low. “Seems young Qin Ji still nurses hopes for that one.”

He had lingered long enough at Black River Peak to know the sect’s tangled roots almost as well as its own disciples. Though he spoke vaguely, the meaning was crystal.

Qi Xiu’s eyes narrowed, frost gathering in their depths.

“Weiyu is honest enough, but honesty alone does not make a sect leader. No matter what pretty dreams the Qin clan spins; the next seat will never be his.”

In the silence that followed, mountain wind swept across the veranda, carrying away the scent of cold wine and colder resolve.