Path of the Sect Leader

Chapter 67: The Tournament, Part One

The Chu-Qin Sect rolled into Blackriver Market like a funeral procession wearing festival robes.

The place had already turned into a carnival. Loose cultivators from White Mountain swarmed every corner: some hawking handwritten dossiers on the contestants, others running betting rings, still more waving banners for friends or favorites. Street vendors threaded through the crowd with steaming baskets of spirit-beast skewers, glowing candy, cheap talismans, and wine that promised “one sip, one layer closer to Foundation Establishment.” The air buzzed with laughter, haggling, and the metallic tang of excitement.

Zhan Yuan’s eyes practically sparkled. “So this is how you turn chaos into spirit stones…”

Zhang Shishi snorted. “Petty tricks. Nothing worthy of the Great Path.”

“Not entirely,” Zhan Yuan countered lazily. “Profit is spirit stones, spirit stones are strength. These ‘petty tricks’ keep whole clans fed and cultivating.”

“Yeah, back in my day—” Yu Denuo started.

Zhang Shishi’s face darkened further.

Gu Ji popped out of nowhere, waving a dog-eared booklet like it was the Jade Emperor’s edict. “Look what I scored!”

The coverless pamphlet claimed to be the official power ranking of every contestant. Qi Xiu flipped through it. Only two Chu-Qin names appeared: Yu Denuo, dead last among the seeded, and He Yu, buried in the “unknowns” section with a sarcastic question mark after his name.

“Tch. Trash.” Qi Xiu tossed it back. There was still time before the matches. He led everyone toward their inn.

They never made it.

Right in the middle of the main road, Chu Youguang was publicly torturing Bai Xiaosheng again. Today’s entertainment involved forcing something yellow and wriggling into the prisoner’s mouth. Bai Xiaosheng looked more like a corpse that had forgotten to lie down: hair matted with filth, skin crusted black, stench rolling off him in waves. A crowd watched with morbid fascination.

The Chu-Qin disciples caught the tail end of the show and promptly reversed course.

“That old monster’s creativity never runs dry,” Yu Jing muttered.

Zhan Yuan spat to the side. “He’s riding high now that he’s swallowed Chu Youmin’s territory. I’d love to know which knife he held when Guanghui Pavilion twisted the blade.”

Qi Xiu only sighed. “Out with one pig, in with a wolf.”

They ran into Wang Juan and her three gloomy juniors. Together the two small sects shuffled to the reserved area beneath the arena, looking like mourners who’d taken a wrong turn.

The Wang disciples were all late-stage Qi Refining, yet wore the expressions of men marching to execution.

When the hour struck, the same golden-core enforcer from South Chu who’d once captured Bai Xiaosheng flew onto the stage. He delivered the usual platitudes about fairness and glory, then drew lots. A Guanghui Pavilion steward took the scroll and began calling names.

The tournament ignited.

First match: some mid-tier merchant house from Qi’nan versus a nobody from White Mountain. Both fighters opened with shields, then traded fireballs and ice lances like bored children poking each other with sticks. The crowd of over a thousand jeered within minutes.

Wang Juan watched the dull exchange, brow knotted. “To claim even one new plot, you need top fifty. That means at least two wins.”

Qi Xiu had already accepted their sect was fodder. Strangely, the realization brought calm. “Zhao Liangde didn’t show today,” he remarked. “He only registered ten, yet I count more than ten Imperial Beast Sect robes up there.”

Wang Juan gave a knowing smirk and held up two fingers.

Internal strife. Got it. Qi Xiu dropped the subject.

A few boring bouts later, the steward’s voice rang out:

“Chu-Qin Sect, Zhan Yuan!

Versus—Water League, Wu Changci!”

First blood for Chu-Qin, and it was their merchant elder.

Qi Xiu shot Zhan Yuan an encouraging nod. The man leapt onto the stage looking like he’d swallowed a lemon.

The White Mountain loose cultivators recognized him instantly.

“Isn’t that Shopkeeper Zhan?!”

“Old Zhan, don’t mess around, go home and sell tea!”

“Boss Zhan, I’ll have the usual—one pot of Spirit Blossom, and deep-fried fragrant pork ribs, single-side crisp only!”

Laughter crashed like a wave. Even Wang Juan’s juniors failed to hide smirks. Qi Xiu trembled with second-hand shame and glared at Zhang Shishi, who was definitely not helping.

Zhan Yuan’s ears burned crimson, but he forced himself to focus. A yellow glow blossomed as he slapped down an Earth-Element Barrier Talisman. Then he fanned out a fistful of mid-grade attack talismans, ready to drown his foe in a paper storm. He’d spent half the sect treasury for this moment. If he couldn’t win, at least he’d look spectacular losing.

Across the stage, Wu Changci stood with hands clasped behind his back, smiling like a cat who’d already eaten the canary.

Zhan Yuan gritted his teeth. “Show-off.”

He raised his hand to hurl the first volley.

A blink.

Wu Changci was suddenly inside his guard. A casual knife-hand chopped straight through the earthen shield as though it were rice paper and cracked against Zhan Yuan’s elbow.

Numbness exploded up his arm. The talismans fluttered from lifeless fingers and drifted to the stage like defeated butterflies.

The crowd roared with laughter.

Wu Changci hadn’t even shifted his feet; he still stood exactly where he’d started, smile wider than ever.

Zhan Yuan’s face cycled through red, white, and red again. He bowed stiffly, conceded, and fled the stage without bothering to pick up his expensive trash.

Wang Juan, ever the Foundation Establishment senior, offered gentle critique. “Late-stage Qi Refining, a hint of sharp intent in that hand-blade, plus superior movement art. A metal-element shield might have lasted half a breath longer, but the gap was too wide. Not a shameful loss.”

Yu Denuo helped set the dislocated joint while Zhan Yuan stared at the ground.

“Sect Leader… I humiliated us.”

“You did your best,” Qi Xiu said, voice soft. It hurt to watch.

Zhan Yuan shook his head. “I’ll head back. Someone needs to guard the mountain.” He summoned his spirit boat and flew off alone, shoulders slumped, a tiny figure swallowed quickly by the sky.

Qi Xiu stared after him until he vanished.

If every match ends like this, he thought, we’ll lose more than face.

We’ll lose the will to ever draw our swords again when true death comes knocking.

Did I make a terrible mistake dragging them all here?