Path of the Sect Leader

Chapter 68: The Tournament, Part Two

Regret was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

Huang He went up next—swept off the stage in one lazy palm strike.

Yu Jing followed—knocked flat before he could finish his incantation.

Chu-Qin Sect became the tournament’s running joke. Someone even opened a side bet: “How many moves until the next Chu-Qin clown falls?” People actually wagered on it.

Then came Qin Weiyu.

The wooden boy shuffled onto the stage, still half-dreaming of his swamp orchids. Before he could even summon his signature Black-Stemmed Bog Orchid, a South Chu swordswoman flicked her blade under his chin and smiled sweetly.

The crowd lost it. Grown women clutched their stomachs and howled with laughter.

Qi Xiu buried his face in his hands. Shame—rare as a phoenix feather for him—burned hot.

It’s fine. Nothing to be ashamed of, he repeated like a mantra, triggering his [Clarity of Self] talent until his heartbeat slowed.

Wang Juan opened her mouth, closed it, then simply waved Qin Weiyu off the stage. There was, frankly, nothing to critique. The boy himself didn’t seem fazed; he melted back into the group like a stump returning to the forest.

A few bouts later the Guanghui steward’s voice rang out again, barely hiding his glee:

“Spirit Herb Pavilion, Jiang Chuanyi—

versus… ahem… Chu-Qin Sect, Yu Denuo!”

The pause before the name was deliberate. Laughter rolled through the stands like thunder.

Qi Xiu grabbed Yu Denuo’s wrist. “You’re our strongest. Please… don’t go down in one move.”

Yu Denuo met his eyes and patted the back of Qi Xiu’s hand with steady reassurance. “I understand. Trust me.”

He vaulted onto the stage, golden sword already spinning between his fingers.

His opponent, a smug youth from Spirit Herb Pavilion, struck a pose he clearly thought dashing and flicked a cyan seed into the air.

The seed burst. A spirit vine thicker than a man’s thigh lashed toward Yu Denuo like a living whip.

“Good!” Yu Denuo barked. His little golden sword flashed, carving a shallow green gash across the vine—only for the plant to hiss and coil tighter, dragging the blade with it.

Yu Denuo’s face tightened. Spiritual power poured out in a torrent; golden light blazed brighter, finally halting the vine’s advance.

But while the Herb Pavilion youth strolled like he was taking a garden walk, Yu Denuo already looked half spent.

“One move! We’re past one move!” the bookie screamed. Groans rose from everyone who’d bet on instant defeat.

The youth’s smile thinned. He pinched a black-red seed between two fingers and flicked it upward.

The seed swelled mid-flight, radiating terrifying fire-aspected power.

“He’s going to win,” Wang Juan murmured.

Qi Xiu opened his mouth to ask how she could possibly tell—

and Yu Denuo moved.

“Take this!”

Two streaks of golden light shot from his sleeves. One streaked toward the swelling seed. The other went straight for his opponent’s face.

BOOM!

The black-red seed detonated in a column of flame and smoke that swallowed half the arena.

When the haze cleared, Yu Denuo stood untouched, hands clasped behind his back.

The Spirit Herb youth stared cross-eyed at a tiny golden date-pit spike hovering an inch from his eyeball. A South Chu golden-core elder had frozen it in place at the last instant—otherwise the youth’s head would have decorated the stage.

“I… forfeit,” the youth croaked, face cycling through every shade of red and white.

The stands had ever seen.

The crowd erupted in disbelief. Chu-Qin Sect had actually won!

Bookies wailed. Winners who’d bet on the “laughingstock sect” suddenly found themselves rich.

Yu Denuo descended to a hero’s welcome. Disciples swarmed him, shouting and laughing like they’d taken leave of their senses.

Wang Juan chuckled. “Beautiful feigned weakness.”

Yu Denuo scratched his head, honest as ever. “He was stronger. If he hadn’t underestimated me…”

“Well, thank your sect’s earlier punching bags for selling the act so convincingly,” a venomous voice drifted over.

Qi Xiu’s head snapped around. Si Wentai lounged against a pillar, smirking like a cat in cream.

Mountain Gate Sect was here too—one golden core, five Foundation Establishment. Not people to tangle with lightly.

Wang Juan leaned close. “Let it slide.”

Qi Xiu swallowed the retort.

Unfortunately, someone else didn’t.

A late Foundation Establishment cultivator from Spirit Herb Pavilion stepped forward, voice cold. “You lost. Accept it. Who the hell are you to speak for my pavilion?”

Si Wentai’s smirk froze. He shrank back, suddenly very interested in his shoes.

Qi Xiu and Wang Juan hastily cupped fists toward the Herb Pavilion senior in gratitude. The man gave a curt nod and returned to his people.

Zhang Shishi sighed beside them. “See? We righteous sect cultivators still have some decency.”

Wang Juan gave a dry laugh. “Not… entirely.”

She didn’t elaborate, and Qi Xiu pretended not to understand the bitterness behind it.

The matches rolled on.

One of Wang Juan’s juniors drew a Guanghui Pavilion monster and was demolished in four moves. Bad luck.

Then:

“Chu-Qin Sect, Qi Xiu!

Versus—Treasure Pavilion, Wenren Shang!”

Wang Juan clapped Qi Xiu’s shoulder with mock solemnity. “Try not to die too dramatically.”

Qi Xiu huffed a laugh despite himself. He straightened his robes, checked that his hair was perfect, and leapt onto the stage looking every inch the dignified sect leader.

The crowd, burned once by Yu Denuo, stayed quiet this time.

Wenren Shang planted a buddhist monk’s staff into the arena floor. Golden light rippled outward, forming an impenetrable dome around him.

Qi Xiu had a plan: look busy, lose gracefully, preserve the hair.

Wind-blade talisman—check.

Golden-element barrier—check.

Blackwind Banner—whip up a menacing cyclone that tickled the golden dome like a summer breeze.

Wenren Shang’s eyes narrowed. A truly terrifying spell began gathering in his palm.

Qi Xiu immediately stowed his banner, cupped his fists, and bowed. “Brother Wenren’s might is unmatched. This Qi surrenders.”

He drifted off the stage without a single strand out of place.

Wenren Shang stood there with a half-formed ultimate technique fizzing in his hand, looking like someone who’d swung at a mosquito and punched himself in the face.

As Qi Xiu descended, the man called after him in wounded dignity:

“My surname is Wenren, thank you!”

Qi Xiu’s foot caught the edge of the step. He nearly face-planted.

The entire stands dissolved into boos and laughter once more.