Path of the Sect Leader

Chapter 81: Spoils and Rewards

Qi Xiu let out a slow breath, the kind that carried days of quiet mending. The damage to his origin had finally knit itself whole, and deeper still, he felt the second barrier of the Qi Refining stage crack open like a door left ajar. All that remained was to pour cultivation in; stepping into the sixth layer would come as naturally as sunrise.

Since the nameless valley bloodbath, this was only the second piece of good news. The first had come from He Yu: the kid had wrung an entire layer from that same crucible of death and now stood proudly at the eighth layer—formally a late-stage Qi Refining cultivator.

When life hangs by a thread, insight cuts deeper. Potential gets dragged out kicking and screaming. Natal gifts and arts fuse in ways peaceful seclusion never allows. No wonder some people chase battle the way gamblers chase dice. If Gu Ji and Huang He had lived, the whole trip to the Shan Du Mountains would have counted as a perfect harvest.

At the thought of Gu Ji, the warmth in Qi Xiu’s chest guttered out. He drew half a manual from his storage pouch—the [Spirit Monkey Movement Art]—and ran his palm across the worn cover. A fourteen-year-old face flickered in his memory: laughing, fearless, arriving with him at Black River Peak all those years ago. Some ghosts refuse to be buried.

A soft sigh escaped him. He set the booklet on the little bedside table beside the dog-eared [Yellow Court Classic], then noticed the cluster of storage pouches Yu Denou had stripped from corpses. They had sat there untouched while he dealt with injuries and the endless aftermath.

One by one he opened them. Most held the usual junk low-level cultivators lug around—hardly worth counting. Then came a Ten-Directions Storage Pouch that made his heart stutter: bricks of spirit stones, stacks of talismans, a small armory of first-tier artifacts and manuals, and dozens of women’s robes, all purple as dusk.

The purple-clothed woman Yu Denou had killed with a single strike.

Judging by the haul, her strength had dwarfed Si Wenyu’s. If Bai Muhan had chosen differently that day—if she had let the woman live a breath longer—Chu Qin Sect would be ash and memory now.

Cold sweat prickled Qi Xiu’s back, gone in the same heartbeat, replaced by raw, almost guilty joy. The sect coffers were bone-dry; this windfall was rain on cracked earth.

He tallied everything with shaking fingers.

Thirty-plus third-tier spirit stones of various sizes. Five first-tier artifacts. Thirty-odd first-tier cultivation methods and spells. Seventy-some first-tier talismans, piles of blank talisman paper, low-grade pills, and ingredients.

And then the real prizes: one second-tier cultivation method, one second-tier spell, one second-tier artifact—all matching, all priceless.

- Second-tier method: [Extreme Chill Jade Flame Art]

- Second-tier spell: [Jade Phosphor Slash]

- Second-tier artifact: [Jade Flame Nether Soul Blade]

A complete set built around jade-phosphor fire—a cold flame, weaker than true blaze in raw destruction, but lethal when paired with the right natal gift. Too bad no one in Chu Qin possessed even a hint of compatible fire root.

Qi Xiu gave a wry chuckle. “How many pigs and spirit fish would we have to sell? How many bowls of spirit tea, how many nights of lodging for passing cultivators? No wonder some people sharpen their swords instead of their ledgers. War really is the fastest road to wealth.”

Useless to them for now—those sets demanded an exact natal match. After some thought he summoned Zhan Yuan and handed over the three jade-phosphor treasures. “Take these to Black River Market. Find a buyer who’ll pay what they’re worth.”

Zhan Yuan’s face crumpled. “Sect Leader, you don’t know the half of it. After we wiped out Shan Du Sect, prices for anything except spirit stones and large arrays have crashed through the floor. We’d be lucky to get a third of their value right now.”

Qi Xiu blinked. One sect’s annihilation had gutted the local economy? “Explain. Slowly.”

Zhan Yuan bowed. “Two things. First, thousands of low-level cultivators died—demand dried up overnight. Second, everyone who looted Shan Du is trying to fence the same kind of goods we have. Spirit stones are king; nobody wants extra artifacts gathering dust. Add the fact that Old Ancestor Wei’s family stopped buying war materials under the table… people figure the big fights are over for a while. Prices were already inflated; now supply drowns demand. Unless it’s stones or formation flags, everything’s dirt cheap.”

Qi Xiu rubbed his chin, mind racing the way it did when balancing the sect’s books. Cheap to buy, expensive to sell—simple enough.

He counted out twenty third-tier stones and pressed them into Zhan Yuan’s hand. “Then we become the buyers. Sweep the market. Every cheap first-tier method, every spell manual, every scrap of usable knowledge—bring it back. We’re building a proper scripture hall. One bookshelf of random travelogues won’t carry us into the future.”

Ten stones remained—enough, with income from pigs and spirit tea, to keep the sect afloat for years.

Zhan Yuan’s eyes lit up; he practically bounced out the door. The man was born for this sort of work.

Next came the war merits assembly.

Bai Muhan—calm as winter steel when chaos reigned—took unquestioned first merit.

He Yu, driving off Si Wenyu and fighting two late-stage enemies alone, claimed second.

Zhang Shishi’s heavy shield ate the worst of Si Wenyu’s self-detonation while his pagoda crushed skulls—third.

Yu Denou’s single flash of a blade that ended the purple-clothed woman—fourth.

Talismans, artifacts, pills—everything harvested from the dead was handed out according to rank. Even those who only stood guard at the rear received something. A quiet, exhausted ceremony that closed the book on the nameless valley.

Afterward, the sect slipped back into fragile peace.

Then the Zhao family’s beast ship arrived without warning.

The same Silverback Manta-Ray that had once carried Qi Xiu to his near-death. This time the Zhao cultivators refused to let any Chu Qin disciple board—only the sect leader was invited, and only to attend Old Ancestor Wei’s mountain-opening ceremony atop the newly christened peak.

Qi Xiu kept his mouth shut and climbed aboard.

Inside the temporary palace hall, sect leaders from a dozen powers already sat in stiff rows. Zhao Liangde was among them, face carved from old ice. No one spoke. Their losses in the war dwarfed Chu Qin’s; the mood was funeral despite the celebration ahead.

Qi Xiu found a seat in the back, made himself small, and waited.

When the manta-ray finally descended, Shan Du Mountain glittered like a bride. Colored lanterns, soaring rainbows, celebratory arrays—no trace of the rivers of blood spilled weeks ago. The Si Wen clan might as well have been a collective nightmare, erased clean.

In the brand-new grand hall at the summit, the host’s seat remained empty—Old Ancestor Wei had yet to appear. Everyone else smiled too widely, trading introductions and veiled threats. Zhao Liangde led his gloomy entourage inside; their ragged appearance drew stares sharp as thrown needles.

Zhao Liangde swallowed a growl and marched straight toward the front row.

“Senior Brother Zhao…” A Qi Refining greeter from the Beast Taming Sect sidled up, all humble smiles and nervous sweat. He leaned in and whispered, “About that… your seat isn’t here anymore. It’s… over there.” A finger stabbed toward the very end of the first row—the lowest place, the seat of someone who no longer mattered.