Path of the Sect Leader

Chapter 82: Cast Aside Like Worn-Out Shoes

“What!?”

Zhao Liangde’s roar cut through the hall like a whipcrack. He pinned the greeter with a stare that could bore holes through stone, teeth grinding as the words hissed out. “Say that again. Slowly. I’ll teach you how the character for ‘death’ is written.”

The poor Qi Refining cultivator wilted. Hands trembling, he bowed low and produced a silk scroll crammed with guest names. “How could this junior dare decide such a thing? Look—Old Ancestor himself reviewed it. His seal is right there…”

Zhao Liangde snatched the scroll. His own name glared back from the very bottom of the front row, stamped unmistakably in crimson beneath Wei Tong’s personal mark.

No loophole. No mistake.

Eyes from every corner were already turning their way. If he pushed further, he’d only humiliate himself and sour the old monster’s big day. With a snarl he flung the scroll back at the greeter. “The Ancestor must have overlooked it. I’ll speak to him personally later.”

The words tasted like ash, but he stalked to the lowest seat all the same and dropped into it, spine rigid.

Qi Xiu and the handful of Chu Qin disciples who had followed him rose awkwardly, shuffling after their reluctant patron like ducklings. The hall’s murmur swelled—strangers asking who the furious man was, acquaintances whispering about which misstep had cost him his place.

Zhao Liangde felt every gaze prick his back. He sat there burning, promising himself he’d demand answers the moment Wei Tong arrived.

More guests streamed in. Rare spirit beasts roasted whole, wine laced with thousand-year peaches—tables groaned under the spread. When the seats were perhaps seven-tenths full, the man of the hour finally appeared.

Wei Tong strode in beaming, cheeks flushed with triumph. The same face that had loomed over battlefields now looked almost kindly. He cupped his hands in greeting, ordered everyone to relax and mingle, then lifted his cup and took the ceremonial first sip.

The hall erupted into easy chatter. Cultivators surged forward with toasts and congratulations. Wei Tong accepted them all with practiced grace before settling into the host’s throne. Three figures took places beside or below him.

The first was a middle-aged man in deep scarlet robes—no Beast Taming Sect markings. He sat at Wei Tong’s immediate right as though he belonged there. Strangers in the crowd hurried to pay respects, calling him “Old Ancestor Wei” too. Whatever his connection, he carried himself like the true master of the mountain now.

Second came a Golden Core cultivator who looked barely thirty, clad in simple black-and-white Taoist robes. Nothing remarkable about his face, yet every gesture carried the effortless poise of a true Daoist adept. He took the highest guest seat. No one seemed to know him; Wei Tong addressed him only as Jade Crane. The man spoke little, offering polite nods at best, clearly uncomfortable under so many eyes.

Third was the monster who had ended Si Wenguang with a single strike—Huo Hu, late Foundation Establishment. He planted himself below Jade Crane and promptly became the hall’s center of gravity. Some guests might not recognize Wei Tong himself these days, but everyone knew Huo Hu’s name now. Toasts rained on him; flattery flowed like wine.

Huo Hu lapped it up. Blunt by nature and shallow in cunning, a few honeyed words left him grinning and loud, downing cups in single gulps, pride painted across his face.

Zhao Liangde waited for the perfect lull, then approached with his own cup. Pleasantries first—congratulations on the new sect, wishes for eternal prosperity—before easing into the grievance about seating.

Wei Tong’s smile never slipped. “Junior Brother Zhao, we have so many honored guests today. Rearranging seats now would be inconvenient. Bear with it just this once.”

Junior Brother.

The title landed like a slap. Zhao Liangde’s face darkened. He set his cup down with deliberate care, then dropped to his knees.

“Master, why speak this way? One day as teacher, a lifetime as father. This disciple has followed you with heart and soul. I cannot bear to be called ‘junior brother.’ Call me as you always have, or how is this disciple to face himself?”

Laughter rang out—Wei Tong’s, bright and hollow. The hall quieted again; people scented blood.

“Junior Brother Zhao…” The old man’s voice cooled by degrees. “In the past I was informal with you because we were both in Beast Taming Sect. Now I walk my own path. Our sects are separate. No need for such… closeness.”

Dead silence. Even the wine stopped flowing.

Zhao Liangde knelt there shaking, every shred of dignity stripped away. He had bled for this man—his family had paid in dozens of graves—and now Wei Tong cut him loose without even the courtesy of a reason. Stay in Beast Taming Sect? The new sect leader’s faction would bury him for past loyalties.

“I…”

Words tangled in his throat. The whole hall watched his humiliation; he could feel their amusement like ants under his skin. Pride didn’t matter anymore. He crawled forward on knees that felt like broken glass and clutched at Wei Tong’s robe hem.

“Master, how can you cast me aside like this? I’ve served through fire and death. If I’ve failed you somewhere, tell me—give me a chance to make it right…”

A harsh snort. “You think I was blind all these years? Using my name to line your pockets, swallowing resources whole—when we were in the same sect I turned a blind eye to your little schemes. But this humble household of mine can’t feed a rat like you. Stay in Beast Taming Sect. Don’t come here bothering me… Get out of my sight.”

The kick sent Zhao Liangde tumbling across the polished floor. Wei Tong turned away, already chatting idly with the Golden Core beside him as though nothing had happened.

The hall exploded into whispers—shocked, gleeful, calculating.

Zhao Liangde didn’t resist the blow. Blood trickled from a split lip. Under a hundred mocking stares he rose, face drained of color, and walked toward the exit without a word.

At the threshold he paused. Qi Xiu and the Chu Qin group had half-stood, faces twisted in second-hand shame, unsure whether to follow or stay.

Zhao Liangde straightened, spun on his heel, and bellowed toward the dais.

“Wei Tong!”

Straight by name—no title, no honorific. The hall froze again; this was open war.

Wei Tong’s eyes narrowed to slits, murderous intent rolling off him in waves.

“Wei Tong!” Zhao Liangde’s voice cracked but held. “I gave you everything—my loyalty, my family’s blood, dozens of lives spent for your ambition. And you discard me like trash? Faithless, shameless, heartless!”

The curses echoed. Then his tone softened, almost pleading. “But I brought friends to help you that day. Good men who died for your cause, same as many here. They’re not part of my grievance. Don’t cheat them of what you promised.”

Qi Xiu felt something shift inside him. He’d always looked down on Zhao Liangde—the greed, the leering, the endless scheming—but in this moment, watching the man cling to his word even while bleeding on the floor, he saw something stubbornly, painfully human.

Wei Tong’s jaw worked. Too many witnesses—too many who had sent disciples to die besieging Shan Du Sect. He couldn’t renege on all of them without losing face forever.

“Naturally,” he said icily. “Those who aided me will receive what was promised. As for whatever grudge you nurse… bring it if you dare.”

Zhao Liangde met that glare for three heartbeats. Then he turned and strode out, footsteps ringing like a death knell.

The doors boomed shut behind him.