Path of the Sect Leader-Chapter 12: Secrets of the Chu Clan Unveiled

The Wind Lizard Goose’s back stretched as wide and steady as the grand hall of old Chuqin Sect. A ring of miniature arrays hummed softly around the passengers, cradling them in calm air, as if they sat on solid earth rather than soaring a thousand li above the clouds.
Chu Youyan guided the beast with casual flicks of the reins while his voice slipped straight into Qi Xiu’s mind, warm as a whispered confession.
“Let me tell you the whole story from the beginning—so you finally understand why the Chu Clan is bothering to save a dying sect like yours.”
He began with the part everyone knew: Chu Zhen, late-stage Nascent Soul ancestor of the Qi Yun Chu Clan, truly had been the master of Qin Lie’er, founding patriarch of Chuqin Sect.
What Chuqin had buried under layers of reverence was the rest.
Qin Lie’er’s temper burned hotter than a forge fire. In Qi Yun Sect he made enemies of every Golden Core cultivator who crossed his path. After one too many duels and shattered friendships, the sect elders quietly showed him the gate.
He never spoke of exile. Instead he painted his departure as a glorious mission and begged his master for help founding a new sect.
The Great Zhou Academy’s Sect Laws are simple on paper, brutal in practice. To found a sect you must carve habitable land from the primordial wilderness—land infested with ancient barbaric beasts and high-rank spirit creatures. A Golden Core cultivator who wants his own mountain must bleed for every mu of spirit soil. Most never come back.
Chu Zhen pulled every string a late-stage Nascent Soul possesses. He won Qin Lie’er a frontier slot, gathered a company of desperate sword brothers, and—miracle of miracles—secured Mount Chuqin itself, far from the true killing fields. Even Chu Clan’s own Golden Cores had never been granted such favor. The price Chu Zhen paid in favors, treasures, and face was astronomical.
Second-generation leader Qin Dezhao grew up spoiled rotten under his grandfather’s blazing protection, the most notorious young tyrant in the region. When the old ancestor passed, the shield vanished. A mere mid-Foundation cultivator suddenly discovered the world bites back.
He spent every spirit stone Qin Lie’er had left him hiring rogue Foundation Establishment cultivators as “elders,” building a private gang of bullies. For years they terrorized neighbors until, at an auction, Qin Dezhao lost a treasure to a late-Qi Refinement wandering cultivator surnamed Han.
Furious, he stalked the man out of the market, planning a quiet beating.
They found Qin Dezhao’s corpse in a ditch, storage bag empty.
Birds of a feather scatter when the storm hits. The hired elders propped up a puppet leader—an outsider youth with the surname Qi—and used him to purge the last Qin loyalists. They looted the sect bare, then vanished like smoke. Chuqin Sect crumbled overnight.
Chu Zhen watched it all from Qi Yun Peak and did nothing.
He had already given Qin Lie’er more than any master owed a disciple. Once the new sect was born, the thread of master and disciple was cut. Qin Dezhao’s disgrace burned away the last ember of sentiment.
That is why the three invading sects swallowed Chuqin without fear. No one would avenge a disgraced branch.
And that is why young cultivators like Qi Xiu grew up believing their sect’s history was one of noble Qi Yun heritage—because both Qin elders and Leader Qi buried the shame too deep for children to dig up.
So why did the Chu Clan suddenly change its mind?
Because another Chu ancestor—early-stage Nascent Soul Chu Hongshang—had carved out a vast territory in the Southern Border decades ago and formally founded her own sect there. The land is rich in qi but wild, poisonous, and desperately short of people. She begged her elder brother Chu Zhen for warm bodies, affiliated sects, anything to fill the emptiness.
Chu Zhen, nearing two thousand years and feeling the chill of his final centuries, grew nostalgic. One night he remembered the little sect his wayward disciple had founded—and discovered it was on the verge of extinction.
Thus Chu Youyan was dispatched.
Thus ten survivors now rode a second-rank flying beast south.
As for Qin Siyan—Chu Youyan had personally stormed the An clan compound behind Huanghou, dragged the boy out by the collar, and dumped him on Mount Chuqin with orders to “behave or else.”
Chu Youyan fixed Qi Xiu with a stare sharp as flying swords.
“I’ve told you all this so you understand: the Chu Clan has been more than generous. In the Southern Border you will receive shelter, nothing more. Do not mistake that for special favor. Do not presume old ties. Presume too much and you will only find a swift grave. Clear?”
Qi Xiu bowed his head, voice steady despite the storm in his heart. “Crystal clear, Senior Chu.”
Everything he had believed about his home—honor, loyalty, proud lineage—crumbled like dry ash. The sect’s destruction no longer felt like tragedy. It felt… inevitable.
Chu Youyan grunted, satisfied, then turned to lighter matters.
“The Southern Border territory borders Qi Yun’s southernmost peaks to the north. To the east lies the Beast Taming Sect’s domain. West, another great sect with its own Nascent Soul. South of us stretches the Death Swamp—no mortal or cultivator can settle there. Beyond the swamp… the mysterious Tantric sects and White Mountain’s lands.”
“If the new Qin leader decides to follow you south, the journey will take seven months by land. You lot will ride faster.” He jerked a thumb toward the horizon. “I’ll drop you at our relay station. From there, Southern Border clansmen will ferry you the rest of the way.”
Conversation ended. Chu Youyan closed his eyes, meditating atop the rushing wind.
Qi Xiu exchanged glances with Zhang Shishi and the others. None dared speak with the Chu enforcer present. They sat in neat rows, legs crossed, breathing in rhythm with the arrays, cultivating in silence.
Half a day later a vast mirror-bright lake appeared, cradled by emerald peaks. The Wind Lizard Goose circled lower and lower.
Chu Youyan rose, cracked an invisible whip of spiritual pressure, and barked a command.
The beast let out a mournful, almost human whine of protest—eyes rolling, serpentine neck twisting in reluctance—then folded its wings and dove straight at the water.
Screams erupted. Little Qin Weiyu and fourteen-year-old Gu Ji shrieked outright. The rest turned the color of rice paper, clutching saddle straps until knuckles went white.
Qi Xiu squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the icy shock.
None came.
He opened them to blue sky, green valleys, and warm sunlight. The lake had been illusion—perfect, seamless.
Chu Youyan laughed outright.
“Look there!”
He pointed.
Hovering in the valley floated a colossal shuttle of dark green spirit wood—hundreds of zhang long, seventy wide, its surface carved with wind-run runes that shimmered like living leaves.
Monks on flying swords, riding spirit beasts, or perched atop paper cranes queued in orderly streams, vanishing one by one into the shuttle’s open maw.
“Third-rank flying treasure—the Ethereal Wood Wind Shuttle!” Chu Youyan announced, pride ringing in his voice. “This beauty will carry you all the way to the Southern Border.”
The Wind Lizard Goose banked gracefully, aligning with the glowing entrance.
Qi Xiu looked back once more toward the vanishing north—toward a mountain that no longer carried his name—and felt the last chain snap free.
Ahead lay poison mists, ancient beasts, and a new life under strangers’ banners.
He drew a slow breath, steadied his Dao Heart, and stepped toward the light.