Path of the Sect Leader-Chapter 24: Joy for Some, Grief for Others

Zhang Shishi and He Yu were still riding the high of their discovery, voices overlapping as they mapped out personal training schedules, oblivious to the storm clouds gathering on the faces around them. Yu Jing and Huang He stood stiffly to one side, Shen Chang and Pan Rong looked like someone had kicked their spirit beast, and Qi Xiu himself hadn’t moved a muscle since the truth sank in.
“Sect Leader,” a small tug at his sleeve. Gu Ji, eyes wide and innocent. “Weiyu says he’s starving.”
Qin Weiyu shuffled behind the younger boy, cheeks puffed with embarrassment, stomach growling loud enough to echo. The two little ones hadn’t yet learned to taste the bitterness adults carried; down in the cavern they’d only known sweat and wonder.
Qi Xiu snapped out of his daze. “Right. Today was supposed to be Shen Chang’s turn to cook…”
His gaze flicked to Shen Chang—ashen, hollow-eyed—and the words died. He forced a smile instead. “Never mind. Today your sect leader will show off his legendary kitchen skills.”
He poked Gu Ji’s nose, rolled up his sleeves, and marched off to the tiny earthen stove Zhan Yuan had patted together behind the old temple wall.
Chu Qin Sect ate simply: plain rice, a few slices of southern bamboo shoots for flavor, water, fire, done. No washing needed—the villagers down below cleaned everything before hauling it up the peak. Qi Xiu had never cooked a day in his life, but how hard could it be?
He measured rice, layered the shoots, poured water by eye, slammed the lid, and coaxed the fire higher. Only when the first curls of steam escaped did it occur to him: the array’s completion deserved more than half-raw grain. Something celebratory. He darted back to the storehouse for a handful of qi-nourishing spirit grass.
Zhang Shishi was waiting inside, door already shut.
“Sect Leader.” A hesitant smile. “He Yu and I talked it over. The cavern platform—mainly for him from now on. Thing is… it feels a little improper.”
Qi Xiu’s brows twitched. “Improper how?”
“He’s still registered as an outer disciple.” Zhang Shishi scratched his cheek, missing the sudden chill in the air. “Letting an outer disciple monopolize the only second-tier spirit ground… technically it bends the rules.”
The words landed like a slap.
These children had all been outer disciples once—shunted aside, worked to the bone, resources dangled forever out of reach while inner disciples lounged. They had fled that exact hierarchy. And now, the moment one of them tasted real fortune, the old labels crawled out of the dirt.
Qi Xiu’s voice came out quieter than he intended. “Shishi. You and I both wore those outer-disciple robes while inner disciples laughed. You know what that life tasted like. We nine crossed half the continent to escape it. Yet the moment the spiritual qi flows, you reach for the old chains?”
Zhang Shishi froze. Only then did he notice the hurt flickering behind Qi Xiu’s eyes. Realization hit him like cold water.
He slapped his own cheek—hard. “I’m an idiot. I got drunk on a mouthful of qi and forgot the rest of my family can’t even drink. I’ve failed the trust you placed in me as enforcer of merit.” His knees buckled.
Qi Xiu caught him before he hit the floor. “Up. No kneeling.”
He dragged Zhang Shishi into the sect leader’s chamber, pried up the loose tile, and pulled out the small wooden box. From it he drew the sealed letter and pressed it into Zhang Shishi’s hands.
“Read.”
The envelope bore two bold characters: Last Will.
Zhang Shishi’s face drained of color. “Sect Leader—!”
“Quiet. Read.”
Trembling fingers broke the seal.
Should anything happen to me, the position of Sect Leader passes to Zhang Shishi…
The rest blurred. Zhang Shishi dropped to his knees anyway, this time of his own accord. “I don’t deserve this.”
Qi Xiu knelt too, gripping the younger man’s shoulders. “None of us asked for any of this. I’m only older, nothing more. But I brought nine of you to this forsaken river. That makes every single future yours and mine to carry. If we start drawing lines again—inner, outer, favored, forgotten—tell me, Shishi, how are we different from the old sect that chewed us up and spat us out? One day the Qin Clan will come knocking with ‘better’ disciples, and history repeats. I could hand the signboard to any passing Foundation Establishment rogue tomorrow—plenty would take it, and your lives might even be easier. But would it still be Chu Qin Sect?”
His voice cracked on the last word.
Zhang Shishi’s eyes glistened. “Never. I understand now. I swear I’ll never forget again.”
They stayed there a long moment, foreheads almost touching, the weight of nine fragile lives settling between them like shared armor.
A hesitant knock. Gu Ji’s voice, muffled: “Sect Leader… food’s ready.”
They rose, wiped faces, and stepped back into the hall.
Disciples knelt in a loose circle around steaming bowls. Some faces glowed, others were carefully blank. The smell of slightly scorched rice filled the air.
Qi Xiu took the host seat, picked up chopsticks, and forced down a mouthful of half-cooked grains. Everyone followed suit at once—then simultaneously reached for tea to wash down the crunch.
He caught Zhang Shishi’s eye. Both pretended to cough.
When the bowls were finally empty, Qi Xiu cleared his throat.
“Now that the array lives and Black River Peak can truly be called home, a few things need saying aloud, plainly, before Zhan Yuan returns and before I head out to bargain for a proper mountain-warding formation.”
He swept his gaze across every face—joyful, worried, resigned, hopeful.
“Listen well.”