Path of the Sect Leader-Chapter 42: Cracks Beneath the Ice

Human hearts are the strangest beasts. Just when Chu Qin Sect had clawed its way out of desperation and finally tasted stability, the two pillars Qi Xiu leaned on most began sharpening knives against each other in the dark.
And the deepest root of the grudge, if you traced it far enough, still landed squarely on the Sect Leader himself.
Zhang Shishi and Qi Xiu had started from the same place: inner disciples of the old Chu Qin, talented once, then crushed under the sect’s collapse. At first they truly admired each other. But the moment real decisions had to be made, a chasm opened.
Qi Xiu never stopped repeating his favorite line: “The water in the bowl must stay level.” He refused to let any disciple taste the cold shoulders and barefoot contempt he himself had endured as a youth.
Zhang Shishi thought that was soft-headed nonsense.
He too had been born with a crippled natal spirit, had eaten his share of sneers, yet he still believed the iron law of the cultivation world: the gifted get the lion’s share of resources. Every sect under heaven operated that way. Why did Qi Xiu think he could rewrite the rules with warm feelings? Short-term, sure, it kept Pan Rong and Shen Chang happy. But it came at the cost of He Yu; Chu Qin’s one true heaven’s chosen.
Even now He Yu still hauled water, cooked rice, stood night watch. In any other minor sect that would be laughed out of court. The brightest star and the dullest ember doing the exact same chores, all because “fair rotation” was sacred. But cultivation wasn’t mortal day-labor where punching the clock was enough. A flash of enlightenment could strike once in a lifetime. If He Yu was halfway up the mountain with buckets when the Dao whispered to him, that moment was gone forever. Months, years, might pass before the next. A delay like that could cost him Foundation Establishment itself.
The more time Zhang Shishi spent around Qi Xiu, the more he felt; on matters of cultivation, he could run circles around the Sect Leader. Qi Xiu’s comprehension was, frankly, average. Whenever Kan Lin visited, Zhang Shishi and He Yu could trade insights with the man until the moon changed, while Qi Xiu sat on the side grinning like a proud but clueless uncle. Sect chores? Any half-smart mortal could handle those. Half the greeters in cultivation markets were mortals. Trifles. A cultivator’s root was still realm, still power, still the Dao!
These differences weren’t small disagreements over dinner; they were questions about the sect’s very spine. Almost impossible to bridge.
Yet Zhang Shishi was, at heart, upright. Stubborn as granite and blunt as a hammer, but fiercely loyal. When Qi Xiu ordered pig pens and fish ponds built, Zhang grumbled, argued, then rolled up his sleeves and did it perfectly. His only rebellion was quietly carving out extra meditation hours for He Yu, always telling himself it was for the sect’s future.
Qi Xiu loved every disciple with an almost foolish openness. Whenever Zhang Shishi pushed back, Qi Xiu would flare for a moment, then laugh it off the next. They were all his kids. What grudge lasted overnight? Besides, the Sect Leader’s seat was his by right; no one could take it unless he stepped down himself. Why waste energy on petty friction?
But just because Qi Xiu didn’t mind didn’t mean others stayed blind.
Zhan Yuan had been pulled from the mud by Qi Xiu’s own hand. Once he was no different from Pan Rong or Gu Ji; a Qi Refining layer-two nobody. Now his status towered over theirs. All of it gifted by the man he called Sect Leader. Qi Xiu’s mastery of daily operations, his broader experience, the unshakable trust he placed even in disciples who would never break through again; Zhan Yuan worshipped him for it. Teacher, benefactor, living legend.
Unconsciously, Zhan Yuan began imitating everything: the way Qi Xiu threw himself into sect chores, the way he greeted every junior with real warmth, the way he refused to play favorites.
But imitation is not identity. Perspective shifts with height.
And from Zhan Yuan’s new height, Zhang Shishi started looking uglier by the day.
Favoritism toward He Yu; everyone saw it. In Zhan Yuan’s eyes that was betrayal of the Sect Leader’s “level bowl.” Zhang spoke like a blade and cared for no one’s feelings. Because the next-Sect-Leader halo hung over his head, he barked orders at everyone except the golden boy He Yu. Planning? Non-existent. When they built the arrays it was “one plot per person, work till you drop,” never mind that some were quicker studies than others. Result: everyone half-dead, progress barely faster. Lately with spell training he just handed out scrolls according to spiritual roots, assigned quotas, then hounded people nonstop.
Every flaw screamed room for improvement. Zhan Yuan’s mind began to wander unbidden: *If I were in charge, we’d be twice as fast and half as miserable.*
Once that thought took root, it grew thorns.
Zhang Shishi, of course, had a tongue like a whip and no talent for pillow talk. More than once he bruised Zhan Yuan’s pride in front of others without even noticing.
The last straw was He Yu again. *The Sect Leader demands fairness, so why do you keep tipping the scales? You’re cold to everyone else; why does He Yu get smiles?*
Zhan Yuan almost went to Qi Xiu with it, then thought better. Tale-bearing would only make him look small. Better to handle it man to man.
So he invited Zhang Shishi out for a private word, laid his grievances bare with painful sincerity.
Zhang Shishi heard him out, then laughed through his nose.
“Cultivation is beyond a Qi Refining third-layer like you. Don’t spout nonsense about things you can’t comprehend.”
That single sentence lit the fuse.
Zhang Shishi, meanwhile, caught the unspoken challenge to his future authority; his one reverse scale. From that day forward frost settled between them.
Zhan Yuan drifted closer to Shen Chang and Pan Rong. Zhang Shishi and He Yu formed the opposing camp. Two quiet factions, eyeing each other across the courtyard.
Neither side breathed a word to Qi Xiu; perhaps out of lingering shame at fighting like children while their teacher still believed in them.
Every evening Qi Xiu made his proud lion’s circuit, warm words for everyone, heart lighter than it had been in years.
He noticed nothing.
Winter arrived without warning. The first snow of the season drifted down onto Black River Peak, soft, silent, and deceptively pure.
Beneath the white blanket, the cracks were already spreading.