43. The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Sect Leaders

My thinking runs in two directions simultaneously.

Part of me sees the sword as an asset. Possibly more to a craftsman who could restore it. But the other part of me, the part that bowed three times and made a promise to a skeleton, says Frostheart trusted this blade. It sat beside him in that tomb for nine centuries, waiting for someone worthy. It deserves better than being sold to someone who’d lock it in a vault and count it among their treasures.

So I’ve made a private decision. If there’s truly someone out there who will treasure this sword—like a survivor of the Azure Frost, or an allied sect—and I can make a fair profit from selling it? Fine. That’s the ideal outcome. Everyone wins. The sword finds a home. The sect gets resources.

But if not? If the lineage is dead or the inheritor is someone who only sees the price tag? Then I’ll keep it. I’ll find another way to restore it myself, even if it takes years. Even if I have to learn weapon-shaping from scratch. Even if I have to sit with Frostbite the way Wei Song did, listening to what it needs, learning to understand it the way Ling’er understands plants. It’s a legacy, nine centuries of waiting, of hoping, of holding onto something that mattered. And I refuse to be the one who turns that into coin. Frostheart trusted this blade to the right person. I intend to prove him right. At the very least, so I don’t get cursed from the grave.

The secondary goal, strengthening Ling’er and arming her with knowledge while strengthening myself, is now less about finding a contact and more about the city itself. Technique manuals at higher grades. Cultivation resources suited to a mixed-element Foundation Establishment cultivator trying to advance past a ceiling that my own mediocrity built. The Frost Manual has taken me further than I expected, largely because Ling’er has been correcting my form for months. I want to find the next stage of that path, or something that fills the gaps in it.

This is personal.

I want to become stronger not just for Ling’er’s sake but for my own. I’ve been watching her surpass me for months. She went from mortal to Foundation Establishment Fifth Stage in less time than it took me to master the Frost Manual. The gap is vast, and it grows wider every day.

But I’ve decided, somewhere in the quiet hours between training sessions and sect management, that mediocre is a starting point. Just a place on the map.

‘I want to move from that place.’

The next morning, I gather the disciples.

“I’ll be going on a journey,” I announce. “Ling’er will accompany me. We expect to be gone for a month—perhaps longer.”

They exchange glances. A month is longer than any trip I’ve taken since they arrived. But there’s no panic or uncertainty in their faces. Even without my direct supervision, the sect can function now.

But I’m not leaving anything to chance.

The next three days are a flurry of preparation.

I walk the perimeter with Lian, the youngest disciple who’s shown a real interest for formations. She’s been studying the Formation Foundations manual since the tournament, and she’s progressed faster than I expected. We check every flag, every node, every connection in the defensive array.

“This one’s weak,” she says, pointing to the flag near the ravine. “The spirit stone is almost depleted.”

“Can you replace it?”

She hesitates. “I’ve never done it alone.”

“You won’t be alone. Jun will be here. Mei Lin will be here. But I need you to know how.” I hand her a fresh spirit stone. “Show me.”

Her hands shake slightly as she works, but she doesn’t break the formation. The new stone slots into place, and the flag hums back to life.

“Good,” I say. “Now do the rest.”

She spends the afternoon checking every flag, replacing stones where needed, making small adjustments to the alignment. By evening, the perimeter is stronger than when I arrived.

The mortal guards are another matter. I’ve known some of them sleep on shift. The Gaze told me, and I’ve been meaning to address it. Now, with a month-long absence looming, I have no choice.

I gather them in the main hall. “You’ve all been paid well. You’ve been fed well. You’ve been given warm clothes and a place to sleep.” I let my gaze settle on each of them. “In return, I expect you to stay awake during your shifts.”

A few of them shift uncomfortably.

“I’m not going to punish anyone for the past. But going forward, if I hear that someone slept while they were supposed to be watching—” I pause. “There will be consequences.”

Jun is standing at the back of the hall, watching. I catch his eye afterward.

“The patrols,” I say. “Make sure they’re not lazy. And make sure the guards know you’re watching.”

He nods. “I can do that.”

The day before we leave, I do one last walkthrough.

The mine is producing steadily. Old Zhao reports no issues. The herb garden is thriving; Mei Lin has expanded it since the tournament, and Song Li’s constructed greenhouse is keeping the cold at bay. The freezer is stocked. The stores are full.

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Lian has set up a small formation near the main gate, something she designed herself, a simple alert array that will trigger if anyone approaches after dark. It’s not powerful, but it’s clever and she’s proud of it. Jun has organized the patrol schedule, rotating the guards so no one has the same shift two nights in a row. He’s also arranged for the disciples to take turns walking the perimeter at dawn and dusk. Mei Lin has taken over the supply accounts. She’s been watching me do it for months, and she’s better at it than I expected.

“We have enough for two months,” she reports. “Maybe three, if we’re careful.”

I nod. “If we’re not back by then, send word to Greenstone Town. Someone there will know how to reach me.”

She doesn’t ask how, she just nods.

The morning of our departure, I stand at the gates and look back at the sect one last time.

Everything is in place. The defenses are strong, the disciples are prepared and the lazy mortals are watched.

‘I’ve done what I can.’

Ling’er stands beside me, her traveling cloak over her shoulders, her small pack on her back. She’s been quiet all morning, watching me check and recheck, watching me delegate and instruct.

“Ready?” I ask.

She nods.

We walk through the gates.

Mei Lin steps forward. “We’ll hold things down, Sect Leader.”

“I know you will.”

She turns to Ling’er. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Mei Lin opens her arms, and Ling’er steps into the embrace.

It’s not a formal gesture. Not the bowing of juniors to seniors or the careful distance of cultivation hierarchy. Just two girls who have trained together, fought together, grown together. The tournament established something between them: not rivalry or deference, but respect and affection. The kind that comes from pushing each other to be better.