Counting the Spoils

In Sword Sect, disputes are handled by the Disciplinary Hall, which oversees sect rules and has authority to punish students, stewards, and even teachers for violations.

The fiasco involving Xu Wenqing and Steward Li, especially the grave charge of harming a fellow disciple, prompted the Disciplinary Hall to act swiftly upon receiving the news.

Though Su Qing was eager to return to her dorm to tally her spoils, as a key victim, she had to visit the Disciplinary Hall.

With Steward Chen Yu present, she didn’t need to worry. Su Qing had contacted Chen Yu beforehand, detailing the situation, which allowed Chen Yu to intervene calmly yet promptly.

The Disciplinary Hall was grand and solemn, more a stern office than the bloody torture chamber Su Qing imagined. Whether darker things happened behind closed doors, she didn’t know.

At the entrance stood an iron-cast plum blossom, heavy and cold, reflecting a stark gleam. Less vibrant than the cliff’s red plum but fitting the hall’s austere nature.

Inside, no tea or snacks were offered. Xu Wenqing and Li, still unconscious, were taken for questioning—likely needing a few lashes to wake. Accompanied by Chen Yu, Su Qing was granted a stool to answer the elder’s questions.

The elder’s face was grim, with sharp brows and hawk-like eyes that made Su Qing, despite her innocence, feel an urge to confess something.

His voice was icy. “I know the basics, but repeat it. Take your time, but don’t say uncertain things or lie. Understood?”

Su Qing nodded. “Yes.”

She recounted everything truthfully. She had nothing to hide, and even truth-detecting techniques would find no fault. Her story was that of a victim who sensed danger, prepared, and countered justly.

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The elder, after listening, had a sense of the matter but kept his tone cold. “So, you brought a private fight into the open? Weren’t you afraid of losing?”

“I was afraid,” Su Qing admitted cautiously. “But I prepared as best I could. If I still lost, that’s fate’s unfairness. Open combat suited me—hidden schemes are harder to guard against. I don’t know why Xu Wenqing chose a direct fight.”

The elder pressed, “You seem confident. First-tier puppets and a third-tier array couldn’t touch you?”

“I have some confidence from diligent training,” Su Qing said carefully. “But why those failed? You’d have to ask Xu Wenqing. He didn’t seem to wield their full power.”

Her diplomatic words implied she wasn’t overly confident in her strength—just in beating Xu Wenqing.

After a few more questions, the Disciplinary Hall formed a judgment, recorded her testimony for the culprits’ trial, and released her. Chen Yu stayed to handle the aftermath.

Su Qing didn’t need an escort. Post-incident, she felt stable, even cheerful. Though future retaliation might loom, she was unafraid—she believed she could handle it.

Chen Yu smiled softly. “I remember escorting you to your dorm when you joined Sword Sect.”

She didn’t finish, but Su Qing understood. Back then, just days into the sect, sending off her relied-upon Xiu Fu, she was lost, reluctant, and tearful.

Recalling her crying, Su Qing felt embarrassed. “That was then. I don’t cry now.”

Chen Yu patted her back, her hand warm and supportive through the cloth.

Praising the young student, she said, “Well done. In just months, you’ve gained the strength to protect yourself.”

Clenching her fist, Su Qing said firmly, “Yes.”

As Chen Yu watched her leave, the Disciplinary Elder, with a faint smile, said, “Her talent’s average, but her character’s exceptional—brave, cunning, composed, and deliberate. You’ve taken a good student.”

Chen Yu’s eyes twinkled. “Rare praise from you. She’s indeed special. But kids can only do so much. We adults must handle the cleanup. She’s done her part; we need to keep up.”

The elder nodded. “Naturally. Let’s discuss inside.”

Chen Yu, impassive, mused: Su Qing’s timing was impeccable. Her own plans were nearing fruition, and soon, no one would have time to focus on Su Qing—she’d extricate herself perfectly.

…

Su Qing thought the Disciplinary Elder, despite his intimidating air, might be decent. For instance, Xu Wenqing’s storage bag, after inspection, was given to her.

It was deemed safe and usable. Probing it with her divine sense, she thought: *Xu Wenqing’s pretty poor too.*

No surprise—poverty drove him to be the Guans’ dog.

Still, his finances beat hers. She turned his bag inside out: about 30 low-grade spirit stones, ten bottles of basic spirit-gathering pills, eight of another type, and resources from the ancient battlefield, like hers.

The valuable item was the incomplete third-tier Ten Rakshasa Blood Flower Array.

Powerful and lethal, it could be stronger in her hands, but it required spiritually potent blood to activate, which troubled her. Lacking a solution, she set it aside.

The main prize was the second-tier black iron blood crystals, divided into five portions: one for Senior Sister Weiyue, one for Tang Yueling, one for Tianning, one for Jiang Weed, and one for herself. Hers and Jiang Weed’s were larger—she needed to feed her sword, and he needed materials.

As for whether others wanted or needed them, Su Qing sighed—she only had so much.

The spirit-dispersing array went to Weiyue, as agreed.

Su Qing suggested a nominal price, feeling indebted. Without Weiyue, she wouldn’t have spotted or extracted the array, nor navigated the realm so confidently. But Weiyue refused, citing, “It’s your fortune. I don’t take others’ chances—I buy them.” She handed Su Qing a new storage bag with 40,000 spirit stones.

“A mid-tier fourth-grade array could fetch 60,000,” Weiyue explained, teaching industry norms. “But it’s incomplete, missing water, which I’ll fix. I helped extract it, so by custom, I get a discount. If you’re unhappy, sell it elsewhere, but pay my extraction fee…”

Su Qing’s head spun at 40,000 spirit stones—4 million spirit seeds! Her monthly work-study earned 1,500 seeds, and tea shop wages were 15 seeds per hour.

Now Weiyue offered 4 million…

She was rich!

“Sell, sell, sell!” Su Qing stammered, then hesitated. “But you’ve helped so much—isn’t it too expensive?”

Selling to Weiyue was ideal. At her cultivation, selling publicly was like a child waving gold in a market.

“If spirit stones can buy it, it’s not expensive,” Weiyue said coolly, exuding wealth. “Higher tiers, like fourth-grade top-tier or fifth-grade artifacts and arrays, go to auctions. Priceless items can’t be bought with stones. I got a bargain. Come to me next time.”

Su Qing’s boiling mind cooled slightly. Curious, she asked, “If not stones, what buys them?”

“Barter, tasks, or even promises and agreements,” Weiyue said.

So, spirit stones were low-tier in transactions. Su Qing grasped Weiyue’s meaning but was far from that level.

Despite her fortune, her money-making drive persisted. Small change mattered. The battlefield’s materials needed selling.

Since Xu Wenqing’s bag was hers, so were its battlefield bags. She had the realm’s entire haul.

The spirit weapons could go to Jiang Weed for crafting, but the pills and plants lost energy when opened. How to sell them without revealing their contents?

Eyeing the 40-odd bags, she pondered.

…

The sect’s secondhand goods group ran a monthly market for students to trade resources.

It was market day.

All was normal—vendors and browsers bustling, no robberies or fights.

Notable differences: one stall sold a second-tier top-grade robe, ugly as a shiny cockroach but high-quality, drawing bargain hunters.

Next to it, another offered a second-tier mid-grade weapon, “Double Whisker Whip.” Browsers, eyeing the robe, dubbed it “Cockroach Whisker,” infuriating the vendor.

“This isn’t how you haggle!” he fumed. “How do I sell now? If I called your weapon a cockroach whisker, would you be happy?”

Next to *that* stall, a first-year sold “blind boxes.”

These 40 tattered storage bags, priced at three spirit stones each, were from the ancient battlefield. Over 300 years old, their contents might be decayed or empty, making buyers wary of wasting money.

Few bought, despite the crowd.

The seller was Su Qing.

Her solution: sell blind boxes—contents unknown, enticing buyers.

Honest, she admitted they were battlefield bags. Asked about valuables, she said, “Maybe yes, maybe no,” slyly adding, “A peer found something good.”

When pressed, “If there’s good stuff, why sell?”

She grinned, “I said *maybe*. If there’s nothing, I get nothing.”

Her candor hooked the curious. One bought a bag, and when asked, “What’s inside?” he looked wry.

Su Qing, confident, asked, “Worth three stones?”

It was. Sorting junk took effort, but three stones’ worth of junk was still junk. As others stirred, he feigned excitement, “Worth it!”

Asked for details, he dodged, rushing off as if hiding a treasure.

This sparked sales.

“He’s pretending,” a skeptic muttered. “Something good? It’s just three stones—give me one, I’ll see.”

When asked, he echoed, “Worth it! Super worth it!”

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No one wanted to be the only sucker.

The first buyer had screwed him over. The junk was worth three stones, but who’d bother sorting it? It was like tossing stones into water.

“Real or fake? I want one! Three stones!”

“…”

“Worth it?”

“Worth it! Very worth it!”

“Really? Don’t trick me—I want one!”

Despite their inner grumbling, Su Qing sold all 40 bags, earning 120 spirit stones. Buyers swore they were worth it, giving stellar reviews.

Knowing the contents, she nearly believed them.

Their poker faces were impressive.

The 120 stones didn’t stay long. She spotted a first-tier top-grade artifact—a sleek protective visor—and spent 600 stones on it.

Handing it to Jiang Weed, he blinked slowly. “A gift? For me?”

“Of course,” Su Qing said, passing two tattered bags. “One has spirit weapons for crafting, the other has second-tier black iron blood crystals for your work.”

The gesture seemed to outweigh the gifts. Jiang Weed beamed, clutching the visor and bags, inspecting them repeatedly. “A gift… my first. It feels so good. I’ll treasure it.”

“Not expensive—use it,” Su Qing said, relishing saying “not expensive.”

Jiang Weed asked, “Is it a holiday? Why a gift?”

“Because I got rich,” she said, patting him. “Come, I’m treating you to food.”

Touched, Jiang Weed followed, hugging his gifts. “You give me gifts *and* food. You’re so nice.”

“That’s ‘nice’? Your bar’s too low—you’ll get scammed.”

Bemused at the “nice guy” card, Su Qing led a thrilled Jiang Weed to the cafeteria.

She suspected he wasn’t just “Weed”—too obvious. Did grass have dietary restrictions?

“Can you eat anything? Only vegetarian?” she asked.

“No restrictions. Everything’s nourishment,” he said, eyeing the dishes curiously. “Sunlight and water are easiest.”

“Good,” Su Qing said grandly. “Pick anything—I’m paying.”

His eyes lit up, intrigued by every dish.

Soon, he hesitated. “I don’t know what to choose. Can I try one of everything?”

“Sure, if you can finish,” Su Qing said.

“Of course,” he said confidently. “Ten portions? No problem.”

Raising a brow, she said, “I’m rich—eat till you’re full. Don’t worry about my wallet.”

She doubted a mere grass had much appetite.

…

Two hours later, staring at 600 empty plates, Su Qing asked sincerely, “Didn’t you say sunlight and water were enough?”

Jiang Weed, shyly, said, “You’re treating.”

Sunlight and water sufficed because he was broke.

He’d held back, not fully indulging. Eating the whole cafeteria wasn’t impossible.