Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

We left at dawn.

There were five of us, which still didn’t feel real — me, who’d spent his whole life alone, leading a procession out the eastern gate of Tianlu like some kind of traveling theater troupe. Yun Shu, organized and grim, with the route mapped and the schedule kept. Ji Lan, glorious and watchful, refusing to let me out of her sight. Bai Qing, sword on her back, scanning every shadow for an enemy worthy of an honest fight. And Tao Tao, vibrating with joy, narrating our departure into her notebook in real time — ”and so the demon-slayer set forth for the capital, his loyal companions at his side” — as if we weren’t standing right there.

But there was one goodbye I had to make first.

Granny Fen was waiting at the eastern gate, by her cart, in the grey early light. She’d heard I was leaving, the way she hears everything now, since the crowds took her quiet too. When I came up to her she didn’t bow, or gasp, or ask for anything — the way nobody else can manage anymore. She just looked at me with her old tired eyes, reached under her cart, and pulled out my noodle pot. The one I’d given her. The one from my shop, the one good thing I’d made with my own hands.

She’d cleaned it. Wrapped it in cloth. She pressed it into my arms.

”You take this,” she said. ”For when you come back. For when it’s quiet again.” She patted my cheek with one flour-dusted hand, the way you would a grandson. ”It will be quiet again someday, you know. Everything gets quiet again, in the end. You just have to live long enough to reach it.” She almost smiled. ”Eat something that isn’t bought along the way. You look thin, demon-slayer.”

I couldn’t speak for a moment. Of all the people in the world — the sects, the marshals, the empires — it was the old noodle woman who said the only thing I needed to hear.

”I’ll come back, Granny,” I managed to hold back my tears. ”I’ll open the shop. Six tables.”

”I know you will,” she said, in the gentle, certain way old people lie to you when they love you. ”Now go. They’re waiting. And the stage doesn’t like to be kept.”

So I went, with my noodle pot under my arm and the dawn at my back, out the gate and onto the long road west. Toward the capital, toward the tournament, toward ten millions watching eyes.

The journey took the better part of a week, and I’ll tell you about the road properly another time. About Bai Qing trying to teach me to hold a sword and giving up by noon while still trying to ambush me in between. About Ji Lan and Yun Shu’s running cold war over whether a campfire story should be ”true” or ”good.” About Tao Tao befriending every traveler we passed and recruiting half of them into the faith. About how, despite everything, it was the happiest week of my life — loud and warm and full, the noodle pot rattling in the cart, my strange impossible family arguing under the stars.

The dread only came back at the end.

We crested the last hill at sunset on the seventh day, and there it was below us — the capital. I’d never seen anything like it. A city the size of a province, golden in the dying light, and above it, vast and blinding, the brightest fold of the entire Heavenly Records, the place where the whole sky’s belief gathered thickest. Rising from its center, ringed in light, was the Arena. The stage of the Tournament of Ten Thousand Reputations, where in a few days ten million souls would turn their eyes, all at once, to watch me do the impossible I couldn’t actually do.

I stood looking down at it, the noodle pot under my arm, my family quiet beside me for once. The warm tide of belief in my chest felt very small against all that light.

And that was when the rider found us.

He came up the hill from the city, alone, on a horse the color of storm cloud, wearing the grey of no sect I knew. But on his breast was a small black symbol I recognized very well — the one from the card on my doorstep, the one Yun Shu had held by the edge like a blade.

A quill, struck through with a line.

He stopped before us. He did not bow. He looked at me with the cool, measuring patience of someone delivering a message they have memorized exactly, and he spoke.

”The demon-slayer Lin Bo,” he said. ”The Empire of a Thousand Verses extends its regard. Your climb has not gone unnoticed. In all the long years of the Records, no name has risen as yours has — and She has decided to see it for Herself.” Beside me, I felt Yun Shu go rigid; the word She landed on her like a stone. ”The First Author of the Empire will attend the Tournament. Personally. For the first time in thirty years.” His cool eyes held mine. ”She is very interested to learn what you are, Lin Bo. And what you are worth keeping.” He let that sit. ”She wished you to know, before you arrive, that you will be watched. Every moment. By the only power in the world that has ever decided which legends live—” the faintest pause ”—and which ones are unmade.”

He turned his storm-grey horse and rode back down toward the golden city, and was gone.

The five of us stood on the hill in the falling dark.

”Yun Shu,” I said quietly. ”The First Author. Who is she?”

Yun Shu was staring down at the capital, at the blinding Arena, her face gone the same color it had gone at the black card, at the scorched gap in the sky.

”The most powerful person alive who isn’t on the Records at all,” she said. ”The one who writes them. Thirty years she’s stayed hidden, and the legends she’s ended—” She stopped. She looked at me, and there was real fear in it, and something else now, something that had grown over these weeks without either of us naming it. ”Lin Bo. Whatever happens in that arena. Whatever you do.” Her voice dropped low. ”Do not let her decide you’re worth unmaking.”

Below us, the capital glittered. The great bright stage waited. And somewhere inside it, a woman who had erased the names from the top of the sky was looking up — even now — at a tired clerk on a hill with a noodle pot under his arm.

I held the pot a little tighter.

”Come on,” I said to my strange, loud, impossible family. ”We’re expected.”

And we walked down the hill, into the light, together.