Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

The Empire built a man specifically to beat me, and his name was Cao Jun.

They called him the Gilded Spear, and he was, in his way, the perfect mirror of everything I was — except backwards, and on purpose. Where my fame had grown wild and grassroots and free, his had been manufactured, deliberately, by the Empire of a Thousand Verses, over what I later learned was a single frantic week. They’d taken a competent, ambitious, deeply vain spear-fighter and poured the full weight of ten thousand bards into him — a flood-tide of purchased belief, a legend built to order — until he blazed on the Records like a second sun, a champion conjured for one reason: to be more believed-in than the demon-slayer, and to put me down on the broadcast in front of ten million people.

I knew the moment he walked into the ring that this was Xue Ningzhi’s answer to Tao Tao. She couldn’t erode the people’s love with doubt. So she’d decided to simply out-believe it — to build a man the crowd would have to believe in more, and let manufactured fame do what manufactured doubt couldn’t.

”He’s strong, Lin Bo,” Ji Lan murmured, gripping my arm before I went out. Her face was tight. ”Really strong. They’ve poured a province of belief into him. In this ring, with that much faith behind him, he’ll hit like a Legendary even if he isn’t one. Your armor’s going to take everything it’s got just to hold.” A pause. ”And keep your eyes open. The Empire doesn’t build a champion just to win a match. She wants something else from this. I can feel it. I just can’t see what.”

She was right. About all of it.

Cao Jun didn’t bow. He looked at me down the length of his gleaming spear with the lazy contempt of a man who has been told he is the greatest and has decided to believe it.

”The people’s champion,” he sneered, loud, for the broadcast. ”The humble little nobody. Do you know what I am, demon-slayer? I’m what happens when the Empire decides someone matters. They made me a legend in a week — a real one, brighter than yours. You think your peasants and their bedsheets can stand against that?” He leveled the spear. ”Let’s show ten million people what their love is worth against a legend with the whole Empire behind it.”

And he came at me, and gods, he was everything Ji Lan feared — fast and brutal and blazing with borrowed power, his spear a streak of gold. His first strike hit my belief-armor like a battering ram and drove me back, actually back, my feet skidding, the wall of faith groaning under a province of manufactured belief.

For a sick moment I felt it start to give.

And then, up in the cheap tiers, Tao Tao’s Order of the Modest Demon-Slayer began to sing.

I can’t fully explain what happened, except to say that it was the grassroots against the gilded, the chosen against the bought, and the chosen held. Cao Jun’s belief was a province deep but a week old and paper-thin — purchased, conditional, loaned. Mine was ten million ordinary hearts who’d decided I was theirs and would not, would not, let some gilded Empire puppet put me down. As his manufactured legend hammered at me, the people’s real love rose up underneath it like bedrock, and his battering-ram blows began to slow against a wall that simply would not break, because you cannot buy enough belief to overcome a thing that is loved.

His face went from contempt to confusion to something close to panic as his perfect spear, his province of fame, his Empire-built legend — all of it stopped meaning anything against a crowd singing a homemade chant.

And then — you know how this goes — I tripped (A invisible Scroll rolling on ground silently, hiding his fame like a hero) over my thunder-trousers (which thundered, at the worst moment, again, I have made peace with nothing) and I sneezed, and the love-charged gust took the over-committed Gilded Spear off his feet and folded him into the far wall of the ring like wet paper.

The Arena didn’t just roar. It exulted — ten million people who had just watched their love, freely given, throw down a legend the most powerful empire in the world had built specifically to crush it. The gold letters wrote it across the sky:

✦ DING. ✦

”The Empire forged a champion of purchased glory to humble the people’s demon-slayer — and the people’s love alone cast him down. So was it proven: no fortune can buy what is freely given.”

Belief: immovable. Quarterfinal: won.

Talent, they’re going to be singing THAT one for a hundred years. — Scroll

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But here is the thing Ji Lan had felt and I had missed.

The match was never the point.

Because in the half-second I sneezed — in the exact instant the Scroll did its work, reached out, gathered the belief, and published my victory into the sky — I felt something I had never felt before. A cold, narrow, searching pressure, sweeping across me from the high tiers, from a cold elegant figure who had not been watching the fight at all but had been watching me, watching the belief itself, waiting for precisely that moment when the unseen thing on my shoulder would have to act.

And for one horrible heartbeat, I felt the Scroll get brushed.

Not seen. Not caught. But touched — Xue Ningzhi’s senses, honed on a lifetime of reading the belief-currents of the world, sweeping across the place where the extra faith poured out of nothing, and brushing the edge of the hidden hand that moved it.

The Scroll recoiled on my shoulder with a sound I’d never heard it make — a sharp, frightened intake, the sound of something that has spent a long time hiding feeling a searchlight pass an inch from its face.

Up in the tiers, Xue Ningzhi went very still.

Then, slowly, she smiled — not in triumph, but in the cold satisfaction of a scholar whose impossible equation has just yielded its first real number. She couldn’t see the Scroll. But she knew now, for certain, that it was real. That there was a hand. And she knew, roughly, where.

She inclined her head to me across the whole Arena — a small, courteous nod, congratulations and promise both.

I felt it, that nod said. I know it’s there now. And I am very, very good at finding things.

”Talent,” the Scroll whispered, and it was shaking, actually shaking, the grief and the terror naked and total. ”She almost— she nearly— Lin Bo, that’s it, that’s how it starts, that’s exactly how it— ”

It couldn’t finish. It just curled small and trembling on my shoulder, and for the first time since the day it fired into my life, the most confident voice I’d ever known had nothing left but fear.

We’d won the quarterfinal.

We’d lost something much more important, and I didn’t even know yet what it was going to cost.