The formal robes of the Tianshu Academy felt rough against Jin Wei's skin, a costume for a part he wasn't qualified to play. His hands trembled as he fastened the sash around his waist, the simple knot a sudden, impossible challenge. Today, he was not just a scholar. He was a sacrifice.
He paused, the silence of his small room pressing in on him. His gaze landed on his modest writing desk. With a deep breath, he reached into the hidden compartment he'd built into its leg years ago, a boy's hiding place for childish treasures. His fingers brushed against something that was not wood. It was a cold that had no place in the world of the living.
He drew out the inkstone.
It lay heavy in his palm, a perfect rectangle of polished night that drank the meager light from the room. It didn't reflect; it absorbed. The cold of it sank into his skin, a profound chill that crept past flesh and bone to touch his very soul. This was his only chance. His curse. He secured the stone within the wide inner sleeve of his robe, its weight a constant, damning reminder of the power he carried and the pieces of himself he was prepared to unwrite.
"It's well hidden."
Jin Wei didn't startle. Lin had a way of moving that was part of the silence, not a disruption of it. She stood by the door, her arms crossed, her expression as stoic as carved granite. But her eyes were sharp, missing nothing.
She stepped forward and, without a word, reached out and adjusted the fold of his sleeve. Her touch was brief and practical, ensuring the hard line of the stone was completely concealed by the drape of the fabric.
He slid the river stone inside his inner robe, flat over his heart—a last, passive ward if fire found him first.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Lin ignored his gratitude. Her focus was elsewhere, on the battle, not the courtesies. "His power is a roaring fire," she said, her voice low and even. "It is impressive, but it telegraphs every move. Watch his shoulders, not his brush. Arrogance is an opening."
Her advice was a clean, sharp blade cutting through the tangled weeds of his calligraphic anxieties. She didn't speak of resonance or spiritual harmony. She spoke of combat, of weakness, of victory. She believed he could find a way.
The fear in his chest didn't vanish, but it solidified. The trembling in his hands ceased. He was no longer just a terrified boy fighting for his pride. He was fighting for her faith, and for the fragile safety of his sister, whose worried face was now a permanent fixture in his mind's eye. He met her gaze in the dim light.
"I only need one," he said, his voice a steady, chilling promise.
***
The roar of the crowd was a physical blow. As Jin Wei stepped from the shaded corridor into the sun-drenched arena, hundreds of pairs of eyes locked onto him. The sound was a tapestry of whispers, snickers, and excited chatter. He was the main event. The outcast lamb being led to the slaughter for the golden child's amusement.
High on the central dueling platform, Sun Jian was already soaking in the adoration. He stood with his back straight, a smug smile playing on his lips. In his hand, he held his famous Seven-Treasure Brush. It was a magnificent tool of luminous white jade, its ferrule gleaming gold, the bristles a perfect cone of sable hair that glowed with its own inner light. It was a weapon of art, a symbol of wealth and immense, established power. The crowd murmured in awe.
Jin Wei's simple, worn wooden brush suddenly felt pathetic in his hand.
His gaze swept the tiered stone benches and found her. Xiao, Sun Jian's sister. She was not cheering. Her hands were clenched tightly in the lap of her fine silk robes, her brow furrowed with an anxiety that was plain to see. For a fleeting second, her worried eyes met his across the arena, a silent, startling connection.
His gaze moved on, frantically searching the lower seats until he found his own sister. She looked small and terrified, clutching a worn shawl around her shoulders. The sight of her, so vulnerable in this arena of wolves, extinguished the last of his fear and replaced it with a cold, hard resolve. This was not about his pride. It was about her.
Further back, near a shadowy exit, he spotted Meilin. The mysterious librarian stood perfectly still, a ghost in the crowd. Her expression was neutral, but her gaze was a physical weight, analytical and unnervingly intense.
A stern Proctor, a senior instructor with robes of deep blue, stepped onto the platform. He struck a small, clear-sounding gong. The chatter died instantly.
"By ancient tradition, the terms are set!" the Proctor's voice boomed, magically amplified to fill the space. "The loser shall perform the three-kowtow apology before the victor and surrender a prized possession of the victor's choosing!"
A fresh wave of whispers erupted. The stakes were severe. A public humiliation and the loss of a vital tool. Sun Jian's smirk widened, his eyes landing on the plain brush in Jin Wei's hand. The insult was brutally clear. He planned to strip Jin Wei of the one thing that defined him as a scholar, however humble.
"The subject of the duel is a single character," the Proctor announced. "'Endure.' The one whose calligraphy best embodies its spirit and form shall be declared the victor!"
Per academy custom, contenders may harry or obstruct a rival's writing with any orthodox techniques; only the final judged character must be 'Endure.
Jin Wei mounted the steps to the platform, the noise of the crowd fading into a dull hum in his ears. He took his place opposite his rival, the stark white of two empty scrolls on their stands between them like blank tombstones.
As he reached his mark, Sun Jian leaned forward, his voice a low, mocking whisper carried on the wind. "A fitting word. I want you to remember it while you're bowing."
Jin Wei said nothing. He simply touched the cold, hard weight within his sleeve. The stone didn't offer warmth or comfort. It offered a promise of terrible, glorious power.
***
The deep, resonant boom of the ceremonial gong washed over the arena. The sound hung in the air, vast and final, imposing an absolute silence upon the thousands gathered.
No master dared halt it; the old laws were iron, and the Great Houses enjoyed spectacle too much to intervene.
"Begin!" the Proctor commanded.
Sun Jian laughed, a short, sharp bark of utter confidence. He dipped the Seven-Treasure Brush into his inkwell with a flourish. When he lifted it, a faint, shimmering golden aura pulsed around the sable bristles. It was the unmistakable sign of the orthodox Resonant Path, a masterful and ostentatious display of pure, refined spiritual energy. A collective gasp rose from the crowd.
Jin Wei ignored it. He took one slow, centering breath, the world narrowing to the platform, his opponent, and the task ahead. He dipped his own plain brush into his ink. His hand was perfectly steady.
Unseen by the crowd, he pressed his fingers against the inkstone hidden in his sleeve. A faint, psychic pull answered him—the cold hunger of the void. He focused his mind and offered it a sliver of himself, a trivial, worthless memory: the precise pattern of dust motes dancing in a sunbeam that morning. A small, meaningless sacrifice to prime the well. The cold in his sleeve sharpened for an instant, then settled.
Desperation scoured him clean; in the hollow left by fear, clarity bloomed cold and precise.
With a theatrical flair, Sun Jian brought his brush to his scroll. The golden aura flared, and the very air around his writing stand thrummed with nascent power, the world itself eager to obey his command.
But Jin Wei didn't move to write. He closed his eyes for a single, deliberate heartbeat.
Then he opened them. Instead of looking at his own empty scroll, he stared directly at the glowing tip of Sun Jian's brush. A flicker of something cold, dark, and predatory awakened in the depths of his gaze.
----
The ink remembers every supporter. Lend your mark with a Power Stone.