The Grand Scriptorium of the Tianshu Imperial Academy smelled of power. Sandalwood incense, thick and cloying, mingled with the sharp, spirit-infused scent of a thousand different inks—from the pine-soot of the common student to the prized, lightning-struck plum wood ink of the masters.
Sunlight streamed through high, arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing like tiny golden sprites. It glinted off the embroidered threads of banners hanging in the rafters, each one bearing the sigil of a Great House: the Azure Dragon of House Xia, the Crimson Phoenix of House Yue, and most prominent of all, the Golden Sun of House Sun.
Jin Wei stood before a pristine sheet of rice paper, a small island of stillness in a sea of quiet anticipation. His robes, woven from coarse, undyed fabric, were a stark contrast to the rich silks and brocades shimmering around him. He gripped his brush, a cheap, worn tool with a bamboo handle scarred by nervous habit, so tightly his knuckles were bone-white.
He focused on his breathing, a slow in-and-out rhythm that did little to calm the frantic hummingbird beating against his ribs. Just one clean character. One sign that I am not him. That I am not my father. The whispers of the crowd were a persistent buzz, a reminder of every past failure, every scornful glance. The weight of his family's disgraced name felt like a physical shroud, heavy and suffocating.
By nightfall, Jin Lian would hear the story from the market stalls; shame traveled faster than ink.
His gaze flickered across the hall, finding Lin standing near a marble pillar. Her arms were crossed, her posture a statue of coiled tension. Even from this distance, he could see the rigid set of her jaw, the way her eyes scanned the crowd not for friends, but for threats. She was his shadow, his guardian, but in this arena of ink and spirit, her sword was useless. She gave him a short, almost imperceptible nod.
He'd promised his younger sister, Jin Lian, he'd be home before lantern-lighting; she would scold him for skipping supper again.
The gesture was meant as encouragement, a silent promise of protection in the world outside these walls, but it only tightened the knot of pressure in his stomach.
A small, clear chime echoed through the Scriptorium. The proctoring Instructor, a man with a beard as white as winter frost, had struck the bronze bell. It was his turn. Jin Wei's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his sternum. He dipped his brush into the inkwell, the black liquid seeming to swallow the light, offering no reflection.
He raised the brush, the tip poised over the paper. He tried to draw on his Qi, the meager, trickling stream of spiritual energy he possessed. He visualized it, a fragile thread of light pulling from his core, down his arm, into his hand. The goal was to imbue the ink with life, to make the character resonate with the world. He began the first stroke of "Flow," a fundamental exercise he had practiced ten thousand times in the dim light of his small room.
The connection snapped. It was like trying to grasp smoke, a sudden, cold emptiness where the warmth of his Qi should have been. The spiritual energy sputtered and died before it reached his fingertips, leaving his arm feeling heavy and numb. The ink left the brush not as a vibrant, living mark, but as a dead, flat line on the paper. It didn't resonate; it didn't sing. It just sat there, dull and lifeless.
A cold wave of panic seized him. He pressed on, his hand trembling, trying to force the strokes into coherence through sheer will. Instead of a clean, elegant character, the ink bled. It pooled and spread, a black, ugly stain that spiderwebbed across the perfect white surface like a weeping wound.
A collective, sharp intake of breath came from the students nearest him. The Instructor let out a weary, disappointed sigh. That sound, quiet and final, cut Jin Wei deeper than any shout. The murmurs around him were no longer hushed. They were open whispers, sharp and pointed with ridicule. "As expected."
"He has no spirit."
"Just like his father." His failure was absolute, undeniable, and utterly public.
A clear, cutting voice sliced through the noise, sharp as shattered glass. "A moment, Instructor."
Sun Jian stepped forward, a vision in the fine, embroidered silks of House Sun. A single, perfect jade clasp held his lustrous black hair in place, and an arrogant smirk played on his lips. He moved with the easy grace of a man who had never known doubt, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement as he gestured dismissively at the stained paper on Jin Wei's desk.
He didn't address Jin Wei directly, a slight in itself. Instead, he turned to the assembled students, his voice projecting across the hall. "Observe," he said, his tone that of a master instructing fools. "The ink is a mirror to the soul. A true artist's ink lives. It breathes. It resonates with the world around it." He gestured to a nearby desk, where a girl's successfully rendered character for "Wind" seemed to shimmer, the very air around it subtly stirred.
His gaze swept the room, ensuring he had everyone's attention, before it landed back on the ruined paper. He sneered. "This... is dead. Inert. The mark of a hollow spirit, incapable of connection, incapable of art."
The crowd hung on his every word. Sun Jian took a step closer to Jin Wei, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial poison, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "But what else can we expect from the son of the traitor, Jin Feng?"
The name struck the room like a thunderclap, silencing all other sound. The air grew thick with a new, dangerous tension, the scent of sandalwood suddenly seeming funereal.
"The ink knows a corrupt bloodline," Sun Jian continued, his smirk widening into a triumphant grin. He leaned in, his words a final, venomous strike meant only for Jin Wei, yet heard by all. "Treason leaves a stain that can never be washed away."
The accusation hung in the silent hall, a bridge built between Jin Wei's personal, technical failure and his father's public, unforgivable disgrace. The Instructor looked down at his feet, offering no help, no defense. The other students stared, their faces a mixture of pity, scorn, and morbid curiosity.
Across the room, Lin's body went rigid. Her hand dropped, instinctively finding the hilt of the sword hidden beneath her robes. Her knuckles turned white as she fought every instinct, forcing herself to remain still. Her eyes burned with a frustrated fire she could not unleash here. To draw steel in the Grand Scriptorium would be to sign his death warrant.
Jin Wei was frozen, deaf to the world. The grand hall, the whispers, the expectant faces—they all faded into a meaningless blur. His reality narrowed to two things: the ugly black stain on the paper before him, and Sun Jian's triumphant sneer. The shame was a physical weight, crushing the air from his lungs, pressing down on him until he thought his bones would crack. He was broken, not by a failed stroke of ink, but by the inescapable truth of his name.
He pictured Jin Lian in their dim kitchen, a chipped bowl in her hands, pretending not to worry. If he broke here, he broke for both of them.
Somewhere deep inside, he already knew he would run — home, to the ghosts he'd tried to forget.
How can I ever escape the shadow of that word... 'traitor'?
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