Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

My first match was against a man named Shen Gao, and I owe him an apology I’ll never be able to pay.

He was, by every honest measure, a far better human being than my legend. The heralds called him the Hundred-Win Blade — a proud, upright duelist with a perfect record, a hundred matches and a hundred clean victories, every one earned with the sword and nothing else. He didn’t have a media-sect. He didn’t court the bards. He thought, on principle, that the belief-game was a corruption of the only thing that mattered, which was skill, honestly tested, blade to blade.

You can probably already see the tragedy coming. I couldn’t, at the time. At the time I was just trying not to throw up.

We met in the center of the ring at dawn, ten million eyes on us across the sky, and Shen Gao bowed to me — a real bow, a respectful one — and then he said something quiet, just between us, that I’ve never forgotten.

"I don’t believe in you," he said. Not cruelly. Just honestly. "Whatever the crowd thinks they’ve seen. A demon-slayer who topples beasts with humility, who clears skies by bowing — I think it’s a story. A beautiful story. And I think a true blade cuts through stories." He raised his sword, and it was a beautiful raise, flawless, the raise of a hundred honest victories. "Let’s find out which of us is real. No tricks. Just the sword. May the better fighter win."

"Please don’t," I said. "Genuinely. Please. You don’t understand what you’re walking into and it isn’t me, I swear—"

He came at me.

And gods, he was magnificent. I have never seen anything so clean. He crossed the ring in a heartbeat and his sword came for me in a strike so perfect, so precise, so earned, that it should have ended the match in the first second — the demon-slayer cut down by an honest blade, the story shattered, the fraud exposed at last in front of ten million people.

The sword reached my chest.

And it stopped.

Not blocked. Not parried. I didn’t even move — I couldn’t have, I have no skill, I just stood there flinching with my eyes shut. The sword simply stopped, a hair from my robe, like it had hit a wall made of nothing, and quivered there, and could not, no matter how Shen Gao strained, go one finger further.

Because ten million people knew, with absolute certainty, that the demon-slayer could not be cut down by a Round One duelist. They’d watched me fell a real demon. They’d watched me clear the heavens with a bow. The story was settled in their minds, total and unshakable, and in a world where belief bends reality, a settled story is armor. Shen Gao wasn’t fighting me. He was fighting the certainty of ten million souls, and his perfect, honest, hundred-win blade was a twig against the sea.

I watched the horror dawn on his face. He struck again. And again. Faster, harder, more desperate — flawless strikes, every one, the work of a lifetime — and each one stopped a hair from my skin, turned aside by nothing, by belief, by a story he refused to be part of and could not escape. He was the better fighter. Vastly the better fighter. And it didn’t matter even slightly.

"It’s not me," I kept saying, helplessly, dodging nothing, doing nothing, as he hammered at the wall of the world’s faith. "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it was never going to be a fair fight, I tried to tell you—"

And then, because I was backing away from his furious assault and not looking where I was going, I tripped over my own thunder-trousers — which rolled out a peal of thunder at the worst possible moment, again, they really are the worst — and I sneezed.

You know the rest by now.

The belief-charged gust caught the exhausted, over-extended Hundred-Win Blade mid-lunge, lifted him off his feet, and set him down, gently, almost politely, flat on his back in the center of the ring, his perfect sword spinning out of his hand to land point-down beside him. Defeated. By a man tripping over his own pants.

The Arena erupted. The sky filled with gold.

✦ DING. ✦

"The demon-slayer did not deign to lift a hand. He let the proud blade exhaust itself against his serene and unbreakable calm, and ended it with a single effortless breath — a lesson in the futility of force before true mastery."

Belief: total. Match: won.

Talent, the crowd is calling it a philosophy lesson. You stood still and SNEEZED and they’re calling it a philosophy lesson. — Scroll

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I didn’t celebrate. I crossed the ring and knelt down by Shen Gao, who was lying on his back staring up at the gold letters telling ten million people a thing that hadn’t happened, his whole face come apart, a hundred honest victories made meaningless in front of the entire world.

"It’s real," I told him quietly. "Your skill. It’s the realest thing in this whole tournament. You’re a thousand times the fighter I am — I’m not a fighter at all, I told you, there’s no mastery, there’s no serene calm, I was trying not to be sick." He looked at me, and I held his gaze, because he deserved to hear it from me even if no one else would ever believe it. "You didn’t lose to a better blade. You lost to ten million people who’d already made up their minds. That’s not a fight you could’ve won. Nobody could. I’m sorry the world’s like this. I really am."

Shen Gao stared at me for a long moment. Slowly, the horror in his face shifted into something stranger — the dawning, awful understanding of a man realizing the rules he’d built his life on weren’t the rules the world actually ran by.

"...You’re not lying," he whispered. The honest ones always know. "It really wasn’t you. You can’t fight at all."

"Not even a little," I said.

He started, very quietly, to laugh — the same broken laugh I’d laughed on the bridge. Then he picked up his sword, got to his feet, and did something that cost him everything and that I will respect until the day I die: he turned to the roaring crowd, raised my hand in his, and let them believe he’d lost to a master. He gave the story what it wanted. Because he understood now that fighting it only fed it.

"Round One to the demon-slayer," the heralds cried, and the Arena shook.

In the high dark box, sealed for thirty years, the First Author watched a man win a sword fight without touching his sword, and said nothing, and gave nothing away.

And down at the edge of the ring, Ji Lan watched the whole thing with her arms crossed and her jaw tight, and I saw her come to a decision.

"That’s it," she muttered, to no one, to herself. "Enough. If the crowd won’t see through him—" she turned on her heel "—then I’ll make them."