Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

I have tried many times to describe the final, and I always fail, because some things are simply too big for words. But I’ll tell you what I can.

The whole world stopped to watch it. Not ten million this time — everyone. Every soul on the continent who could reach a place where the Records hung turned their eyes to the sky over the capital, because this was the final of the Tournament of Ten Thousand Reputations, the people’s accidental champion against the Empire’s perfect weapon, and something in the bones of the whole world knew it was about more than a match. The Arena below was a single roaring organism. The fold of the Records above blazed brighter than I’d ever seen, thick with the gathered belief of an entire civilization. And up in her sealed dark box, for the first time, I saw movement — a pale hand at the edge of the veil. The First Author, leaning forward to watch. Thirty years hidden, and she’d come to the rail for this.

And somewhere in the high tiers, cold and patient and certain, Xue Ningzhi waited, with the full attention of the Empire of a Thousand Verses focused down on me like a lens focusing the sun, waiting for the moment the belief would run so hard that the ghost on my shoulder would have nowhere left to hide.

The Verse-Blade walked out across from me, gleaming and empty and beautiful, the lost boy sealed deep behind the glass.

"Last chance, demon-slayer," he said, flat and certain. "Yield. The Empire has never lost a champion it built. You cannot win. The whole world believes it. I believe it. There’s nothing your peasants and their bedsheets can do against fifteen years of the entire Empire’s faith."

"I know," I said. "I’m not going to win."

He paused, thrown. "...Then why are you here?"

"Because winning was never the point," I said quietly. "It never has been, for me. I’ll tell you a secret, since you’re about to find out anyway." I looked at him, at the beautiful empty shape where a boy used to be, and I felt nothing but a vast, aching pity. "I didn’t come here to beat you. I came here to free you."

He didn’t understand. How could he? Neither did Xue Ningzhi, watching. Neither did the First Author at her rail. Neither, fully, did the Scroll, which whispered, Talent, what are you — Neither did my family, gripping the edge of the competitors’ tier, watching me walk into the most dangerous moment of my life with a calm I’d never shown before.

The herald cried the start.

And the Verse-Blade came at me with the full weight of the Empire of a Thousand Verses behind him, and it was like being struck by the sky itself.

I have felt belief-power before. I’d felt Cao Jun’s manufactured province of it. This was nothing like that. This was fifteen years, ten thousand bards, an entire civilization’s engineered faith, concentrated into one gleaming young man and brought down on me all at once — and my armor, my beautiful grassroots wall of ten million loving hearts, buckled. His first blow drove me to one knee. His second cracked the air and I felt the belief-wall groan, felt the love straining against the sheer manufactured mass of him, and for the first time I understood that this was a thing my people’s love might genuinely not be enough to hold.

And I did not fight back.

That was the part no one understood. The part that made the crowd gasp and my family scream my name and Xue Ningzhi’s eyes narrow. I didn’t dodge. I didn’t trip into a sneeze. I didn’t reach for the Scroll. I knelt there in the center of the ring under the Empire’s perfect weapon and I took it, blow after blow, my armor cracking, my people’s love thinning, and I did not raise a hand to save myself.

Because I needed it to crack.

Because — and here is the mad, terrible, beautiful heart of my plan, the thing I’d built in the dark and told no one — I had finally understood what my power actually was. Not the sneeze. Not the luck. Those were just the shapes belief happened to take. The real thing, the thing the Scroll did, the thing I’d done for Bai Qing, was this: I could make the world believe the truth, and when the truth is believed, it becomes real, and it cannot be unmade, because it was real all along.

And the truth I was about to tell — the most dangerous truth in the world, the one Xue Ningzhi was hunting the seam to stop, the one that would either save everyone I loved or fray us all out of the sky together — needed the whole world watching, and afraid, and breathless, in the exact moment their beloved champion knelt broken under the Empire’s weapon and looked like he was about to be erased.

The Verse-Blade raised his blade for the blow that would end it. Ten million people held their breath. My armor was a spiderweb of cracks. Xue Ningzhi leaned forward, and I felt her senses close around the Scroll at last, found, her whole power gathering to pull the seam—

—and I stopped flinching, and I stood up, slowly, under the raised blade, and I turned my face to the watching sky, to the entire breathless world, to the First Author at her rail and the boy above me and the whole of everything.

And I opened my mouth to tell them the truth.

All of it.

"PEOPLE OF THE WORLD," I said, and the belief in my chest — every loving heart, all at once — carried my voice to the edge of the continent. "I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU. AND WHEN I’M DONE, NOTHING IS EVER GOING TO BE THE SAME."

The Verse-Blade froze, blade raised. Xue Ningzhi’s hand stopped halfway to the seam. The First Author went utterly still.

And the whole world leaned in to listen.