Morning came raw and brilliant after a night of rain. The mountainsides gleamed like beaten pewter, every leaf slick, every rooftop echoing with the soft drip of water that refused to end. Disciples gathered in the yard, trading the same idle talk that filled every dawn: chores, food, the names of elders to avoid. I waited until their voices blurred into the low hum of routine—then I walked to the board.
The list still fluttered there, yesterday's ink running where the rain had kissed it. I lifted the small iron seal, its face stamped with the patron's initials, and pinned it through the top of the parchment so that the metal bit wood. Beside it, I laid a copy of the ledger entries in my own careful hand. No accusation, no flourish—only columns of figures, times, and names.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the first gasp came from a boy too young to understand why a symbol mattered. "That's Master Qi's mark," he said, half in awe. The sound travelled; the murmurs multiplied. In less than a minute, the courtyard was a hive. Feet scraped stone, shoulders pressed forward, the air itself thickened with curiosity, turning to alarm. Someone shouted for an elder.
I felt the Codex pulse under my ribs:
Public revelation detected.Risk amplification: extreme.
Old Bro Han appeared at my side, face drained. "You said proof," he hissed. "Not a declaration of war."
"Sometimes they're the same thing," I answered. The tremor in my voice betrayed me; courage never feels like courage when it's happening.
The elders came first in twos and threes, robes unbuttoned from haste. Then the inner disciples—Ling Yue among them—arrived like a tide of silver cloth and judgment. Master Qi pushed through last, his expression a perfect sculpture of calm outrage. He plucked the seal from the board as though removing a stain from silk.
"Who placed this?" he asked. The voice was measured, but beneath the words I could hear the crackle of something barely contained.
No one answered. The crowd's silence was a living thing, trembling. I stepped forward before Old Bro Han could move to stop me. "I did."
Master Qi turned. "Outer Disciple Wei Shen," he said, each syllable polished by disbelief. "Do you accuse your elders of false accounting?"
"I ask only that the entries be explained in open council," I said. I had practiced the sentence in my head all night; still, it felt like stepping onto ice. "If the granary's sale is honest, light will do it no harm."
Murmurs surged, then broke like a wave. Words like audacity, blasphemy, insolence darted through the crowd. Ling Yue's eyes flashed; he took a step forward before catching Master Qi's subtle gesture to wait.
"You speak of light," Master Qi said softly, "but bring only shadow. You think a student can interpret ledgers written before his birth?"
"I think a scholar can read numbers," I replied.
That drew laughter—sharp, defensive. The kind that seeks to drown uncertainty before it grows teeth.
Master Qi's smile never faltered. "Then read this: an outer disciple's pride outpaces his duty. You steal property, display it, and call it righteousness. You endanger the harmony of our order."
Harmony. The word stung because it was exactly what I wanted, but not the way he meant it. I opened my mouth to answer, but Ling Yue stepped in, his presence cutting through the noise like a blade through silk.
"Master," he said, bowing briefly, "permit me to handle this. The boy needs instruction, not judgment."
Permission granted with a nod.
Ling Yue turned to me, his composure the picture of disciplined wrath. "You think yourself brave, Wei Shen? Exposing rot with ink and pins? You shame those who built the walls that shelter you."
"I'm trying to keep the walls from collapsing," I said.
His eyes narrowed. "And if the walls must fall to test your theory?"
"Then perhaps they were already broken."
The crowd shifted, hungry for spectacle, fearful of implication. I saw apprentices edging back toward the shadows, elders whispering, the clerk who had met Master Qi last night standing pale and still. Every person here was calculating survival.
Ling Yue tossed a staff to me—the same weapon he had used to humble me days before. "Then prove your faith has strength. Show that your hands can defend the truth you claim to carry."
I caught the staff. The weight bit into my palms. The Codex flickered:
Combat scenario initiated.Non-lethal engagement recommended.
"Do you need the crowd?" I asked quietly.
"I need witnesses," he said. "Truth loves an audience."
We circled, the ring of disciples widening, the morning sun cutting long spears of light between us. His first strike came fast—a blur of motion, intention wrapped in skill. I met it, wood clattering, the shock running up my arms. The sound was enough to make onlookers gasp; for an instant, I thought he'd stop there, satisfied with the theatre. But he pressed forward, each movement sharper, the rhythm of fury disguised as teaching.
"Yield," he murmured. "Admit your error, and this ends."
"I see no error in daylight," I said, stepping back, letting his force spill into the air. The staff hummed; the ground beneath my feet was slick with rain. We were dancers on the edge of sense, his precision against my stubborn reflex. Each impact drew sparks from our breath.
Master Qi watched from the steps, arms folded, expression unreadable. The clerk stared at the seal now lying in the elder's hand, as if waiting for it to burn him by association.
When our weapons locked again, Ling Yue leaned close enough that his breath touched my ear. "You have no idea what you're unearthing," he whispered. "You think you're pure? Every sect feeds on compromise. That's what keeps it alive."
"Then maybe life deserves better food," I said.
He shoved me back; the staff slipped from my hands and clattered across the stones. The crowd erupted—some cheering the elegance of his form, others murmuring doubt. I stood unarmed, chest heaving, the taste of iron and rain in my mouth.
Master Qi raised a hand. "Enough. Discipline has been demonstrated. Outer Disciple Wei Shen will reflect on his transgression in seclusion."
The phrase meant punishment. Soft-voiced, polished, but punishment all the same.
I bowed—not to him, but to the crowd, to the witnesses who had seen numbers turned into sin. Then I straightened, met Ling Yue's gaze, and spoke just loud enough for the Codex to echo my words back in its quiet ledger:
"I will reflect," I said. "And I will remember who fears the light."