The road out of Jinxiu wound through gardens that had been designed by a madman with an obsession for symmetry. Every hedge was trimmed to the same height. Every flower bed was arranged in the same pattern. Every tree was pruned into the same shape. It was beautiful, in the way that a perfectly polished blade is beautiful—cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of life.
Gu Yao walked through the gardens with his hammer scraping against the path, his broken leg dragging behind him. The refugees followed in a ragged column, their footsteps hesitant, their eyes fixed on the flowers. They had never seen anything like this. They had never seen colors so bright, scents so sweet, shapes so precise. It was a world away from the blackened rocks of the Sword Forge and the grey ash of the City of Eternal Prosperity.
But Gu Yao saw what lay beneath the beauty. He saw the jade tablets hanging from every neck, pulsing with their faint, milky light. He saw the way the gardeners moved, their bodies bent, their eyes downcast, their hands trembling as they trimmed the hedges and pruned the trees. He saw the fear that lurked behind every polished smile, every graceful bow, every carefully measured word.
“They're watching us,” Shen Yi said. Her voice was soft, barely a whisper. “They've been watching us since we entered the gardens.”
Gu Yao nodded slowly. He could feel it too—a weight on the back of his neck, a presence that lurked just beyond the edge of his vision. The people of Jinxiu were not following them openly. They were too well-trained for that. They simply appeared, one by one, at the edges of the gardens, their eyes fixed on the white-haired stranger who had dared to walk through their perfect city without paying the price of admission.
“What do they want?” Xiao Liu asked. His voice was low, uneasy.
“They want us to leave,” Gu Yao said. “They want us to disappear. They want us to stop reminding them that there is a world beyond their perfect gardens and their golden roofs.”
He walked on, his hammer scraping against the path, his broken leg dragging behind him. The refugees followed, their footsteps hesitant, their eyes fixed on the ground. They had learned to ignore the stares. They had learned to ignore the whispers. They had learned to ignore the fear that radiated from every polished smile and every graceful bow.
And then they reached the edge of the gardens.
A crowd had gathered at the boundary of the city, a wall of well-dressed bodies blocking the road out of Jinxiu. They were not soldiers. They were not cultivators. They were the people of the city—the merchants, the craftsmen, the scholars, the priests. They were the ones who had built their lives on the golden abacus of virtue, the ones who had measured their worth by their obedience to the rites, the ones who had been told their whole lives that those who did not conform were not worthy of existence.
And they had come to stop him.
“You cannot leave,” one of them said. He was an old man, his face lined with years, his jade tablet glowing brighter than the others. He wore the robes of a Grand Scholar, and his voice carried the weight of authority. “You have violated the Rites. You have disturbed the Harmony. You have brought the Qi of Injustice into our perfect city. You must be Rectified.”
Gu Yao stopped walking. His hammer was in his hand, its iron head dark and cold. He could feel the weight of the crowd pressing down on him, the weight of their fear, their anger, their desperation. They had been told their whole lives that the world was a certain way, that the Rites were the only path to salvation, that those who broke the Rites were evil. And now they were being asked to accept that everything they had believed was a lie.
“Rectified,” Gu Yao repeated. “What does that mean?”
The Grand Scholar smiled. It was not a kind smile. “It means you must be corrected. It means you must be taught the error of your ways. It means you must be shown the path back to Harmony.”
“And if I refuse?”
The Grand Scholar's smile widened. “Then you will be Broken. You will be cast out. You will be made to understand that there is no place in this world for those who reject the Rites.”
Gu Yao looked at the crowd, at their pale faces and their hollow eyes. They had been conditioned for so long that they had forgotten what it was like to be free. They had been told their whole lives that the Rites were the only path to salvation, that obedience was the only path to peace. And they had believed it.
“I've seen your Rites,” Gu Yao said. “I've seen the cages they build. I've seen the chains they forge. I've seen the fear they sow. And I am telling you that they are not the path to salvation. They are the path to slavery.”
The crowd stirred, their voices rising in confusion and anger. They had never heard anyone speak against the Rites. They had never heard anyone question the Harmony. They had never heard anyone challenge the system that had held them captive for three thousand years.
“Blasphemy!” the Grand Scholar shouted. “You dare to blaspheme against the Rites? You dare to challenge the Harmony?”
“I dare to tell the truth,” Gu Yao said. “I dare to tell you that the Rites are not the path to salvation. They are the path to slavery. I dare to tell you that the Harmony is not the path to peace. It is the path to death. I dare to tell you that the system you serve is not the will of Heaven. It is the will of the Sects.”
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
The crowd erupted. Their voices rose in a chorus of anger and fear, their bodies surging forward, their hands reaching for him. They were not soldiers. They were not cultivators. They were simply people—people who had been told their whole lives that the Rites were the only path to salvation, that obedience was the only path to peace, that those who challenged the system were evil.
And they had believed it.
Gu Yao did not retreat. He planted his feet, raised his hammer, and swung. The impact was shattering, and the first wave of attackers went down, their bodies crumpling, their breath leaving their lungs in a wet, rasping gasp. But there were more—many more—and they kept coming, their faces pale, their eyes hollow, their hands raised.
He swung again and again, each blow shattering bone and breaking spirit. But he did not kill them. He could not. They were not the enemy. They were victims—victims of a system that had been designed to grind them into dust.
“Stop!” a voice cried out. It was Shen Yi, standing at the edge of the crowd, her body pale, her eyes blazing. “Stop! They are not your enemy!”
The crowd hesitated. They turned to look at her, their faces pale, their eyes wide. She was not a warrior. She was not a cultivator. She was simply a woman—a woman who had been told her whole life that she was nothing, that her life was meaningless, that her suffering was necessary.
But she was not nothing. She was the Mother Rhyme. She was the source of all the power that had been flowing through the world for three thousand years. And she was not going to let them destroy the only man who had ever believed in her.
“You have been lied to,” she said. Her voice was soft, but it carried across the crowd like a bell. “You have been told your whole lives that the Rites are the only path to salvation. You have been told your whole lives that obedience is the only path to peace. You have been told your whole lives that those who challenge the system are evil. But that is a lie. The Rites are not the path to salvation. They are the path to slavery. The Harmony is not the path to peace. It is the path to death. And those who challenge the system are not evil. They are the only ones who have the courage to tell the truth.”
The crowd was silent. They were watching her, their eyes fixed on her face, their bodies still and tense. They had never heard anyone speak like this. They had never heard anyone challenge the system. They had never heard anyone tell the truth.
“You have been told that you are nothing,” Shen Yi continued. “You have been told that your lives are meaningless. You have been told that your suffering is necessary. But that is a lie. You are not nothing. Your lives are not meaningless. Your suffering is not necessary. You are people. And people can fight. People can survive. People can build something new.”
She raised her hand, and a pale, golden light began to glow at her fingertips. It was not the cold, milky light of the jade tablets. It was something else—something older, something warmer, something that had been sleeping in her heart for fifty years.
And then she touched the nearest jade tablet.
The tablet cracked. Its milky light flickered and died. The man who had been wearing it gasped, his eyes wide with shock. He had been wearing the tablet for so long that he had forgotten what it felt like to be without it. He had been bound by the Rites for so long that he had forgotten what it felt like to be free.
“The Rites are broken,” Shen Yi said. “The Harmony is broken. The system is broken. And you are free.”
The crowd stared at her, their faces pale, their eyes wide. They did not understand what had happened. They did not understand that the jade tablets were not symbols of virtue. They were symbols of control. They were not tools of harmony. They were tools of oppression. They were not the path to salvation. They were the path to slavery.
And then the first person fell to their knees.
It was an old woman, her face lined with years, her jade tablet flickering on her chest. She had been wearing the tablet for so long that she had forgotten what it felt like to be without it. She had been bound by the Rites for so long that she had forgotten what it felt like to be free.
“I remember,” she whispered. “I remember what it was like before the Rites. I remember what it was like to be free.”
Another voice rose from the crowd. “I remember too,” a man said. “I remember what it was like to laugh without worrying about the Harmony. I remember what it was like to cry without worrying about the Rites.”
And then another voice, and another, and another. The crowd began to stir, their voices rising in a chorus of remembrance and grief and hope. They had been told their whole lives that the Rites were the only path to salvation, that obedience was the only path to peace, that those who challenged the system were evil. But they were beginning to remember. They were beginning to remember what it was like to be free.
“The Rites are broken,” Shen Yi repeated. “The system is broken. And you are free.”
She turned to look at Gu Yao, her eyes meeting his. She was exhausted, her face pale, her body trembling. She had spent everything she had to break the Rites, to shatter the tablets, to free the people from the bonds that had held them captive for so long. She had given everything, and she had nothing left to give.
But she was not done. Not yet.
“Gu Yao,” she said. “It's your turn.”
Gu Yao nodded slowly. He raised his hammer, and the crowd fell silent. They watched him, their eyes fixed on his face, their bodies still and tense. They had seen him fight. They had seen him bleed. They had seen him refuse to fall even when the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. And they were beginning to believe that he could actually do something, that he could actually build something, that he could actually change the world.
He brought the hammer down on the ground. The impact was shattering, and the stones beneath his feet cracked, sending a spiderweb of fractures racing across the square. The jade tablets flickered, their milky light dimming for a moment, their power faltering.
And then Gu Yao spoke.
“The Rites are broken,” he said. “The system is broken. And you are free.”
The crowd erupted. Their voices rose in a chorus of anger and fear and hope, their bodies surging forward, their hands reaching for the broken tablets that lay scattered across the ground. They were not soldiers. They were not cultivators. They were simply people—people who had been told their whole lives that the Rites were the only path to salvation, that obedience was the only path to peace, that those who challenged the system were evil.
But they were not evil. They were not weak. They were not nothing. They were people. And people could fight. People could survive. People could build something new.