A clatter of fine porcelain against lacquered wood broke the pre-dawn quiet of the Imperial Academy's scholar chambers. Shen Li, feigning irritation, slid a cooling cup of Clarity Tea across the low table towards Jian Feng. Puffy lids and a pallid complexion, a testament to a night spent far from scrolls, marred the usually sharp features of the young scion. Without fail, on mornings following Jian Feng’s nocturnal diversions, Shen Li presented him with a chilled draught.
“Cast off that disheveled air, Feng. One cannot greet the morning court looking as though dragged through a thicket of thorns.”
“My thanks, Li.” Jian Feng mumbled, cradling the cup.
“Did not Lord Jian’s stern eye fall upon you this dawn?”
“Thanks to your subtle intervention, my chambers remained unvisited.”
Jian Feng merely shrugged, a faint smirk playing on his lips, hinting at a pride that irked Shen Li even as it brought a strange sense of quiet relief. Shen Li pursed his own lips, turning to settle back onto his meditation cushion. His gaze snagged on a partially unrolled silk petition, discarded on the adjacent study platform. Wei Zhen, not Shen Li, occupied that favored position beside Jian Feng.
Shen Li, ever keenly aware of his own quiet stature and unremarkable lineage, often bristled at the ease with which others commanded presence. Wei Zhen, whose family held ancient sway and whose bearing carried an effortless grace, sat a handspan taller than Jian Feng, securing him the prime spot. Shen Li, by contrast, occupied a corner, a shadow in the grand design, his sole solace the proximity to Jian Feng’s dynamic aura.
He buried the familiar sting of jealousy deep, pointing a dismissive finger at the sleeping figure.
“When did Wei Zhen deign to arrive?”
“No idea. He was slumped like that when I appeared.”
“How does one, after retiring early yesterday, appear more ravaged than you?”
A soft rustle answered his words. The silk petition slipped to the floor, revealing Wei Zhen’s half-lidded eyes. A narrow glance swept over Shen Li and Jian Feng before he stretched his mouth in a wide, uninhibited yawn.
“...I merely intended to practice a little longer before rest. That ‘little’ stretched into hours.”
Indeed, yawns proved contagious. Jian Feng mirrored the action, mouth agape, before scrunching his face into a smug grin.
“This rogue. Appears a wastrel, yet labors more than the diligent Luo Han.”
“Silence, you fool.” Wei Zhen’s voice, though rough with sleep, carried an undercurrent of amusement.
“As you command, dolt.” Jian Feng retorted, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. Wei Zhen, whether acknowledging Jian Feng’s jest or not, leaned back, a hearty laugh escaping him. Shen Li watched, a strange prickle beneath his skin, as Wei Zhen’s gaze met his own. The elder scion turned to the latticed window, then back. Unsettled, Shen Li scratched his shoulder, redirecting his attention to Jian Feng.
Such banter often colored the early hours in the Academy, setting a pleasant, if boisterous, tone. Soon, other young nobles—Xie Ming, Luo Han—would drift closer, drawn to Jian Feng’s vivacity, eager for tales of his daring. The usual routine would unfurl: a tapestry of chatter, laughter, and eventually, the arrival of Master Li, ushering in the day’s lessons.
For youths considered the most promising in the Imperium, destined for high office or military command, it was a surprisingly convivial start to the morning. However, underneath the surface, even these privileged eighteen-year-olds harbored the shadows of courtly intrigue and unbridled ambition. Whispers of Jian Feng’s escapades, of dalliances and clandestine wagers, always left a faint, bitter taste in Shen Li’s mouth. Still, he played his part, feigning amusement.
Despite it all, Shen Li found these mornings tolerable. But a moon and a half ago, the fragile balance had shattered. The reason: Ren Xian.
“Look, Ren Xian has arrived.”
“By the Serpent’s scales. Loathsome.”
“Does that witless wretch not know shame, to show his face after such a public humiliation?”
Xie Ming openly mocked Ren Xian, pointing with exaggerated disdain. At the tip of Xie Ming’s finger, Ren Xian shuffled into the chamber, his slight frame appearing to shrink. He shielded his face behind lank hair, moving towards a low table in the front row. He placed a worn satchel upon it, then immediately slumped, burying his face in his arms. Watching that hunched figure, Shen Li let out a sigh laden with irritation.
Ren Xian struck Shen Li as utterly pathetic. His voice, when it surfaced, was a reedy whisper. His frame, small and easily overlooked. A truly pitiable sight. As the murmurs of the chamber swelled, Jian Feng’s gaze, sharp as a hawk’s, bore into Ren Xian’s back. He muttered curses under his breath. Shen Li hated it. That raw, visceral sensitivity in Jian Feng — it grated on Shen Li’s nerves, stirring something dark within himself.
Jian Feng snatched the discarded silk petition that had previously covered Wei Zhen’s face, balling it in one hand. With a light, almost dismissive toss, he hurled it at Ren Xian’s head. *Thud*. A soft sound. Ren Xian’s head merely slumped further onto his table.
“By the Emperor’s will, do not parade that disgusting visage so early in the day.”
Ren Xian remained as he was, arms over his face, doing precisely as Jian Feng commanded. Yet, Jian Feng watched him with unconcealed disdain, kicking his own table leg with a sharp *clack*.
“Hey! Are you deaf? Answer me!”
When Jian Feng abruptly stood, his voice ringing loud, Ren Xian, still hunched, stammered in a trembling whisper.
“Y-yes, Lord Jian Feng.”
“Lift your head, meet my eye, and speak properly.”
Did Jian Feng even comprehend the absurdity of his demands? The sheer irrationality of it all coaxed a bitter, choked laugh from Shen Li’s throat.
Whether Jian Feng noticed or not, he rose and stalked towards Ren Xian. With every deliberate step, the unpleasant sensation inside Shen Li grew more vivid, more raw. Jian Feng closed the distance between them. Just that proximity felt like Shen Li was losing his grip on the carefully suppressed emotions within him.
This was not the same jealousy he felt when Jian Feng shared a laugh with Wei Zhen. Instinctively, Shen Li knew. Deep down, he harbored a darkness as potent and unsettling as Jian Feng’s. That was why watching Jian Feng with Wei Zhen eventually became bearable, a familiar ache, but his interactions with Ren Xian stirred a sickening dread. His hands began to tremble; he clenched them tightly, burying them under his sleeves.
Jian Feng delivered a hard kick to Ren Xian’s low study table. The lacquered surface shook violently, almost toppling. Ren Xian jolted upright in alarm, his voice still unsteady.
“F-forgive me.”
Jian Feng stood over him, silently looking down at Ren Xian’s face. Ren Xian’s eyes glistened, unshed tears on the precipice of breaking free. Yet, in that moment, Shen Li felt like he was the one who might burst into tears.
Jian Feng did not task Ren Xian with menial errands, but his gaze remained fixed upon him. If Ren Xian departed for the privy during a break, Jian Feng would still watch his retreating figure, even as he conversed with his companions. Shen Li knew, because he never stopped watching Jian Feng.
To be honest, Shen Li’s first impression of Ren Xian was that he wasn’t particularly remarkable. His complexion, though not flawlessly clear, bore youthful features that made his face pleasant enough. When he smiled, it seemed genuinely happy, and even his neutral expression carried a certain gentle brightness. Before Jian Feng’s torment began, no one truly disliked Ren Xian. He seemed a scholar raised in a warm, nurturing household. While not overtly gregarious, preferring solitary study, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor.
Most considered Ren Xian a decent sort. Since he never flaunted the advantages of his upbringing, he garnered quiet respect. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be around—such was Ren Xian.
But Shen Li did not particularly like him from the outset. Nor did he hate him—he simply did not care. To say Ren Xian wasn’t even on his radar would be more accurate. Yet, whenever Shen Li conversed with Jian Feng, Wei Zhen, or their circle, and Ren Xian’s name surfaced, Shen Li would find himself casually offering a lie, saying, “Oh, him? He’s acceptable. Rather amiable.”
Jian Feng, like Shen Li, had paid little heed to Ren Xian at first. Jian Feng was never one to concern himself with the Academy’s lesser scholars. After Ren Xian’s transfer in the fifth month, he and Jian Feng exchanged not a single word until the sixth. That was the original course of things.
But one day, everything shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened immediately after the midday meal. Looking back, Shen Li doubted he had ever regretted an action as profoundly as what transpired that day.
Ren Xian, as was his custom, had taken a corner seat during the break, engrossed in a scroll. He was the sort who found solace in ancient texts. Shen Li, on the other hand, possessed a habit of feigning an overly friendly disposition towards those with good reputations.
That was why, when he chanced upon Ren Xian, he struck up a conversation about the very scroll in his hands. Shen Li was no avid reader himself; feigning intellectual curiosity was more his style.
“You must hold great fondness for these old texts, yes?”
“Ah? Oh, yes, I suppose.”
At the time, Ren Xian and Shen Li were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that distance made the approach easier.
“Have you reached the conclusion of that particular chronicle?”
“Indeed, I am nearing the final passage.”
“Then close it now. The ending will disappoint you. It is one of those works where the final pages taint the entire narrative.”
“You have read it before?”
“Yes, some time ago.”
To satisfy his intellectual vanity, Shen Li always sought out critiques and commentaries on the scrolls he skimmed, ensuring he had something discerning to contribute in future conversations. Drawing on those memories, he offered a critique—not a genuine one, merely enough to sound informed—and Ren Xian smiled brightly, a look of genuine pleasure illuminating his face. It caught Shen Li off guard.
“You are the first person I have encountered who has read this particular chronicle, save for myself.”
“Oh... truly?”
“Yes, but I shall still finish it. Contemplating the reasons for its final outcome is part of the enjoyment.”
“Well, of course. Opinions vary.”
“Hearing your words makes me anticipate the ending even more.”
That smile still lingered as an uncomfortable memory, a source of instinctive unease. After that day, Ren Xian began seeking out Shen Li frequently. Though Shen Li found it somewhat vexing and often wondered, *Why me?*, he did not outright reject him. Ren Xian, with his unblemished reputation, was not the worst person to keep close.
After all, outside of Imperial Edicts and scholarly treatises, such philosophical works were almost unheard of among youths of their standing. Even if one had the leisure, ancient texts were little more than elegant paperweights to most. For Ren Xian, Shen Li was likely the only one available for such discussions.
That day was one of those routine encounters, but it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days among them. Wei Zhen was to blame. To this day, Shen Li could not fathom why he acted as he did. Why he, a quiet observer who rarely meddled, chose to insert himself where he did not belong. Why Wei Zhen, of all people, had left his draft policy proposal for the Ministry of Rites unfurled and exposed for all passing by to see.
Shen Li, one who detested having his own efforts scrutinized, naturally assumed Wei Zhen would desire his work concealed. So, he flipped the silk parchment over to hide it. That was when he saw it: the Master’s faint annotations. A score equivalent to the Fourth Tier, yet with a marginal note praising its subtle insight. It was, for Wei Zhen’s notoriously lackadaisical approach, surprisingly high.
He blinked in disbelief and checked again. The annotation was unmistakable. Considering the high standards for such proposals, it would barely scrape into the Fourth Tier. Yet, it was on the higher end of that tier. It was the first time one of Shen Li’s preconceptions was shattered. A small shock to realize Wei Zhen was not as much a lost cause as he’d thought. Naturally, that made him think of Jian Feng’s own haphazard contributions. Now, Jian Feng was the true disappointment. A scion who would merely ink a single character on every line and sleep through a policy debate, Jian Feng had never once managed a respectable critique.
Perhaps that was why Shen Li felt such a mix of emotions—like he had discovered a rare, gleaming jade shard amidst common river stones. A figure he had once dismissed as merely fortunate turned out to be more salvageable, more subtly complex, than the scion he served. That strange realization must have unsettled him, for he did something he normally never would have done.
It was nothing grand. He simply plucked a nearby brush and scribbled a short note at the top of Wei Zhen’s parchment.
*“Focus on the pragmatic application of principles. You will ascend to the Third Tier soon enough. Well done. —Shen Li.
P.S. Forgive my trespass in observing your work without leave. I merely turned the scroll to conceal it and chanced upon your annotations.”*
The arrogance of evaluating another’s effort and offering unsolicited counsel made Shen Li feel a prickle of embarrassment, so he rambled to justify himself. He could not say why he even wrote it in the first place. At the time, he must have been utterly disoriented. Looking back, it was clear this was the first mistake in what would become a series of entanglements. Every mess starts with a poorly fastened first button.
If he had not written that note, he would not have encountered Ren Xian, carrying a heavy tome, heading towards the quiet gardens, just as Shen Li returned the parchment.