Frogs and Stars

The lecture dragged on like a sermon preached to statues.

Shen Xiu moved with a stage actress’s grace, voice thick with self-importance. Her brush scratched diagrams across the slate — circles of soul force, spirals of bloodline theory, classifications of beasts. But the ink looked less like knowledge and more like chains curling into place.

“As I’ve said before,” she declared, “noble bloodlines produce superior cultivators. Spirit root affinity, soul force development, lineage resonance — these are inherited traits. Not something a peasant can claw out of a ditch.”

Nie Li sat silent. His fingers dug into the desk. His body was still, but inside, the storm rose.

It was all the same.
The same smug performance.
The same cruelty disguised as wisdom.
The same lies served as truth.

His eyes slid forward.

Ziyun.

She didn’t turn, but her shoulders stiffened. She hated this speech. She always had.

And all around them, commoner-born students sat quiet. Eyes lowered. Pens stilled. Conditioned. Cowed.

She’s poisoning them.
Again.

“Even the great Ye Mo,” Shen Xiu continued, “was elevated by noble patronage. Without established sects, his so-called legacy would’ve been nothing more than a peasant’s tale.”

Nie Li rose.

He didn’t raise his hand. He didn’t ask permission.

“Instructor Shen,” he said.

The room turned. Shen Xiu turned. Her brow twitched.

“Yes, Nie Li,” she answered, venom-sweet. “Do you have a correction for me?”

“No correction,” he said coolly. “Just the truth.”

He stepped forward, into the aisle.

“You speak of Lord Ye Mo as though he was permitted to rise — as if his greatness was gifted by the same nobles who rejected him.”

He swept his gaze across the room. A boy near the back lifted his head for the first time all lesson. His ink-stained fingers trembled, as if afraid to write down what Nie Li had said. Across the aisle, a noble-born sneered, mouthing upstart under his breath. A girl in the corner clutched her brush tighter, hope flickering before fear smothered it.

“But that’s not history. That’s propaganda.”

Gasps rippled. A few students sat straighter. Even Ziyun turned, eyes wide.

“Ye Mo was mocked. Cast to the patrols. Denied training. Denied access. And still, he rose — not because of the noble houses, but in spite of them.”

His words cut sharp.

“You’re being taught a lie. A golden cage. Ye Mo broke it. And some of you could too.”

He turned back to Shen Xiu.

“You remind me of a tale from the Eastern Divine Lands. A frog lived at the bottom of a well. One night, it looked up, saw a circle of stars, and said: ‘Behold, the universe.’”

He tilted his head.
“But the frog had never left the well. And you, Instructor… have never left yours.”

The room froze.

Nervous chuckles slipped between desks. Ziyun stared openly now. Shen Xiu’s face darkened like a gathering storm.

“You—insolent little—”

Then it hit.

Not her words.
The pain.

Searing. Sudden. Not flesh — soul.

Nie Li staggered, hand gripping the desk. Sweat prickled his brow. No one noticed. But he knew.

The Voice had returned.

“Child of dust…”

It was not loud. Not cruel.
But final.

“You walk the old path. You wield truth like a blade — not to heal, but to win. You have not changed.”

I was defending them. I was speaking truth. Isn’t that good? Isn’t that right?

“No.”

“You sought victory.”

The words pierced deeper than Shen Xiu’s scorn ever had. Nie Li’s throat went dry. He wanted to deny it — to claim he’d spoken for their sake, for Ziyun’s sake — but the hollow ache in his chest told him the Voice had cut to the root.

The burning deepened. His teeth clenched to keep from crying out.

“This teaching blinds them. It buries the First Seal. The Covenant forgotten, mocked as weakness. And you—”

“…you wield truth as a weapon, not remembrance.”

Nie Li’s chest seized. Covenant? The word rang in him, sharp as iron. He wanted to ask. He opened his mouth — but no sound came. The ignorance cut deeper than Shen Xiu’s mockery ever had.

The Voice pressed further.

“You mocked her well, child of dust. But do you not see the pit you stand in?”

His stomach dropped. His own parable turned back on him. The Voice saw through him — deeper than he saw himself.

The fire ebbed, leaving a cold weight.

“Leave, child of dust. There is nothing here for you. What is taught here is vanity. Bondage dressed as wisdom. Patterns of power masquerading as truth.”

His eyes flicked to the board: soul force cycles, spirit root hierarchies, beast fusions. The very language he had once mastered. Once weaponized.

“You know this world too well, Nie Li. You played its games, spoke its tongue, bowed to its rules. And where did it lead you?”

His breath shook.

To death.
To ash.
To despair.

“Now… begin again. Not with schemes. With remembrance. The Covenant is not lost — only buried. And you must remember.”

His knees trembled.

“Nie Li!” Shen Xiu barked. “Where do you think you’re going? Sit down!”

But he had already turned.

His hand lingered on the doorframe. For a heartbeat he almost turned back, to the comfort of charts and ranks and lies. But the weight in his chest pressed harder. He exhaled, and stepped through.

The diagrams of soul force faded behind him like smoke. The air seemed to press against his back, resisting.

The door creaked open.

He stepped through.

The noise of the classroom collapsed into silence.

A boy stared after him, mouth open. The girl in the corner gripped her brush so tightly it snapped. A noble-born smirked, muttering, “Coward.” Ziyun’s gaze lingered longest, her pen stilled, her face unreadable.

Each step beyond the threshold was quieter. And freer.