The palace data chip revealed more than guard schedules. Hidden within its files was a map: a small island in the Bamboo Expanse, marked with a symbol Confucius recognized—the same one etched on his father’s hologram.
“I’ve seen that,” Lila said, pointing to the symbol as they huddled over the holographic projection. “Old Burl talks about it. Calls it the ‘Scholar’s Refuge.’ Says a hermit lives there, a warrior who quit Lord Vex Ji’s army.”
While they discussed, Confucius had a fainted memory of seeing it while escaping from the granary.
When Gareth was consulted later, he confirmed, “The Guru. Rumor says he was a machine-ninja once, before he rejected Lord Vex Ji’s lies. Teaches different things. Not just fighting. Philosophy. How to turn words into weapons.”
Confucius thought of the scrolls, their glowing characters still half-hidden. “I need to find him. He might know what these mean.”
Mara packed him a satchel: dried orbs, a canteen, the quantum bow. “Be careful. The Expanse is full of Lord Vex Ji’s patrol droids.”
He left at midnight, navigating by the nebula’s light. The Bamboo Expanse was a labyrinth of stalks 50 feet tall, their leaves glowing blue, their roots tangled with abandoned starship parts. At dawn, he spotted the island—a patch of dry land circled by a moat of glowing water, a hut made of bamboo and metal at its center.
A figure stood in the doorway, his robes a mix of machine-ninja circuit fabric and traditional silk, his hair white but his posture straight as a spear. “You’re late,” he said, his voice like gravel in a barrel.
Confucius reached for his bow, but the man laughed. “Put it down, boy. I’ve been expecting you. Your father was a student here. Before he became a Sky Guardian.”
The words hit like a plasma blast. “You knew him?” The Guru nodded, leading him into the hut. Its walls were covered in scrolls—some bamboo, some digital, all filled with characters that matched Confucius’ satchel. “Taren. He was the best archer I ever taught. Also, the most stubborn. Refused to believe knowledge should be hoarded.”
He pointed to a hologram on the table: Taren, young and smiling, holding a bow identical to Confucius’ quantum model. “He died protecting those scrolls. Not because they’re powerful—though they are—but because they’re dangerous to tyrants. They teach that wisdom without compassion is a weapon. That rulers serve the people, not the other way around.”
Confucius pulled his scrolls from the satchel. “I can’t read them. The characters shift.”
The Guru handed him a brush made of cybernetic fiber and a pot of ink that glowed silver. “Write. Not with your hand—with your mind. Archery is precision. Calligraphy is focus. The same skill, different tools.”
For three days, Confucius trained. By day, he shot arrows at floating targets, calculating trajectories while reciting ancient proverbs. By night, he copied characters, the brush moving in strokes that mirrored his bow’s arc.
On the fourth morning, as he wrote the character for “justice,” the ink froze in mid-air, forming an arrow that sailed across the room and pierced a practice dummy.
“Words cut deeper than swords,” the Guru said, nodding. “If you know where to thrust.”
On the fifth day, patrol droids found the island. Their searchlights sliced through the bamboo, and their blasters hummed to life. “Intruders detected. Surrender or be eliminated.”
The Guru handed Confucius a handful of ink pellets. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
Confucius sprinted into the bamboo, the droids in pursuit. He leaped between stalks, tossing ink pellets that exploded into clouds of glowing characters—*“Stop,” “Truth,” “Justice”—*confusing the droids’ sensors.
When one closed in, he nocked an arrow, wrote a trajectory equation in the air, and fired. The arrow hit the droid’s core, disabling it.
By sunset, the droids were in pieces. Confucius stood over them, breathing hard, as the Guru smiled. “You’re ready. Not to fight—to lead. But first, you must understand why you fight.”
He pointed to the scrolls, now fully glowing. “The Nine Li Scripts. They hold the history of our people, before Lord Vex Ji could erase it. How we built this realm. How we fell. How we can rise again.”
Confucius ran his fingers over the characters, finally understanding. “They’re not just knowledge. They’re a promise.”
The Guru nodded. “And promises require courage to keep. Tomorrow, we retrieve the rest. They’re hidden in the Tomb of the First Sage, deep in the Expanse. But be warned—Lord Vex Ji’s machine-ninjas guard it. They don’t just kill intruders. They erase them.”