Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

The place Yun Shu took me was a tower.

Every prefecture has one — a Records Spire, she called it, a tall thin observatory built for exactly one purpose: to read the great ledger in the sky up close. We climbed it at dawn, all the way to the open platform at the top, above the rooftops, above the smoke, and when we came out into the cold morning air I finally saw the Heavenly Records the way the powerful see them.

I’d seen the ledger my whole life, of course. Everyone has. It hangs over the world, faint and golden, and you glance at it the way you glance at the weather. But from up there, with Yun Shu’s instruments to focus it, it wasn’t a faint glow anymore. It was everything. An endless golden scroll across the entire sky, scrolling slowly, every name in the world written on it, ranked, sorted, glowing brighter or dimmer by the hour as belief flowed and ebbed below.

”This is the part of my job almost no one understands,” Yun Shu said, and there was something in her voice — pride, worn thin by years, but pride. ”Everyone thinks fame is just... loud. Noise. It isn’t. It’s a system. It has shape. Watch.”

She walked me through it. Heavenly Records 101, she called it, dry as a stick, and I’ll give it to you the way she gave it to me, because you should understand it too.

At the bottom — the vast, dim, uncountable bottom — were the Nameless. Mortals. Most of the world. Names so faint you couldn’t read them, flickering in and out as a handful of people remembered them and forgot. ”That’s where you were three weeks ago,” Yun Shu said. ”That’s where everyone starts. That’s where almost everyone stays.”

Above that, brighter, the Whispered — local rumors, village heroes, men like Pao with his two notarized words. Above them the Renowned, names you could actually read, provincial powers, glowing steady. ”That’s where you are now,” she said. ”Officially.” She didn’t say for the moment. She didn’t have to.

Then she tilted her instrument up, and up, and up, and showed me the top. That’s when I understood for the first time what real fame looked like.

The Storied burned like lamps. The Legendary burned like bonfires — a few dozen names across the whole continent, each one a person reality bent around, sect masters and war heroes and living myths. ”The Frost-Widow of the northern passes,” Yun Shu murmured, pointing at one searing name. ”Sixty years famous. They say she hasn’t aged a day since the songs started, and they’re right — at her rank, belief won’t let her age.” She moved her finger. ”The Iron Sovereign. The Laughing Blade. The Empire of a Thousand Verses — that one’s not a person, that’s a sect, the biggest media-empire on the continent, ten thousand bards strong. They don’t make heroes. They make whoever they decide to make.” Her voice cooled. ”And they are, right now, almost certainly trying to figure out what you are. Because of this.”

She turned the instrument, and found my name.

And I watched it climb.

I could see it — Lin Bo, low in the Renowned band but rising, visibly, while I stood there, the line of my fame ticking upward in little jumps with every prayer said over a glowing noodle bowl, every bard’s new verse, every shrine raised to a thief’s shoe. In a sky where most names took decades to crawl up a single rank, mine was moving like a lit fuse, and from up here, against all those slow steady lamps and bonfires, it didn’t look glorious.

It looked wrong. An alarm. A comet where there should be a candle.

”Now you understand the problem,” Yun Shu said quietly. ”Down in the market, your rise is a miracle. Up here, to the people who actually run the world — the sect masters, the Empire of a Thousand Verses, the Records themselves — your rise is an anomaly. A name that climbs this fast either has a power nobody’s seen, or a backer nobody knows, or a trick nobody’s caught.” She looked at me. ”All three of which are the kind of thing the powerful do not leave alone. They will want to recruit you. Or own you. Or, if they decide you’re a threat they can’t control—” she didn’t finish it. She didn’t have to do that either.

I stared at my own bright wrong comet of a name, climbing, climbing, and the warm tide in my chest felt suddenly less like power and more like a target painted on my back.

”There’s going to be a knock on my door, isn’t there,” I said. ”From someone important.”

”There’s going to be a lot of knocks,” Yun Shu said. ”Starting very soon. The sects can read this sky as well as I can. They’ll come with offers. Smile, say nothing, sign nothing, and for the love of every god, don’t let anyone find out about your ghost.” She tapped her instrument, where, even now, the source she couldn’t trace was bending the numbers in ways that made her jaw tighten. ”Because if I can tell there’s something moving your belief that shouldn’t exist, then sooner or later, so will they.”

I almost told her. Right there, on the cold platform, with the whole golden sky scrolling above us. It’s a scroll. It got fired from Heaven. It’s on my shoulder right now. The words were in my mouth.

And then Yun Shu’s instrument did something strange.

As she lowered it, the focus swept past the very top of the ledger — past the Legendary bonfires, up toward the rarest, highest names, the handful of Mythic lights that burned so bright they were hard to look at. And just for an instant, at the very apex, above even those, the golden sky flickered. There was a space up there. A gap in the great scroll where a name should be, scorched and dark and wrong, like a tooth knocked out of a smile, like a word scrubbed off a wall so hard it tore the paper.

I felt Scroll go rigid on my shoulder.

”What’s that,” I said. ”That dark spot. At the top.”

Yun Shu’s hand moved, fast, and the focus snapped away from it.

”Nothing,” she said. Too quickly. Her voice had changed — gone flat in a different way, careful, closed. ”That’s nothing. An old error in the Records. We don’t read that part of the sky.” She started toward the stairs. ”We don’t talk about it, either. Come on. We’ve seen enough. You need to be ready, because by tonight, I promise you, the offers are going to start.”

She was right about the offers.

She was always right.

But for a long time after, walking down out of that tower, I kept thinking about the dark scorched gap at the top of the sky — the one place in the whole glowing world where a name had been, and wasn’t, and that even Yun Shu, who feared nothing and corrected everything, would not look at twice.

I didn’t know it yet. But I’d just seen the only thing in all of creation more powerful than being famous.

I’d seen what it looks like to be forgotten.