Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True Chapter 39: The Other Finalist

While I was crowning Bai Qing in one ring, the other semifinal was playing out across the way — and it produced the opponent I’d face in the final, and the most frightening person I’d encountered at the whole tournant. Not because of how hard he could hit.

His title was the Verse-Blade. I’d glimpsed him at the opening — the young man in white, barely older than Tao Tao, already Storied, the Empire of a Thousand Verses’ own gleaming prodigy. I’d thought, then, that he looked like soone for whom the whole tournant was a chore he’d already finished. I hadn’t understood why.

I understood after I watched his semifinal.

His opponent was the Iron Sovereign — eight feet of Legendary-tier conqueror, a man who’d broken three provinces, who made cobblestones crack when he walked. By every honest asure of skill, the Iron Sovereign should have crushed a boy a third his age. It wasn’t close to a fair fight.

And the Verse-Blade destroyed him.

Not with skill, though he had plenty. He destroyed him the way Cao Jun had tried to destroy — with belief, manufactured belief, the full crushing weight of the Empire of a Thousand Verses poured into one person. But where Cao Jun had been a champion built in a week, the Verse-Blade had been built over a lifeti. Every bard in the Empire had spent years singing his legend. The whole continent had been told, since before the boy could walk, that the Verse-Blade was the future, the perfect weapon, unbeatable — and so, in a world where belief is power, he simply was. The Iron Sovereign’s Legendary strength ant nothing against a boy the entire Empire had spent fifteen years making the world believe in. He didn’t out-fight the Sovereign. He out-existed him. The Legendary conqueror’s blows landed and did nothing, and the Verse-Blade cut him down almost gently, almost bored, and advanced to the final without a drop of sweat.

He was, I realized with a cold lurch, exactly what I was.

A man made of belief. A vessel. Strong not because of anything he could do, but because of what people believed about him.

Except backwards. My belief was grassroots and accidental and freely given — ten million people who’d chosen to love a nobody. His was manufactured, deliberate, top-down, built. I was loved. He was constructed.

I went to find him after, because I had to see the man I’d be facing. And because sothing about that bored, finished look had snagged in .

He was alone. That was the first thing. The people’s champion couldn’t walk ten feet without a crowd; the Empire’s champion stood in an empty courtyard, gleaming and untouched, and no one ca near him. Not out of fear, exactly. Out of distance. As if he existed behind glass.

"Co to study your opponent, demon-slayer?" he said, without turning. His voice was beautiful and precise and completely flat, like a perfect instrunt no one had ever played with feeling. "There’s nothing to study. You’ll lose. The Empire has decided. It decided years ago." He turned, finally, and his face was young and handso and empty, and that emptiness was the most frightening thing I’d seen at the whole tournant. "I’m sorry. I don’t an it as a threat. It’s simply true. I’m the most believed-in being in the world. I always have been. There’s no contest."

"What’s your na?" I asked.

It was not what he expected. Sothing flickered behind the glass — confusion, like a question in a language he’d half-forgotten.

"The Verse-Blade," he said.

"No." I kept my voice gentle. "Your na. The one your mother gave you. Before the Empire made you a title."

And I watched sothing terrible happen in that beautiful empty face. I watched him reach for it — reach back, into the place where a person’s na lives, the small private true thing underneath all the legend — and I watched him not find it. Fifteen years of being a manufactured legend, sung by ten thousand bards, believed in by a continent, and sowhere in all of it the boy he’d been had been worn away, dissolved into the title, until there was nothing left underneath but the legend wearing a young man’s shape.

"I..." he said, and for a mont the flat beautiful voice cracked, and what ca through the crack was so lost it broke my heart. "I don’t— it’s been a long ti since anyone—" He stopped. The glass ca back down, hard. "The Verse-Blade," he repeated, firr. "That’s my na. That’s all the na I need."

But I’d seen it. The thing under the glass. The lost child, dissolved.

Standing in that empty courtyard, I understood that I was looking at my own nightmare made real and willing. Everything I feared — the costu with no one inside, the legend that eats the man until even he can’t find himself under it — the Verse-Blade was all of it, completed. The Empire had done to him on purpose, over a lifeti, what the Scroll’s gift was slowly threatening to do to by accident: hollow out the person until only the famous shape remained.

"I’m sorry," I said quietly, and I ant it with my whole heart, and it clearly confused him more than anything else I could have said. "Whatever happens in that ring. I’m sorry they did that to you. You were a person once. There was a na. They had no right to wear it away."

The Verse-Blade stared at — the perfect weapon faced with sothing it had no training for. Pity. Real pity, for him. And for just a second the lost boy surged up behind the glass, desperate, drowning, reaching—

—and then the Empire’s conditioning slamd it back down, and his face went smooth and cold and certain.

"Save your sorrow for yourself, demon-slayer," he said. "In two days the whole world watches you lose. The people’s love is a sweet story. But the Empire has never lost a champion it built, and it does not intend to start with a clerk in stolen pants." He turned away, back into his glass solitude. "Enjoy your last day being believed in."

I walked away with a cold weight in my chest, and it wasn’t fear of losing.

It was the certainty that the boy in the courtyard was what the world wanted to make of — and what soone, sowhere, had already made of the brightest na that used to hang at the top of the sky.