The sky over Luminara blazed like a cracked egg, yolk-yellow nebulae spilling into streaks of violet. Confucius ducked as a plasma bolt zipped past his ear, singeing the edge of his robe—a patchwork of silk and recycled starship fabric. Behind him, his village burned: domed huts made of fused metal and bamboo, their walls etched with glowing symbols that dissolved into smoke as the fire ate through them.
This wasn’t random destruction. Lord Vex Ji’s machine-ninjas (giant size male soldiers in wired garment) had been raiding villages for weeks, hunting for “unauthorized knowledge”—scrolls, holograms, anything that wasn’t sanctioned by his regime. Confucius’ village was their latest target.
“Confucius! Take these!”
His mother skidded to a halt beside him, her left arm hanging useless, a gash in her thigh oozing neon-green blood (a side effect of the toxic soil). In her good hand, she clutched a leather satchel. When she opened it, three bamboo scrolls rolled partially free, their surfaces covered in characters that shimmered like fish scales.
“Mom, let’s go!” He grabbed her wrist, but she held firm, her fingers digging into his arm.
“The machine-ninjas are here for these,” she said, pressing the satchel into his hands. “They belong to Lord Vex Ji now, but they were ours first. Your father’s.”
Confucius’ throat tightened. He’d only seen his father in a hologram: a man with a bow slung across his back, standing in front of a swirling blue nebula, wearing a robe that looked like it was woven from starlight. The hologram always flickered out when he asked his mother about it, as if she feared speaking too much.
“Your father was a Sky Guardian,” she said, pressing a pendant into his palm—a shard of iridescent crystal that warmed as his fingers closed around it. “He died protecting these scrolls. Promise me you’ll finish what he started. Never bow to Lord Vex Ji. Never let knowledge be chained.”
A roar cut through the air. A machine-nijna—tall, with a metal face and robes stitched with circuit boards—marched toward them, a blaster humming in its hand. It had spotted them.
“All unauthorized knowledge will be confiscated,” it droned, its voice a digital monotone.
Confucius’ mother shoved him backward. “Run! Find the Guru in the Bamboo Expanse. Tell him the Scripts are waking!”
He stumbled, then ran. Behind him, he heard the blaster fire. When he glanced back, she was gone—just a smudge of ash on the ground, the satchel’s strap still in her outstretched hand.
>He didn’t stop running until he reached the edge of the Bamboo Expanse, where stalks as thick as tree trunks rose into the sky, their leaves glowing soft blue. He collapsed against one, chest heaving, and looked down. The satchel was still in his grip, the scrolls safe inside. The pendant pulsed against his chest, as if trying to speak.
Somewhere in the distance, a machine-ninja chanted: “Ignorance is obedience. Obedience is peace.”
