Confucius didn’t stop running until the granary’s alarms faded into the distance. By dawn, he’d reached the edge of the Water District, where huts made of mud and scrap metal huddled between jagged rock formations. The air smelled of dust and desperation—peasants huddled in doorways, their faces sunken, children crying for food.
This was the Water District: a community of farmers and laborers who’d once tilled the fertile lands near the planet’s only freshwater spring, until Lord Vex Ji seized the spring to supply his private army. Now they survived on rations, their anger simmering like the planet’s volcanic vents.
Lila, an orphan, was waiting for him outside her hut; her small hand raised in a signal—a three-fingered wave he’d agreed on when he’d slipped (via the arrow) her the data chip the night before. “They’re ready,” she whispered, leading him through a curtain made of old starship fabric while she passed the chip back to him.
The hut’s interior was dim, lit by a single bioluminescent bamboo stalk. Five men and women sat on crates, their faces grave. At the center was Gareth, a former soldier with a prosthetic leg made of recycled steel, his left eye replaced by a cybernetic implant that whirred when he spoke. These were the district’s elders—leaders chosen for their resilience, not wealth.
“You’re the one from the granary,” Gareth said, his voice low. He’d never met Confucius, but word traveled fast: a scribe had been seen sneaking out of Lord Vex Ji’s granary during the alarm, and Lila had rushed to the elders’ hut at dawn, babbling about a boy who’d arrowed her a data chip and hinted them to gather as leaders.
Confucius nodded, pulling the data chip which Lila returned earlier from his robe. “I have proof Lord Vex Ji is stealing your nutrient orbs.”
Gareth held out a hand, and Confucius placed the chip in his palm. Note that Gareth did not immediately look at the data chip when Lila had it temporarily not because he was not interested. He was just interested in meeting this interesting young man and wanted him to hand him the data chip himself.
CThe elder inserted it into a portable holographic projector—salvaged from a crashed starfighter, its screen cracked but functional. The restricted logs flickered to life: charts showing the orbs diverted, timestamps, even a note from Lord Vex Ji himself: “Let them starve. Weak peasants are obedient peasants.”
A woman in the back—Mara, her arms crossed over a tattered dress—slammed her fist into a crate. “That’s it. We storm the bunker at midnight.” Gareth shook his head. “We don’t have the weapons. Lord Vex Ji’s guards have blasters. We have farming tools.” He turned to Confucius. “You risked your life for this. Why?”
Confucius thought of his mother, of the scrolls in his satchel, of the machine-ninja’s chant: “Ignorance is obedience.” But he could not bring himself to agree “that someone should starve so a tyrant can hoard power.”
Gareth’s cybernetic eye whirred faster. “There’s another way. The Iron District Tournament. Lord Vex Ji’s hosting it next week—archery, chariot races, combat. The grand prize is 10,000 nutrient orbs. Enough to feed the district for a month.”
Confucius frowned. “I can’t enter. Lord Vex Ji’s guards are still looking for me.”
“You won’t be Confucius,” Mara said, tossing him a bundle of fabric. “You’ll be ‘Kai,’ a peasant from the Water District. We’ll forge identification. And if you win…” She nodded at the hologram. “We’ll have time to plan. To find more proof. To rally others.”
He opened the bundle: a robe made of rough wool, a leather arm guard, and a worn bow—nothing like the quantum model he’d stolen from the guard, which he’d hidden in a hollow bamboo stalk outside the district. “I don’t know if I can win. The other competitors—they’re nobles, soldiers. They’ve trained their whole lives.”
Gareth smiled. “You think a scribe who outsmarts Lord Vex Ji’s security and outruns his guards doesn’t have a chance?” He nodded at the bow. “Prove me wrong.”
For the next six days, Confucius trained. He practiced at dawn, when the wind was calm, and at dusk, when gusts whipped across the Dust Plains. He used the stolen quantum bow, its plasma tips replaced with wooden ones (he couldn’t risk drawing attention with plasma fire). But his technique was unlike any other archer’s.
While peasants practiced instinct—“Feel the wind, let the arrow guide you”—Confucius calculated. He measured distances with his eyes, noted wind speed by watching dust devils, even counted the seconds between heartbeats to steady his aim. It was a method he’d learned from his father’s hologram: “A warrior’s strength is in his mind, not his muscles.”
As he learned and become good with his technique, he taught Lila how to be an archer. He made her smaller bow. He just wanted her to know how to protect herself when needed. He never thought his teaching Lila of the archery skill would make her join the uprising army against Lord Vex Ji later, resulted in a lifetime regret for her.
Confucius stood in the competitors’ area, his “Kai” robes scratchy against his skin. Around him, other archers flexed their muscles, showing off ornate bows: one encrusted with gemstones, another made of pure silver, its string woven from gold.
A herald in a Lord Vex Ji-issued uniform stepped onto the platform, his voice booming over a loudspeaker: “Archers, to your stations! The contest will have three rounds. First: hit the target at 100 yards. Second: hit a moving target—drone birds, released from the east. Third: a single shot. The closest to the bullseye wins.”
The first round began. Noble after noble stepped up, their arrows flying through. Confucius was last. He nocked an arrow, closed one eye, and calculated: distance 100 yards, wind speed 5 mph east, arrow weight 2 ounces. He adjusted his aim, exhaled, and released.
The arrow hit the bullseye dead center. A murmur rippled through the stands. A noble in a purple robe—Lord Kol, Lord Vex Ji’s cousin—snorted. “Beginner’s luck. Look at his bow. It’s a piece of junk.”
The second round: drone birds, shaped like metal eagles with glowing red eyes, zoomed across the arena. Most archers missed, their arrows flying wild. Confucius watched the birds’ pattern, noted their speed (30 mph), their altitude (20 feet). He fired three arrows in quick succession, each hitting a bird’s red eye, sending it crashing into the lava pit. Now the stands were silent. Lord Kol’s face was red with rage. “This is a farce! He’s cheating!”
The herald ignored him. “Final round. One arrow. Closest to the center wins.”
Lord Kol stepped up first. He drew his silver bow, his arm muscles bulging, and fired. The arrow hit the bullseye, inches from the center. “Beat that, peasant,” he sneered.
Confucius stepped onto the platform. The wind had picked up—10 mph west. He closed his eyes, recalling his father’s hologram: “The arrow is an extension of your mind. See the path before you release.”
He nocked the arrow, visualized its trajectory, and let go.
Time seemed to slow. The arrow sailed through the air, its path curving slightly with the wind. It hit Lord Kol’s arrow, splitting it down the middle, then buried itself in the exact center of the bullseye. The crowd erupted. Peasants cheered, throwing hats into the air. Nobles shouted in outrage.
The herald stepped forward, his voice shaky. “The winner… is Kai (Confucius fake name)!”
As attendants handed him a crate of nutrient orbs, Confucius locked eyes with Lord Kol, who mouthed a single word: “Dead.”
He didn’t care. He’d bought the Water District a month. A month to plan. A month to fight back. In his satchel, the bamboo scrolls shifted, as if stirring awake.