The nutrient orbs bought the Water District a fragile peace. For three weeks, children stopped crying from hunger, and adults began repairing tools, whispering plans to rally neighboring districts. But Confucius knew it wouldn’t last—Lord Vex Ji’s greed wouldn’t tolerate a peasant victory, even a small one.
His fears proved true on the 22nd day, when a messenger arrived at dawn, checking the village and looking for him. Rumor has it that Lila knows where Confucius is and the messenger wanted her to guide him. His robes emblazoned with the Vex family crest. “Lord Kol requests the presence of ‘Kai, (Confucius fake name)’” he announced, sneering at the mud-caked huts. “His charioteer fell ill. He’s heard of your… talents. Offers 500 orbs for a day’s work at the palace races.”
Gareth’s cybernetic eye whirred. “It’s a trap. Lord Kol wants revenge for the tournament.”
Confucius thought of the 10,000 orbs, of the scrolls in his satchel that still refused to reveal their secrets. “Or it’s a chance. If I get inside the palace, I can find more proof of Lord Vex Ji’s crimes. Maps of the bunker. Lists of his allies.”
Mara grabbed his arm. “You’ll be killed.”
“Or I’ll outlive the trap,” Confucius said, sliding the quantum bow into a sheath hidden beneath his “Kai” robes.
“Lila, if I don’t return by sunset, give this to Gareth.” He pressed the bamboo scrolls into her hands—better she hide them than risk them falling to Lord Vex Ji.
The palace loomed on a hill overlooking Vex-5’s capital, its spires of black steel piercing the pink nebula sky. Servants in gold-threaded robes scurried across the courtyard, while guards in obsidian armor patrolled the walls, their blasters holstered but ready.
Lord Kol waited by a chariot—a sleek machine of polished silver, its wheels etched with the Vex crest, pulled by two cybernetic stallions with glowing red eyes. “Peasant,” he said, tossing Confucius a leather harness. “You’ll drive. Lose, and you’ll feed the lava pits.”
The racecourse circled the palace, a track of fused metal with sharp turns and a single jump over a pit of boiling sludge. Six chariots lined up at the starting gate: nobles in silk robes, laughing as they checked their weapons (blasters hidden in their sleeves, in case “accidents” happened).
At the signal, the cybernetic stallions surged forward. Confucius gripped the reins, his muscles remembering the chariot drills his father’s hologram had shown—“Lean into the turns. Let the machine breathe.” Lord Kol shouted orders from the back, his silver bow propped against the seat.
They rounded the first turn in second place, Lord Kol’s laughter mixing with the roar of the crowd. “Faster, peasant!”
Confucius obeyed, but his eyes scanned the track. Halfway through the third lap, he spotted it: a child, no older than five, chasing a stray droid onto the course. A servant’s kid, judging by the rags—probably wandered from the kitchens.
“Lord Kol! Stop!” he shouted, yanking the reins. The noble roared, grabbing his arm. “Fool! That’s a peasant brat. Let it die!”
The chariot hurtled toward the child, who’d frozen in terror, the droid buzzing around her ankles. Confucius made his choice. He reached for the emergency release—a lever hidden beneath the seat—and pulled.
The left wheel exploded, sending shards of metal flying. The chariot skidded sideways, crashing into a barrier of bamboo stalks. Lord Kol was thrown into the mud, spitting curses, while Confucius scrambled free, sprinting toward the child.”
He tackled her just as a rival chariot thundered past, its wheels missing them by inches. “Hold on,” he whispered, shielding her with his body as debris rained down.
When the dust cleared, Lord Kol stood over them, his face purple with rage. “Arrest him! Treason! Sabotage!”
Guards grabbed Confucius, but the crowd erupted. Peasants in the stands cheered, pointing at the child, at the wrecked chariot. “He saved her!” they shouted. “He’s a hero!”
Lord Kol’s jaw tightened. Arresting a “hero” in front of 5,000 peasants would spark a riot—something even Lord Vex Ji couldn’t afford. “Release him,” he snarled. “But mark this, peasant—your luck runs out soon.”
Confucius carried the child back to her mother, a kitchen servant who knelt, sobbing, and pressed a data chip into his hand. “The palace armory,” she whispered. “All the guards’ schedules. For the Water District.”
He slipped it into his robe, smiling. Not a trap, he thought. A gift.
That night, as he snuck back into the Water District, the bamboo scrolls in Lila’s hut glowed faintly, their characters finally coming into focus: “A leader protects the powerless—even at the cost of power.”