Avatar-The Mandate of Heaven

Two cultural guardians stood over a corpse riddled with minute earthen pellets. Though they had been trained since youth in this deadly and clandestine technique, its sheer lethality never ceased to chill them. While master benders often extolled the grandeur of elemental forces in their raw, unbridled form, few would imagine that diminutive shards of rock could prove just as devastating in the art of killing.

Their chief grievance, however, lay not in the macabre scene but in their colleague's consistent habit of treating them as mere janitors of death. The man showed no regard for economy in the expenditure of lives, leaving behind scenes so saturated with carnage that even these hardened men, numbed to horror, found it tedious to navigate a room cluttered with corpses.

"They were conducting some kind of ritual here," remarked the scar-faced man, his voice coarse yet laced with an air of detached scrutiny.

The observation generalized the pervasive plague infesting Ba Sing Se. When spiritual movements fragment, lacking centralized leadership and uniform practices, they become increasingly elusive, resisting apprehension in a single, decisive strike.

These cultists, the deranged Acolytes of San Bao, invariably performed rituals to induct their newest adherents, whether freshly converted disciples or their so-called cherished offspring. Their practices mocked the sanctity of tradition while exalting a warped ideology that directly threatened not just Ba Sing Se's cultural heritage but the moral order of the world at large.

"Spare no sympathy for these vermin," the second guardian said, planting his earthen boots upon the motionless bodies to confirm their eternal stillness. "Nor should you expect mercy from them."

Despite the cold callousness of nearly all colleagues, they are strangely gentler souls compared to the ones they hunted. The cultists' twisted dogma, their obsession with supposed bloodline purity, is both grotesque and comical in its arbitrariness. Their edicts forbade unions between parents of differing bending heritages, a concept that inspired more ridicule than respect among these pragmatic enforcers.

Yet the consequence of this delusion is anything but laughable, even unsettling the cynical men who dedicate themselves to be the eyes of the state.

For the scar-faced guardian, these dealings with religious deviants have spanned the majority of his service to Ba Sing Se. Though these unsanctioned cultists preach ideals of compassion, austerity, and humility, their actions reveal glaring hypocrisy. Occasional acts of vandalism against remote Yang Chen temples in the Lower Ring stand as defiant contradictions to the virtues they claim to embody, and a challenge against the city itself.

Such agitators, adversaries of state order, are promptly apprehended and subjected to correction. Yet, tales from beyond the great wall offer unsettling glimpses into the chaos these fanatics might unleash on a city deprived of its resolute defenses.

Reflecting on his so-called brothers, fellow guardians of Ba Sing Se's cultural legacy, the scar-faced sentinel considers their collective cynicism a sort of competition, each striving to outdo the other in callousness. Even so, their sadism pales against the depravity of their foes. Tortures and covert machinations designed to crush dissidents seem almost puerile when measured against the vivid horrors wrought by these zealots.

One memory looms large in his head, the image of an acolyte triumphantly parading through the streets with the severed head of a Northern Water Tribe woman.

These primitive zealots proudly assume themselves to be fulfilling some nebulous, divinely mandated mission. Their devotion to their figure of worship eclipses loyalty to the city, surpassing even familial bonds. The audacity and horror of such displays necessitate herculean efforts to pacify the shaken populace, allowing time to dull memory. Five years have passed since that grim episode, and the collective consciousness of the city has gradually let the event fade into obscurity.

Those deemed less egregious in their fanaticism are once again sent to the correction halls. But treason intertwined with murder allows no room for mercy, leaving only the blade as the inevitable resolution.

That particular incident still weighs on the scar-faced guardian's mind, compelling him into grim contemplation. From inception to the present day, his order has never encountered adversaries who so thoroughly dismiss fear. Most tremble at the prospect of death, but these zealots seem to have transcended that mortal terror. This truth was made apparent when the guardian personally oversaw the execution of the acolytes responsible for the Water Tribe woman's murder.

There had been no pleading, no remorse. Only unshakable conviction as the condemned look in awe towards the skies. The most unsettling aspect was not their defiance but their serene, almost euphoric surrender. Even as the executioner's dadao descended on their necks, the perpetrators met their end with a tranquil smile, eyes alight with visions of salvation. Faith in their enigmatic deity, known only as the Master, eclipsed the very concept of death itself, rendering them oblivious to the blade's finality.

The scarred man's thoughts turned inward, grappling with the irony of his own existence. Despite his measured demeanor, he was only a few short steps removed from the very man who had carved a crimson way through this den of seventy cultists. And yet, amidst the carnage, he couldn't shake the creeping suspicion that perhaps the only difference between hunter and hunted was the side of the room on which they stood.

"Excessive," muttered the cultural guardian, voice low as he regarded a corpse before him. The face was grotesquely disfigured, battered into an unrecognizable pulp by the relentless barrage of tiny earthen shards, long after life had fled the body.

His partner arrived moments later, casting a detached glance at the scene but with a knowing smirk. Excessiveness, after all, was not uncommon among their ilk.

"Say," the partner began with mockery. "Didn't you once consort with a Waterbender?" He let the words hang in the air, savoring the tension as though indulging in a well-worn jest. "We live in an age where even a cowherder holds more value than an emperor who's fallen from grace. Yet I remain baffled. Of all things to bring you disgrace, a nobody from the swamp? Strange taste, indeed."

The scar-faced man's expression hardened. "And what does she have to do with our current investigation?"

"A simple reminder," his partner replied, feigning wisdom while veiling malice in his tone. "Rules exist to maintain order. Yet you, somehow continue to break them. Affection in our line of work is tolerable, but only in moderation. If you have courted one of the elegant heiresses of the Upper Ring instead of challenging the director's patience, we might not even be having this conversation."

The scar-faced man said nothing, save for the subtle tightening of his jaw. It was no secret that the Earth Kingdom is a fragmented entity, its people often at odds even within its vast borders. The citizens of Ba Sing Se in particular carried a tendency to belittle their counterparts from less prosperous lands, a prejudice only exacerbated in this era of constant war between the former provinces.

"Let's focus," he said tersely, steering the conversation away from personal matters. "It wouldn't be wise to lower our guard in a den of wolves." A single straggler could prove dangerous, even with nothing more than a shiv. Places like these, enclosed and underground, are always breeding grounds for treachery.

"A den of dead wolves," his partner corrected with a sardonic grin. "But you should count yourself lucky. Your tryst with that Waterbender remains a well-guarded secret. The director himself went to great lengths to contain such a disgrace."

The scar-faced man offered no rebuttal, his silence an acknowledgment of the truth. Together, they advanced through the hall of corpses, earthen boots crunching over debris and blood-soaked stone. At the far end of the chamber stood a dais, its presence unmistakably ceremonial. Here, the cultists had likely ordained their 'purest' members, those deemed worthy by the warped ideals of their sect.

Although past cases taught them that each local congregation operated under the authority of a single leader, a priest or shaman of sorts, they believe that a local sect leader is responsible for all the proliferating acolytes spawning in Ba Sing Se. Further exacerbating their search is the sprawling chaos of the Lower Ring, a perfect veil for their decentralized hierarchy. Finding the so-called head of the snake is akin to searching for a needle in an ocean, an impossible task even for the eyes of the state.

"Hey, look at this," the partner called from a shadowed corner of the room.

The scar-faced man approached, lifting the hem of his dark green robe to avoid staining it further with blood. What greeted him was the corpse of a man draped in ornate ceremonial robes, a stark contrast to the others scattered about.

"Could he be the sect leader himself?" the scar-faced man wondered aloud.

"Well, well," his partner drawled, the straw in his mouth bobbing with amusement. "It seems we've finally caught him."

The scar-faced man's expression darkened. "Caught? Does this look like a capture to you? Our orders were to take him alive."

His partner's grin faltered, and he leaned in for a closer inspection. Upon examining the body, they noted the grotesque overkill, an obscene number of pellets had torn into the man, far more than necessary to kill him.

Their suspicions crystallized. The one who had arrived before them was no mere subordinate. Yet, despite the autonomy, even they would not dare disobey a direct order from the director.

"Well," the scar-faced man sighed. "We might as well bring the body back as evidence."

Without ceremony, his partner heaved the corpse into a sack, eliciting a scowl from the other.

"Disrespecting the dead is a moral transgression," the scar-faced man said.

His partner let out a derisive laugh. "We are not those stubborn moralists," he retorted. "After all, who was it that sullied himself with a swamp hag?"

The scar-faced man held his tongue. It seemed that even the long-forgotten stains of his past could be dredged up like a blade, sharpened anew to cut him down.

...

Contrary to popular belief, those who set foot in the fabled tea garden are said to encounter the most serene sanctuary across the entire continent. Yet, only those privileged to wander the innermost sanctums of the Royal Palace can dispute such claims with authority.

Shan emerged from a stone moon gate, stepping into a realm of cultivated wilderness. Surrounding him is a kaleidoscope of exotic flora, vivid blossoms, verdant trees, and intricate vines, all arranged in what seemed an intentional chaos, concealing further treasures within this lush expanse. Before him stretched a long, nine-turn stone bridge, its zigzagging design spanning a shallow pond dappled with golden sunlight. The bridge beckoned him forward, leading deeper into the garden's enigmatic embrace. With deliberate steps, Shan advanced, one hand braced against his lower back, the other gracefully fanning himself with the iconic white fan, a symbol as much of status as utility.

As he proceeded, the landscape transformed subtly but perceptibly. Water beneath the bridge deepened, shifting from crystalline shallows to a darker, tranquil depth. Towering trees began to assert their presence, their canopies crowned with exquisite blooms like the famed plum blossom, fragrance mingling with the pond's floral perfume. The water itself teemed with life, adorned with lily pads that bore resplendent pink lotuses, their golden hearts glimmering like treasures. It was an organic symphony, devoid of symmetry yet abundant in beauty, a painter's dream realized by a gardener's hand.

Though not one to admire excessive embellishment, Shan could not entirely suppress a glimmer of appreciation for the spectacle unfolding before him. It was his first time within this garden, and despite his pragmatic disposition, the vibrant panorama stirred a faint but undeniable sense of wonder.

The bridge twisted and turned, eventually delivering him to an expansive clearing where the trees and shrubs parted like a stage's curtain, revealing the garden's center piece. At its heart lay a serene pond of crystalline clarity, encircling a small, crafted island accessible only by the bridge's continuation. Here, the artistry of the garden's design became evident. The air was imbued with the freshness of a double spring breeze, its gentle caress animating orchid leaves and whispering through peony petals. For a fleeting moment, Shan felt himself enveloped by an otherworldly tranquility, as if time itself had stilled to allow him to marvel at this divine composition. The chaos of tangled flora and haphazard stones faded into a cohesive elegance, the serenity profound enough to quiet even his disciplined mind.

Yet he was quick to reclaim composure, gaze shifted to the pavilion that crowned the island's center, where a solitary figure awaited him beneath its tiled roof. The man's presence drew Shan back to his purpose. Resuming a measured pace, Shan crossed the final stretch of the bridge, his steps calm but purposeful, careful to betray neither eagerness nor indifference.

Upon reaching the pavilion, his host greeted him with practiced warmth. A tea set, meticulously arranged, awaited them. The fragrant steam curling upward betrayed the tea's noble origins.

"Welcome, my protégé," Han Fei intoned, gesturing for Shan to take the seat opposite him. With practiced ease, Shan folded his fan and tucked it into his simple white changshan before settling into the chair.

"I trust the tea has not cooled," Shan remarked out of courtesy, though both men knew the brew remained at its ideal warmth. It was a formal exchange, a performance as precise as the brewing process itself. It was likely that Han Fei's servants had prepared the tea moments before Shan's arrival, a testament to the man's uncanny ability to orchestrate even the unseen.

"Fear not, my student," Han Fei replied with a faint smile. "This tea is nothing extraordinary, merely some spare leaves from a White Dragon Bush."

Shan's expression remained neutral, disciplined demeanor showing no reaction. Yet he was acutely aware of the unspoken etiquette, to keep one's host waiting, especially a mentor, is a breach of decorum. Their relationship, though not bound by the teachings of the Earth Sages, is still steeped in the shared reverence for filial piety, a virtue that transcended scholarly affiliations.

Noticing the faint stiffness in Shan's gaze, Han Fei allowed himself a quiet chuckle, a sound as light as the rustle of leaves. The subtle humor eased Shan's internal tension, though such relaxation would have been imperceptible to an untrained observer. In a gesture of respect, Shan reached for the teapot, pouring tea first into his mentor's cup before filling his own. Although the young scholar has no time for the pedantic ideals of those Earth Sages, the unspoken ritual of reciprocity underscored the silent understanding between two gentlemen bound by intellect. Or more specifically, they both shun the bygone and obsolete moral system championed by the Sages, acknowledging their own meritocratic prowess that stood superior over birthright.

As with any gathering over tea, the conversation naturally veered toward the surrounding scenery. Shan, however, found such topics mildly irksome. While his mastery of calligraphy and landscape art is renowned, his appreciation for the natural world seldom extended beyond its orderly representation. Here, the flora thrived in an anarchic profusion that felt untamed, almost rebellious. It is a masterpiece, but one that resisted domestication, a feral creature cloaked in elegance. Despite its allure, Shan could not truly reconcile himself to the garden's chaotic splendor, which does not cater to those who are fond of patterns or standardized arrangements. It clashed with a disciplined mind, a worldview shaped by a reverence for order and the clarity it bestowed.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Han Fei remarked, savoring the tea with practiced ease, as if such rare brews were his daily indulgence. He had already noted his protégé's conflicted reaction, an unspoken disdain tinged with reluctant admiration for the garden's untamed splendor. "They call this place the Treasure of the Spring, a name bestowed by a past Earth King. Fancy, wouldn't you say? See those goldfish? They're said to be descendants of the original ones raised when this garden was first constructed. The Earth King of that time personally cared for them, dedicating time and effort to their health."

Shan's gaze fell to the fish, their shimmering scales flawless, delicate fins gliding like clouds across the water. These creatures, large and impeccably maintained by the past monarchs, symbolized the care lavished upon this garden, a haven that seemed impervious to the chaos of the world outside. Yet, the young scholar's expressionless face betrayed a simmering disdain. Han Fei, astute as ever, read him like an open scroll.

The garden's meticulous upkeep is just another sign of the monarchy's misplaced priorities. To Shan, it was a monument to excess, beauty overshadowed by the neglect of the wider kingdom. It is indeed poetic that the moralistic teachings of the Earth Sages likened the ruler to a father figure, tasked with nurturing the nation as a parent would their children. Therefore, the subjects must also maintain this idyllic harmony through loyalty, piety and respect for the elders who guide the hands of power.

Yet, history often mocked this ideal. The proverbial harmony between ruler and subject was often shattered in times of famine and rebellion, when the cries of the people were drowned out by the clinking of porcelain in royal courtyards.

A certain fool once said:

Family is in essence a small nation, and the nation a large family.

But even children would understand that such fanciful notions rarely manifested. Outside the golden epochs of prosperity, it takes no more than the empty belly of a disillusioned farmer to ignite rebellion. A mere spark can engulf half a forest in flames, leaving chaos to reign unbridled, hungering for transformation with a desperation that borders on the suicidal. Far too often, the Earth Kingdom monarchy and its governors are little more than indolent, avaricious nepotists, derelict stewards who avert their gaze from the starving masses, instead lavishing their attention upon frivolous indulgences.

This garden? It has been meticulously tended, a bastion of opulence, impervious to the tides of rebellion, war, and famine. Despite the turmoil beyond the towering walls, the Upper Ring and the gilded palace maintain their air of unbroken excess. Shielded by these fortifications, indulgence becomes habitual, and ignorance thrives. All one needs is the willful pretense that nothing exists beyond the sanctuary of privilege.

"Whenever I visit this place," Han Fei continued, gently blowing on his tea, "I feel a strange sense of calm. It's as if all concerns dissolve, replaced by an irresistible tranquility. Just sitting here, doing nothing, feels... restorative." He sipped slowly, savoring the legendary brew, while Shan remained silent by watching a lone plum blossom drift lazily to the pond's surface, rippling outward in perfect concentric circles. A cluster of goldfish swam toward it, mistaking the fallen bloom for food. The mentor's voice softened. "I would describe this garden as a beautiful disorder. Its charm lies in its unrestrained irregularity, each element in good taste, yet defying traditional structure. No single vantage point reveals all its beauty, and you must appreciate it piece by piece."

To an untrained eye, this garden might appear chaotic, but its design was rooted in a deeper philosophy, one that found its origin before the Earth Kingdom's first unified dynasty. Unlike the rigid doctrines of mainstream Earth Sages, who adhere to a strictly defined moral code, this spiritual philosophy embraces a far more fluid and enigmatic approach to life and morality. Many mistakenly classify it as a religion due to its supposed pantheon of deities. However, true adherents of this ancient tradition follow a formless and ineffable principle known simply as The Way. It is not something to be comprehended or explained, its existence is a paradox, an ever-present force that defies understanding.

The philosophy teaches that by surrendering to the natural course of events, one's life will flow like a river, unwavering yet unhurried, moving in harmony and peace. It also emphasizes self-cultivation, urging practitioners to strengthen their chi through inner discipline. Yet, its ambiguity and promotion of 'doing nothing' invite criticism. Detractors view it as passive and impractical, ill-suited for the demands of effective governance or proactive leadership. Its adaptability to other faiths and traditions, while seen as a strength by some, has also led to excess and misuse. Certain practitioners, particularly alchemists, have twisted the concept of cultivation by blending herbs and minerals in an effort to refine their chi. The pursuit of the fabled elixir of immortality, often crafted with mercury, has proven tragically fatal to many monarchs. Even a previous Avatar narrowly escaped death by mercury poisoning, a sobering reminder of its dangers.

Despite these controversies and the skepticism of pragmatists, a select few have found profound enlightenment in this philosophy. To them, The Way embodies the eternal flow of the universe itself, vast, unknowable, but also serene.

Shan exhaled sharply through his nose, rising from the chair molded from hardened clay. The goldfish in the pond below released a flurry of tiny bubbles, seemingly startled by the chill of his glare. With a swift motion, the young Zhuangyuan snapped open his white fan, waving it with a controlled urgency. He drained the delicate porcelain cup of tea, indifferent to its otherworldly flavor, offering no comment on its perfection. As serene and radiant as this pleasure garden appeared, one could not help but question its purpose. What end did its entrancing beauty truly serve? The Treasure of the Spring was commissioned by an Earth King who aspired to create the most exquisite garden in the world, a vanity project to rival the prestige of the Firelord of that era. Yet, this ambition came at a dire cost. While bandits terrorized the countryside and economic hardships gripped the populace, the monarch prioritized an extravagant display of wealth. Upon its completion, the king ensconced himself within its tranquil splendor, sipping tea beneath the flowering canopies, utterly detached from the nation's festering crises. This escapist retreat, though undeniably magnificent, remains a contentious symbol of misplaced priorities. Each inept ruler who inherits its legacy retreats to this sanctuary in times of turmoil, seeking solace amid the blossoms, as though their serenity could mask the chaos beyond the towering walls.

The illusion is intoxicating, a perfect, tranquil world where every concern dissolves into the soft rustle of leaves. Yet scholars have long criticized its origins. Some go so far as to describe its construction as tantamount to building a monument with human lives. A hyperbolic sentiment, perhaps, but one that the White Scholar finds disturbingly plausible. For as long as incompetent nepotists cling to power, chaos and disorder will continue to brew unchecked beyond the gates of the Upper Ring.

"There is no virtue in beauty if it masks anarchy," Shan remarked, his tone calm yet edged with characteristic gentlemanly precision. "While ornaments such as this garden may delight the eye, they hold no true value when public resources are squandered on something so detached from the survival of the state."

To this young Zhuangyuan, art was not meant to be a chaotic indulgence of free will or unrestrained expression. Instead, it should be deliberate, meticulously structured, and crafted with purpose. All creations, he believed, must align with the law so true stability could flourish.

"That is true," Han Fei conceded in gentle yet pointed manner. He sensed his protégé's impatience and knew it was time to move on to the matters at hand. But this time, it's the mentor's turn to pour tea into Shan's empty cup.

Within the framework of Earth Sage philosophy, the dominant school of thought that shapes the Earth Kingdom, Han Fei's seemingly trivial act would be deemed a grave transgression. Pouring tea for another is a ritual of respect, traditionally reserved for elders or those of higher rank. Yet, neither Shan nor Han Fei concerns themselves too much with such archaic codes of honor when dealing with one another.

Unless in the presence of others or under the scrutiny of public expectation, they scarcely uphold the familial values so venerated by the Earth Sages. For individuals like them, merit supersedes tradition. They place little stock in age, lineage, or titles. What matters most to them is skill, practical ability and, above all, their contribution to the rejuvenation of the nation.

"I must extend my congratulations on your ascension," Han Fei said, joining Shan at his side. Both men gazed upon the koi pond, where vibrant fish nibbled away at the delicate petals of a fallen blossom. "While attaining the title of Zhuangyuan is undoubtedly a feat worthy of praise, the true marvel lies in your audacious incorporation of legalist principles into your essay. Such a bold stance could have imperiled your success, yet it appears the spirits of past Avatars favored your resolve. Even those sanctimonious moralists, with all their petty inclinations, could not deny your brilliance." He chuckled softly, lifting his teacup in a toast to the occasion.

The young scholar, however, remained stoic. His only response was a measured nod, prompting Han Fei to shift the conversation.

"Challenging the entire city to critique your essay, now that, I must admit, is a masterstroke," Han Fei continued. "Few in history would dare such an audacious gambit, and even fewer today would risk offending the Te patriarch."

"I do not make my decisions lightly," Shan replied with quiet conviction. His words carried an edge as he alluded to Lady Te. "Lord Te allows senility to cloud his judgment. The examination process is grueling, sometimes cruel, but merit alone must determine rank, even if it hinges upon the correction of a single errant word." As he spoke, Shan fanned himself with practiced grace, cooling his skin and reflecting on the recent ceremony. "The arrogance of many nobles is staggering. Born into privilege with access to superior tutors and ample leisure for study, they dare to question the merit of a commoner. In a truly meritocratic system, only those with the wisdom of a sage and the fortitude of a Badgermole deserve the right to govern." His tone sharpened. "The gravest folly of the Te patriarch is to publicly challenge my legitimacy. Henceforth, he will find himself steeped in the dishonor I have so precisely prescribed."

"Do not drive a dog into a dead corner, for even a cornered beast will bite," Han Fei cautioned. As the director of the Ba Sing Se Museum, he understood the precarious balance of maintaining relationships with the aristocracy. Families like the Te and the Beifong wielded considerable influence, ruling their independent domains. While Ba Sing Se sought to expand its presence across the fractured Earth Kingdom, outright hostility toward the gentry is a risk too great to take. Neutrality, after all, is sacrosanct, even for the mightiest state in the northern part of this war-torn continent.

Amid the current turmoil, where nearly all Earth Kingdom states are locked in conflict with one another, allies are as precious as gold and jade. The mere absence of open hostility from a neighboring state is considered a profound blessing. This is precisely why Shan's impetuous actions against the aristocrats of Zigan are unlikely to sit well with the city's elder statesmen present, which also includes Han Fei.

"The Te patriarch was the instigator," Shan countered with unwavering resolve expected from an ambitious young scholar. "I merely responded in kind. How many states and dynasties have crumbled under the weight of complacent, senile rulers who suppress the reforms of the younger generation, even to the point of persecution?"

Han Fei sighed but offered a slight nod. "So long as you tread cautiously. Though the Te clan's influence wanes with each passing day, even a dying dog's bite remains sharp." He took another sip of tea, then steered the discussion to lighter topics, as was their custom during these rare meetings.

The conversation inevitably veered toward courtly matters, an area Shan had anticipated. For an aspiring statesman, mastery of court intrigue is as essential as air to the lungs. It is also what the renowned White Scholar excelled, easily predicting his mentor's intent.

As the older man swirled his tea, his smirk betrayed a hint of mischief. Shan, keenly attuned to his mentor's subtleties after years of tutelage, braced himself for what was to come.

"While enjoying tea with Prefect Bao Zheng, I overheard whispers from certain guests at the ceremony. Rumors, you see, that could prove inconvenient to your burgeoning reputation." Han Fei's voice carried an air of caution. Shan, however, remained unfazed, gaze fixed on the garden scene. "Even legalists," Han Fei continued with a firmer tone. "Do not condone indulgence of the sort associated with Ximen Qing."

The warning was unmistakable, but Shan kept his composure, fan rhythmically stirring the air. "I fail to see how such trifles might disrupt your carefully laid plans," he remarked with feigned nonchalance. "Surely, you do not liken yours truly to the virtuous Ximen Qing?"

Whether offering an umbrella to a nameless woman was an unintentional blunder or a masterful Pai Sho maneuver, defying one's mentor is undeniably a perilous stratagem. For the museum director, who holds the city's alliance with the Te family in high regard, the audacity of a brash youth will soon collide with the unforgiving lessons of Neutral Jing, a harsh reminder that true strength lies in the art of patience.

"You are my head apprentice," Han Fei said, his tone measured and conciliatory. "Among all my students, you have demonstrated the greatest potential to become my successor. These are not mere words of flattery from a teacher seeking to placate a pupil, they are simply the truth. That is why I trust you are not one to take risks without careful calculation."

Shan remained unmoved, his expression colder than the decorative rocks scattered throughout the garden. Yet, despite his stillness, a retort left his lips, one not aimed at his mentor, but at the aristocratic world of the Upper Ring, which he regarded with disdain. The young man harbored a fierce loathing for any obstacle in his path to ascendancy.

"The nepotists may gossip to their heart's content, but nothing shall hinder my ambition," Shan declared. "I see no reason to place any stock in noble integrity, considering their own moral inadequacy. Nearly every affluent household in the Upper Ring sends their children to be tutored by Earth Sages, yet where is their humility?"

Excepting the Ximen family, who shamelessly flaunt the delinquency of their heir, most noble houses across the continent seek to have their progeny instructed by men steeped in the sagely tradition. Practically speaking, it serves as little more than a pious facade, designed to present a veneer of virtue to the public eye. Few, if any, truly subscribe to the doctrines of the first Earth Sage or live by the social virtues they espouse. And it is an illusion to expect those born into wealth and luxury to temper their lavish lifestyles in the pursuit of wisdom.

The White Scholar turned to the museum director, folding his hands together and bowing low. "I have proven time and again of my merit and is therefore more than capable of assuming any mantle you wish to bestow upon me."

Han Fei, observing his pupil with the detached gaze of one who has lived through many such moments, simply finished his cup of tea. With age came experience, especially in witnessing how the youth often faltered in their pursuit of lofty ambitions.

"You are not my first student," Han Fei reminded the young scholar, replacing the lid on his simple clay cup. "I have seen many ambitious young men led astray by their own overconfidence. While you may be my most promising pupil, even you are not yet ready."

Shan's expression remained unchanged, but within the heart of any ambitious scholar, refusal was intolerable.

"Then what do you believe I lack?" the young man asked, his voice impeccably concealing any trace of discontent. Though his mentor understood the latent grievance, Han Fei offered his candid assessment of the White Scholar's deficiencies.

The wind whispered through the garden, the leaves swaying slowly as though they too sought to listen to the wisdom of one who wasn't granted the title of Earth Sage.

"You lack fear," Han Fei said. "Or, more precisely, you do not understand it enough."

No immediate refutation came from Shan's lips. There was no shock, no confusion, only a nonchalant expression that masked any deeper thoughts, a veneer of indifference that betrayed little.

"It is not easy to assume a greater mantle in service of the state," the director continued, his tone devoid of condescension, an uncommon trait among the Earth Sages. "As a wise old man once said, those who do not fear death can accomplish anything. But we do not subscribe to such reckless disregard for self-preservation, a lesson that would have been useful during my youth. Furthermore, the burden of serving the state is inseparable from the responsibility of leading others. You are still inexperienced in that regard, despite your considerable talent."

The counsel imparted is meant to guide the Zhuangyuan scholar into a realm he had yet to master, namely, the delicate art of managing relationships with various factions, particularly those he might one day command. Despite Shan's callous nature, he at least acknowledged his mentor's words as valid, recognizing both his youth and the raw scholarly talent.

"Yours truly humbly accepts this, my mentor," Shan declared, without an ounce of emotion that can be interpreted.

Yet, Han Fei, more attuned than anyone else to the nuances of his pupil's heart, could sense the barely concealed irritation that simmered beneath the stoic exterior.

"A tree that has grown for twenty years can be felled in minutes, and a masterpiece can be ruined by a single ink blot," Han Fei warned, heavy with finality. "I have expectations for you, my pupil, just as I had for all those who came before you."

Unlike the carefree goldfish gliding through the tranquil pond, young and ambitious scholars like Shan are burdened with matters far beyond mere sustenance. No doubt, the moralists of the Earth Sages would soon fan the flames of gossip, spreading rumors about a lowly woman coincidentally carrying the White Scholar's umbrella. Such tidbits would undoubtedly reach the ears of the influential Upper Ring households, and inevitably into the ears of the Te patriarch.

Yet, these senile sages, ever predictable in their moralizing, would play their part as they always had. In their fervor to discredit an upstart calligraphy peddler, the young Zhuangyuan shall relish in quiet amusement, who found surprising usefulness in their well-worn behaviors.