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“A scholar.” His father barked out a laugh. Once he turned older, Junyi learned that his father had taken the local exams thirteen times and failed them each time. “Well, we better fucking hope so, though I wouldn’t hold my breath. That entire system is corrupt to begin with, and those examiners wouldn’t recognize talent if it shit on their doorsteps. But hey, maybe they’ll let him in by mistake.” Then he was striding out the gate, his robe pockets jingling with loose coins.

Mother had turned to Junyi, where he was hiding behind the wall. “Come here,” she said, her soft face crinkling when she smiled, her arms held open. “What do you want for dinner?”

He wasn’t hungry, and he didn’t want his mother to cook again. He just wanted her to be next to him.

“Whatever is easiest,” he told her quietly.

Her smile wobbled as she reached out to ruffle his hair. “You’re such a good kid,” she said. “One day, they’ll all see it.”

When Junyi turned twelve, an academy opened up its enrollments to all boys—even the ones from the villages.

It was closer to his house than any school had ever been, but it would still require a long, arduous walk through the forest, across a creek deep enough that he needed to roll up his tunic, and up two thousand and two hundred perilously steep mountain steps—he knew this for certain, because he counted every single one on his first day there. He found that the counting helped calm his nerves as he tugged at the thin straps of his satchel. It wasn’t very heavy, since there was hardly anything inside—only the two ripe plums his mother had packed for him as a snack, a splitting brush, and a handkerchief. He didn’t have any experience with what to bring, in any case. His feet were already starting to blister from the climb and from being squeezed into boots that had grown too small three summers ago, but he didn’t dare complain. He knew he was already lucky. Luck in the midst of misfortune, as he liked to remind myself. He was lucky that his father had relented and allowed him to go to school at all, even if part of the reason was simply so his father wouldn’t have to see him around the house as often. The other part was that in the rare event he took the exams and succeeded, he would be able to start bringing money home, and his father would finally have something to boast about.

That was the whole point of school, according to his father: a path—albeit an inherently unjust, corrupt one—to an elevated social status and financial security.

Junyi agreed to some extent, but secretly, he also held out hope that he would befriend others his age. He liked to be alone most of the time, and he tired easily after a long conversation, so even one friend would have been more than enough. Somebody he could confide in, and laugh with, and trust. Maybe they could study together. His imagination spun with all the possibilities. Maybe they would take the exams together, and pass them in the same year, and enter the courts as two of the most brilliant ministers the empire had ever seen—

“You! Are you the new student?”

He whipped around so fast he almost lost his footing on the next step. Sweat dripped from his brow, and his skin was flushed and itchy despite the cool, damp air of the mountains. Self-conscious, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve and smiled at the four boys approaching from below.

The tallest of them was the one who had spoken. His features were the closest thing to geometric perfection Junyi had ever seen—not too narrow and not too broad, not so sharp as to be threatening, and not so smooth as to be weak. Dark brows as straight and confident as the brush stroke that spelled the character for one, gleaming phoenix eyes, and naturally red lips that were twisted up on the right side. His robes were as polished as his countenance: the clean, elegant white of swan feathers, and made of such soft material they rose like clouds around him when he moved. Standing next to him, Junyi felt like something molded from mud: unrefined and undignified. But he was too busy admiring the boy to despair over his own position.

Maybe this is how it happens, he thought to himself, almost giddy. Maybe he would join this group. Maybe they would invite him to sit with them in class.

“I am,” he answered, and bowed low, as he had heard was common among the noble and scholarly men. Then he gave the little speech he had been practicing on the walk here. “My name is Junyi. I’m not very familiar with this area, so I might have to trouble you to please take care of me. I will try my very hardest to learn from you in the many days to come.” With the degree his back was bent, he could feel his satchel sliding down his neck. Hastily, he straightened.

“Junyi,” the boy repeated, his mouth twisting higher. He exchanged a muted, dark-eyed look with the other boys, a look that Junyi couldn’t understand. “Don’t worry, we’ll definitely take care of you.” And then he bowed too.

It ought to have been polite—both his words and actions. But the boy’s returning smile did not spread to the other muscles in his face, and his bow was performed in an abrupt, dramatic movement, while the others watched. A cold, nauseous feeling sank inside Junyi’s stomach as he realized that he was being made fun of. The skin on his cheeks suddenly felt very thin and raw.

“Thank you. I—I will see you inside,” he said, ducking his head, and began to climb again, ignoring the cramp in his side and the pinch of his boots. He had not taken three steps when he heard the boys erupt into loud laughter behind him.

Later, he learned the boy’s name was Qiming. He belonged to one of the most powerful families in the city; his father worked directly under the emperor and commanded great respect at court, and the rumors went that one of the princesses in the palace was related to his mother. Nobody could confirm this, but Qiming certainly made no efforts to deny it.

They did end up sitting together in class, but it was not by choice. Their teacher—a jaded, bearded old man who had failed the civil service examinations himself and had an unfortunate habit of pausing at random points in his sentences so one could never be entirely sure when he’d finished a lecture—had asked Qiming to help Junyi catch up on his studies.

“Certainly, sir,” Qiming had replied with a winning smile. But the instant the teacher’s back was turned, that smile had drawn into a sneer.

It was two terrible shocks at once. Junyi had not known just how far behind he already was. The other students had renowned private tutors and meticulously selected study companions from the moment they could talk. While Junyi had been busy helping his mother chop firewood and fan the stove and collect the broken wine jugs from his father’s room, the others had been instructed in law and mathematics and archery, with servants to bring them sweet delicacies and steaming tea. One of the boys had memorized the entirety of The Analects of Confucius when he was five years old, out of sheer boredom. Occasionally, during breaks, the students would crowd around him and yell out a page at random, and he would recite every word as smoothly as if he were reading from a book. It terrified Junyi. The creeping sense of inferiority he felt could only be compared to pure, primal fear: the insoluble lump in his throat, the tightness in his muscles, the heat racing up his neck. He wanted to laugh at himself for even daydreaming about becoming a minister, one of the best in the empire. He would be lucky if he could pass his classes.

Qiming, of course, did not help him catch up. He would pretend to lean over and add comments to his essays when really he would draw crude images of turtle eggs. If the teacher was away, he would snatch Junyi’s book from him without warning and make excruciating remarks about his annotations in a dramatic, drawling voice:

“Find out what this means. I didn’t realize this part was meant to be confusing. What is the poet’s intention here? Is it lust that they’re describing? Now, I do understand your curiosity, given your lack of experience. Memorize the last two lines; might be helpful to include in next essay. Unsure of this character—ask the teacher later.” He paused, giving the class sufficient time to giggle, and raised his brows at Junyi. “You don’t need to bother the teacher with such rudimentary questions. I can save you time and tell you right now, if you ask very nicely.”

He did his best to ignore them, but he could feel their eyes cutting through him.

“You’re so quiet,” Qiming remarked. “I’m talking to you. Don’t you know how to speak?”

Ignore them. He needed to ignore them, and then they would tire of their games, and move on. His fingers gripped the brush so tightly that it trembled.

But Qiming showed no signs of tiring. He made a lunging movement toward Junyi, stamping one boot down on the chair and resting his hand on his bent knee, like someone about to conduct an interrogation. “What are you afraid of? That we’ll grow teeth and bite you? We’re all friendly here.”

Junyi could feel his blood rushing to his head, turning his whole face hot. Sometimes he imagined himself as another person, someone braver and stronger and wittier, someone who didn’t cower and doubt themselves and bristle at an unkind word. A god, even, with the power to strike down anyone who wronged him. He imagined his skin glowing gold, wind buffeting his cloak, clouds spreading at his feet. Sometimes his imagination was so vivid it almost felt like a memory, like he was reaching into a distant, buried past.

Except he was only a boy, without any power, and all he could do was endure his life as it happened.

“Can I have my book back?” he asked.