“Bai Ling seems busy these days,” Hong Xin said. “I hardly ever get a chance to talk to her.”
“Is that out of necessity or choice?” Ji Bingxue asked. The question was a slap in the face. As headmistress, Hong Xin could make time for anyone.
“Perhaps it’s out of choice,” Hong Xin admitted. “Every time we talk about things, we argue.” She wasn’t sure whether the arguments stemmed from the mask of strength she wore or from her own character. The intimidating façade kept many of the others in line.
The nature of their arguments related to their direction now that the matters with the Spirit Temple had been handled. Their business was going well, they were training new members at record speeds, and their relationship with the Icy Heart Pavilion was smoothing out. They were even cooperating on some ventures.
Unfortunately, Bai Ling and Hong Xin disagreed on one key thing: what to do with those initial members of the Red Dust Pavilion they’d enslaved. What was surprising about their discussions was that Hong Xin found herself being the callous and unforgiving one, the block of ice being chipped away little by little by Bai Ling’s sharp arguments. The ice had grown so thin that she didn’t dare encounter her too often, lest it soften her resolve.
“She’s right, you know,” Ji Bingxue said softly. Hong Xin looked to her eyes, which were now averted.
“You too?” Hong Xin asked, pained. The last thing she’d expected from the typically demure and agreeable Ji Bingxue was confrontation.
“Tell me, Headmistress,” Ji Bingxue said, looking back up and straight in her eyes. “Should a man with a knife, a disagreeable man, be imprisoned and enslaved?”
“I hardly see how that pertains to our situation,” Hong Xin said, a trace of irritation appearing in her voice. She suppressed it. A headmistress should be calm and hard as a sheet of ice.
“Then perhaps you’ll entertain a story?” Ji Bingxue said. “Since arguments seem to only further reinforce your armor? I’ve been told I’m quite the storyteller.”
“You’re going to try to use kindling arts to make your point?” Hong Xin asked, bemused.
“No, I’ll just tell you a normal story,” Ji Bingxue said. “No kindling arts, no qi. I’ve found that stories often help us find ourselves, as through them we can ignore our predispositions and slip into a certain mindset we wouldn’t otherwise consider.”
“All right,” Hong Xin said, pursing her lips. “I’m listening.”
Ji Bingxue smiled. “Then I’ll start with our main character, a man named Li Pin. He was a fortunate man. Though his family was poor, and though he wasn’t a cultivator, he managed to get into a prestigious school. He was hardworking, you see, and quite bright. He had a mind for academics, so he got in on a scholarship. There, he learned all sorts of wondrous things. Wondrous but terrible things.”
“Terrible?” Hong Xin asked, surprised at her own interruption. Ji Bingxue seemed to have expected it, however.
“Terrible,” Ji Bingxue repeated. “For who but terrible men would seek to profit at the expense of others? Who but terrible men would seek to understand history, the weapons of politicians and nobles, who manipulate others on a whim?”
“That makes absolutely no sense,” Hong Xin said, her suppressed irritation returning.
“Then wait till you hear what happens next,” Ji Bingxue said. “For you will discover what made it so terrible. You see, he went to school with men who grew to be very powerful. Three of them became absolute terrors in the business world. Even mighty cultivators, those with the most right to rule, couldn’t help but bow and scrape before them.”
“A cultivator hardly has the right to rule,” Hong Xin pointed out.
“But according to their culture, this was so,” Ji Bingxue said. “For every king who led the country was a cultivator, and every titled nobleman was a cultivator, and most successful businesspeople were cultivators. But those who went to this school were not; the school didn’t accept cultivators, you see, for they wouldn’t be of the right mindset for generating profit. They wouldn’t know the base intricacies of finance and the sufferings of the many.”
“What a terrible thing,” Hong Xin said. “Knowledge of the lower class, with which one could get along in life. To be honest, I’m surprised this Li Pin’s family name isn’t Wang. It sounds like a story their family would use.”
“Perhaps,” Ji Bingxue said. She poured another cup of tea for Hong Xin, heating it as she poured. “It might surprise you then, that as prestigious as the school was, only a few of their members actually became very successful. Most became normal business owners, who still had to bow and scrape to local cultivators. It was their lot in life, and they did the best they could. Li Pin became a restaurant owner. He even took turns cooking in the back, as they were always short-staffed and on a tight budget.
“Unbeknownst to him, however, great powers were waging a war. Those three powerful business owners decided to usurp the throne and depose the cultivators. The war raged on, unbeknownst to the masses. Li Pin knew nothing of it. Many years passed, and finally, through the loss of many lives, the king and his men finally slew those three sly businessmen, and the guards they had hired, at great expense. In their resentment, they passed laws limiting education for non-cultivators. This was to prevent them from ever outgrowing their station.”
“A clear overreaction,” Hong Xin said. “Though their paranoia is understandable.”
“Yes, it is,” Ji Bingxue said. “So understandable, in fact, that everyone who went to such schools as Li Pin became an object of public criticism. Li Pin lost his business, and soon he was forced to sell himself into slavery.”
“Just like that?”
