The great theology hall of Star-Signet Academy looked like a miniature temple.
The dome wasn't that high, but the interior walls were painted with the same "holy white" used in proper sanctuaries. The pillars were carved all over with star patterns and scriptural lines. Behind the lectern hung a simplified Covenant Chain—not real, just gilded copper polished to a shine, meant to instill a little "reverence" in the students.
Qi Luo sat in the third-to-last row of the tiered seating, posture neat, cap stuffed into the desk, boots on the cold stone step.
The class was called Introduction to Basic Theology and Obedience Clauses.
First day, and attendance was almost perfect. Contract Department and Theology Department were mixed together: noble heirs, scions of tower-top trading houses, children of workshop technicians, and a small handful of "poor students" who'd clawed their way up from the lower tier.
No matter how often you washed a lower-tier student's clothes, they'd never have that seamless, untouched cleanness of the upper tiers. Even with academy uniforms issued, the fabric and cut gave everything away in the details.
"Look over there," a noble boy in the front row murmured, stifling a laugh. "Smells like Rust Street from here."
The laughter was soft, but it carried down the stone steps.
Qi Luo flipped his book to the assigned page and pretended not to hear.
He could see something else.
Above the hall hung a huge, pale-gold Covenant Chain—one branch of the "Teaching Clauses Mainline," representing this course's content, classroom discipline, and—most importantly—the boundaries of "correct theological narrative."
From that mainline, several thinner Chains branched toward individual students, some bright, some dim, marking whether what they said in this class would be logged.
Qi Luo's Chain was very thin, almost dark, but it stubbornly ran up from his chest and curled into a small loop of its own in midair, not entirely in step with the mainline.
"—All right, quiet down, please."
The lecturer finally appeared.
He was an elderly man with white hair but bright eyes, wearing the long robe of an academy theology professor. Two badges hung at his chest: one for a lifetime chair at Star-Signet, the other a silver lecturing medal from the Covenant Council.
"I am your theology professor, Zhuang Kolan," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it had that trained, podium-honed resonance. "Today, we'll look at a classic case."
As he spoke, the teaching Chain overhead brightened a shade.
"The case is titled 'The Tidelow Town Dispute on Obedience Obligations'," Professor Zhuang wrote the characters on the board. "More popularly known as—'The Traitor of Drowners' Bay.'"
A number of students chuckled; clearly they'd heard the story long before.
Qi Luo, however, frowned slightly.
He'd heard a different version.
"You mostly know the story already," Professor Zhuang went on, unhurried. "In a certain year, the town of Tidelow encountered an unprecedented ebb anomaly. The sea retreated, exposing vast stretches of seabed. The local priest declared this a warning from the Sea God: if the town did not immediately offer a 'representative' sacrifice, the next tide would swallow the town whole."
He chalked a simplified clause summary on the board:
[On each day the tide falls back, the town must offer one volunteer to the sea, as a sign of reverence.]
[If the town refuses to perform this duty, the Sea God reserves the right to withdraw protection.]
"Most people in the town chose obedience," Professor Zhuang scanned the room. "Only one young man refused. It is said he tried to persuade the townsfolk that 'this was not a true divine oracle, but the priest's private desire,' and even destroyed the altar."
A faint, cold smile tugged at his mouth.
"And the result?" He slashed the chalk across the board. "The next tide came, and a third of Tidelow drowned. The judgment ruled that the young man had obstructed the execution of divine will—a traitor. His family was stripped of Sea God protection in perpetuity."
Silence fell for a few seconds. Then someone muttered, "Serves him right."
"Obeying divine oracle is the first duty of mortals," Professor Zhuang said. "Especially in lower-tier communities like Tidelow, where theology is weak. If they cannot understand, they should at least learn to keep their mouths shut."
On the words "lower tier," his gaze quite naturally swept the back rows—over those faces a shade darker, eyes ringed in sleepless shadows, knuckles rough with callus.
Qi Luo felt more than a few looks following the professor's eyes toward them.
He lowered his head and glanced at the textbook.
The case was indeed there, word for word.
Except—at the corner of the page, in the gutter, a line of nearly invisible print had been squeezed in, so faint it looked like a smudge from a lazy printer.
Qi Luo narrowed his eyes.
Not a smudge—a parenthetical note:
[Note: For follow-up dispute on supplemental clauses, see Advanced Theology Case Compendium.]
He didn't own that advanced volume.
But he had something else.
He looked up at the Chain representing the Tidelow case.
It was a thin, bluish-tinged strand hanging from the teaching mainline, arcing in a loop above the lectern. Its surface was etched with the key phrases from the judgment: obedience obligation, traitor, withdrawal of protection, mortal assumes risk…
Between those rings of script was one tiny, easily overlooked knot, tied with a finer thread.
To other people it was just another link. To Qi Luo, it was a very real "supplemental clause":
—[Should the transmission of divine oracle be found to have been distorted or privately augmented by the priest, said priest shall bear corresponding responsibility.]
The wording was faint, the placement marginal. No one else in the hall seemed to notice.
Professor Zhuang turned and paced in front of the lectern.
"Now, I'd like to invite a student from the lower tier to answer a question."
The hall dropped instantly quiet.
Several students flinched down in their seats.
The professor's gaze passed over a few faces, then stopped at the back—stopped on Qi Luo.
"You," he said, pointing lightly. "You there—the student from Rust Street… Qi Luo, isn't it?"
Qi Luo stood. "Yes, sir."
"Good." Professor Zhuang said, "As a child of Rust Street, you, of all people, should know what the lower tier becomes without divine protection."
Soft laughter rippled through the room.
"In that case," the professor continued slowly, "in this Tidelow case, do you believe the young man was wrong?"
Qi Luo lowered his eyes for a moment.
By the textbook, this was a free-point question—the answer was obviously "yes."
Mortals had no standing to judge the truth of oracles. Doubt itself was sin.
He could recite the standard answer in his sleep:
"Mortals must unconditionally obey divine oracles; even if they doubt the priest, they must not sabotage the rite."
But he didn't want to say it.
"Professor," Qi Luo looked up. His voice was quiet, but not soft. "May I ask a question first?"
Professor Zhuang arched a brow. "Speak."
"In this case," Qi Luo asked, "was the full text of the oracle ever made public?"
Several students blinked.
The professor sneered. "For ordinary believers, the oracle as conveyed by the priest is sufficient. Why fuss over the text? Are you implying the priest might have lied?"
"No," Qi Luo shook his head. "I'm only wondering whether, when that priest relayed the oracle, he added the word 'volunteer.'"
The smile on Professor Zhuang's face froze a fraction.
Qi Luo went on, "The textbook says 'a volunteer is to be cast into the sea,' not 'a person shall be designated and cast into the sea.' One of the later disputes in Tidelow was precisely this: did the original oracle demand a volunteer, or that they 'must produce one representative'?"
He nodded at the simplified clause on the board. "If the wording was 'volunteer,' then the townsfolk had the right to collectively refuse. Even if that meant losing protection, that would be the town's choice."
"Conversely, if the wording was 'must choose a representative,' that raises fresh questions—who chooses, and who bears the cost?"
Professor Zhuang's mouth twitched. "Those details were discussed in the original judgment."
"Yes." Qi Luo nodded. "And in that judgment, there was a supplemental clause you skipped just now."
A murmur ran through the hall.
A number of students who had been half-asleep straightened, staring in disbelief at the boy from Rust Street daring to argue with Professor Zhuang in front of everyone.
The professor's expression cooled. "Supplemental clause?"
Qi Luo said slowly, "[Should the transmission of divine oracle be found to have been distorted, abridged, or privately augmented by the priest, said priest shall bear corresponding responsibility.]—it appears at the end of the original ruling."
The Chain above the lectern shivered under his gaze. The tiny knot glowed for a heartbeat, as if someone had blown the dust off.
"And how do you know that?" Professor Zhuang stared at him. His voice had lost half a degree of warmth.
"I once found an old 'case booklet' at a Rust Street black market," Qi Luo said calmly. "The copy had been soaked at some point, lots of characters ran. That particular clause was written very heavy, though. Maybe the copyist thought it was funny."
This time, the laughter was louder.
The professor's fingers tapped the lectern twice.
"Even if that's true," he said through his teeth, "that supplemental clause did not overturn the judgment. The young man was still declared a traitor."
"Because the investigation at the time concluded that the priest had not distorted the oracle," Qi Luo finished for him. "But doesn't that at least suggest someone suspected it? Otherwise why add the clause at all?"
He looked up at the Chain.
On that tiny segment, he could see faint scratch-marks—a record of debate, the scars left by differing opinions during the original ruling.
Professor Zhuang's fingers stalled.
"What exactly are you trying to say?" he asked, eyes darkening.
"I'm saying…" Qi Luo drew a breath. "This case isn't proof that 'mortals must absolutely obey.' It shows that even the Covenant Council acknowledges that the transmission of an oracle is a step where mistakes can occur."
The hall went dead silent.
Even the tower-born students sat up straight, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and unease.
Professor Zhuang's face had gone hard. "You are challenging the absolute nature of divine oracle?"
"I am discussing the boundaries of clauses," Qi Luo replied. "If the text itself recognizes the possibility of human error in transmission, then when facing a possibly flawed oracle, mortals who hold back some doubt should not be immediately branded traitors."
He paused, then smiled faintly. "Of course, that opinion may well displease 'the gods.'"
In the very back row, someone snorted before clapping a hand over their mouth.
The professor's ear twitched.
The teaching Chain above them shuddered. Several thinner strands extended from the walls, beginning to log things—one flagged "suspected improper statement," another "theological debate."
"Child from Rust Street," Professor Zhuang looked at him, voice slow and icy. "You think paging through a few old black-market pamphlets qualifies you to instruct me on case interpretation?"
Qi Luo met his gaze.
He could see the professor's personal Covenant Chain tremble lightly across his chest. In addition to his lifetime chair and medal, another more hidden contract ran from his right wrist upward.
This one was darker, etched with far more intricate language than the usual teaching clauses.
Qi Luo narrowed his sight just a touch.
—[As a theology chair at Star-Signet Academy, should I be proven in class to have deliberately distorted a case's clauses, I am bound to publicly recite all supplemental clauses from the original ruling and apologize to my students as an act of reflection.]
A smaller note followed in fine script:
[This clause was added at my own request as proof of my integrity.]
Qi Luo almost wanted to laugh.
He knew exactly what this was.
Back when Zhuang Kolan received his silver medal, someone in the Council had clearly doubted his impartiality in a prior trial. In order to prove his "perfect fairness," he'd agreed to take on this self-binding clause that, on paper, would never trigger.
After all—who could possibly "prove" in his classroom that he'd deliberately distorted a case?
Qi Luo lowered his head slightly, masking the flash in his eyes.
"Professor," he said, softening his tone to sound as earnest as possible, "I'm not trying to teach you. I'm just curious—why did you omit that supplemental clause when presenting the case?"
Professor Zhuang's voice went colder. "Because it is not the focus of this lesson."
"Or because," Qi Luo continued, "that supplemental clause might lead students to realize that mortals are not entirely forbidden from questioning the 'bearer of the oracle'?"
A book dropped somewhere, the crack echoing like a slap.
Muscles jumped in Professor Zhuang's cheek.
"Student Qi Luo," he said slowly, "are you accusing me of… intentionally distorting the case?"
"I'm only applying the standards you taught us," Qi Luo replied. "In the first session of this course, you wrote on the board: 'He who harbors reasonable doubt about a clause has a responsibility to question it, to avoid misinterpretation.'"
He pointed to a small plaque beside the chalkboard.
On it, in crisp lettering, was Professor Zhuang's favorite line: [Silence in the face of a clause is consent to its injustice.]
The Chains jolted violently.
The professor's dark personal Chain flared, as if someone had hit a trigger. Qi Luo could almost hear the locks snapping shut—click.
The self-binding clause began to tighten, crawling from the professor's wrist toward his chest.
"This is simply pedagogical simplification," Professor Zhuang ground out. "I did not—"
He broke off, as if something had seized his throat.
Qi Luo saw it clearly.
An invisible loop of Chain tightened around the professor's Adam's apple and gave a tug.
It was the "binding point" left when he signed the self-clause years ago. Normally it lay dormant, without presence. Once triggered, it clenched like an unseen hand around his own words.
The professor blanched, then flushed crimson.
He wanted to retort—to say "I did not distort," to wave it off as "focus of lesson"—but the moment those phrases formed in his mind, the Chain drew tight, making even the act of speaking difficult.
The activation conditions on the clause were strict:
[In the event that a student publicly points out his omission of supplemental clauses sufficient to affect understanding of a case, and said omission is recognized by at least one other theology staff member or registered review-Chain as "reasonably suspect," this clause shall take effect.]
It had hung there for years and never fired.
Now—high above, a small branch of the teaching mainline lit up. It was the academy's internal "content completeness review" Chain.
The moment Qi Luo referenced the supplemental clause, that Chain had trembled, on the verge of logging it.
When the professor tried to brush it away as "not the focus," the Chain slowly tilted toward the "reasonably suspect" side.
—System verdict: suspicion present.
"Professor?" a student in the front row called softly. "Are you… all right?"
Professor Zhuang's face had gone slate-dark. His throat worked, but it was as if someone had hit pause.
From his desk, Qi Luo watched, feeling the forbidden sigils over his heart warm—not because he'd pushed anything, but because he always "resonated" a little when clauses moved.
"The clause is biting his throat," he thought.
And suddenly he understood: this was the bite-back of the clever little promise Zhuang Kolan had once been so proud of.
"Professor Zhuang?" From the back door, a faculty priest poked his head in. He took one look at the scene, then quickly glanced up at the Chains. His face went very odd. "Your… personal teaching self-binding clause appears to have activated."
The hall was dead quiet.
Most of the students had never heard of such a thing. All they saw was their usually untouchable theology authority suddenly speechless, a senior lecturer from the back entrance rushing in wearing the expression of "this is bad."
The professor's eyes were nearly spitting fire.
He bit down on his own tongue. By the terms of his clause, he could neither deny nor deflect. Any attempt to shift blame would only tighten the Chain.
He could do only one thing—fulfill his oath.
"I…" He drew a deep breath and forced the words past the tightness in his throat. "In my presentation of the Tidelow case just now, I… deliberately simplified the clauses and omitted the supplemental terms."
The Chain loosened, just a shade.
A roar of whispers swept the hall.
Almost grinding his teeth, Professor Zhuang recited, line by line, the supplemental clauses he'd so carefully glossed over, his voice stiff, the cords in his neck standing out.
[Should the transmission of divine oracle be found to have been distorted, abridged, or privately augmented by the priest, said priest shall bear corresponding responsibility.]
[This clause was added to the ruling on recommendation of multiple Council members, as a minimal constraint on the process of transmitting oracles.]
[Mortals are permitted, without disrupting the rite, to question the process of oracle transmission; such questions shall be jointly reviewed by local church and Council.]
With each sentence, the Chain at his chest slackened a little. At the same time, the teaching Chain above the lectern flickered—being forced to update the syllabus.
When he finished the last line, his throat released all at once. He almost coughed blood.
"…That is all." Professor Zhuang wrestled his temper under control and managed a strained smile. "As a teaching case, it should… be presented in full."
Pfft—
Someone couldn't help letting out a laugh before being hastily elbowed silent.
The atmosphere in the hall twisted into something strange.
The students, long used to being lectured down from the podium, were watching a man they'd placed on a pedestal get dragged across the floor by the very clauses he preached—clauses he'd signed himself.
Qi Luo sat down slowly, back straight.
He didn't smirk, didn't bother to look at the professor again. He knew what he'd just done went well beyond "classroom discussion."
He hadn't touched the Chains. He'd simply used questions to push them onto the conditions they themselves laid out.
That was a kind of "pin insertion," too.
The difference was, the needle had been ground by the professor himself.
"That's all for today." Professor Zhuang said stiffly. "Class dismissed."
"Stand—" The class monitor called out, voice trembling.
Professor Zhuang swept off the lectern, sleeves snapping, his steps heavier and faster than they'd been coming in.
As he passed Qi Luo, he halted.
Their eyes met in midair.
The professor's gaze was ice, edged with something like fear.
Not the irritation of being talked back to, but genuine dread at something "out of control"—the realization that the boy from Rust Street wasn't just mouthy, but could step, in a heartbeat, on a clause's softest point.
"Student Qi Luo," he said under his breath, low enough that only Qi Luo could hear. "Did Rust Street teach you to question gods and teachers?"
"Rust Street taught me one thing," Qi Luo replied, looking up. "If you write a clause, you live with it."
A twitch ran across Professor Zhuang's cheek. He turned sharply and left.
The faculty offices were on another level of the academy.
Zhuang Kolan shut his door and pressed a sound-dampening charm along the crack. The room fell still, leaving only the thin Chain on the wall—the one symbolizing his "chair duties"—swaying.
His throat still ached from where the Chain had squeezed.
He dropped into his chair and tugged hard at his collar, as if he could rip the invisible noose from under his skin.
"Little gutter rat," he muttered. "Rust Street whelp."
He snapped his mouth shut.
Any more language like that might be logged as "unbefitting a chair's demeanor" and tug another clause.
He forced himself to breathe, to calm.
He couldn't fixate on the humiliation of one class.
He had to think further—past today, to the look that boy had in his eyes when he watched the Chains.
Those eyes hadn't been on the lecture. They'd been on the Chains above—and on the line across his chest.
"I've only seen eyes like that on certain Council people," Zhuang Kolan murmured.
And he thought of a name.
…The World Rollback Contract.
The Council never used those words in public documents. Internally they called it "WRC fragments." The darkest rumors said there had once been "key-level individuals" who could lay hands directly on the world-scale Chains. Those people, together with their city, had later vanished. What remained were yawning blanks in the archives where someone had scrubbed them out.
Now, some kid from Rust Street had made a clause bite his throat in class.
The professor rose, crossed to his bookshelf, and slid open a hidden compartment on the top shelf.
Inside was a slim box.
He opened it.
A special quill lay within, along with a roll of blank contract paper already printed with a header:
[To: Oversight Office, Skycast City Branch, Covenant Council]
[Subject: Preliminary Observation Report on Student with Suspected Irregular Ability]
He smoothed the paper out, fingers chill on the pen.
Once he started writing, the report would climb the academy-Council monitoring Chains. Those were beyond his control. There would be no taking it back.
"But if I don't…" he muttered. "If he is…"
If this boy really was one of those rumored "fragments"?
Zhuang Kolan closed his eyes briefly and hardened his heart.
He dipped the pen and began.
[Name: Qi Luo]
[Origin: Lower Tier, Rust Street]
[Current: First-year student, Contract Department, Star-Signet Academy]
[Anomalous behavior: Exhibited sensitivity to hidden supplemental clauses in a classic case beyond standard theological training; accurately triggered a self-binding clause of mine that had remained dormant for years.]
At that line, the Chain on his wrist tightened—a reminder from the clause itself: you admit you were triggered.
The professor snorted softly and kept writing.
[Suspicion: Said student may possess the ability to directly perceive Covenant Chain structure and to operate with high precision on clause activation conditions.]
[Recommendation: Add to Council "Suspected Irregular Ability" watch list. Suggested category: Yellow, trending Orange.]
He hesitated, then added:
[Note: Student's thought patterns show a tendency to disdain traditional theological authority. Must be strongly prevented from contacting any known "Abyss-aligned entities."]
When he finished, he set the pen down.
The paper rolled itself up. A thin silver Chain reached out from the corner, wrapped the scroll, and tugged. The scroll drifted up and vanished.
The Chain carried it away to higher places.
"Go on," Professor Zhuang murmured. "Let the people upstairs worry about this ticking bomb."
The office fell quiet again.
Only the slender chair-Chain on the wall swayed faintly, as if laughing at someone.
Qi Luo had no idea his name was already climbing toward a Council file.
When the bell rang, he slung his book bag over his shoulder and walked down the corridor toward the dorms.
The Evening Bell hadn't rung yet. The sky over the academy was a little dull. The teaching Chains overhead dimmed in the dusk, replaced by the "residence clauses" of the dormitories—lights out at this hour, water off at that, no loitering in these zones.
Qi Luo glanced up by habit, checking that no Chain suddenly dropped toward him.
"You went too far today," Garth said.
He was waiting at the bend, brows tightly drawn. "You call out Zhuang Kolan like that in class, word gets around, the whole academy's going to remember you."
"They'll remember me sooner or later," Qi Luo shrugged. "Better they do it now, so I know who wants to eat me."
Garth searched his eyes for a long moment, then sighed.
"You think you're still the little tinkerer from Rust Street?" he said quietly. "Every Chain here is thicker than Drip-God's. One wrong pin, and it won't just be your chest aching."
Qi Luo didn't argue.
He knew.
But he also knew that if the day ever came when that terrifying world-scale Chain truly pulled on him, the thing that might save him wouldn't be good grades and obedience. It would be that, as early as possible, he'd proven—
He wasn't a puppet to be yanked at will.
He was a dog that bit back.
At the end of the corridor, a window stood open.
Evening wind poured in, carrying the hot oil and metal smell of the mid-tier workshops.
Qi Luo walked over and set his hand on the frame, looking toward the faint outline of the upper tier.
Up there, behind the gilded domes of the temple district, stood a clock tower.
From that direction, a thread-thin black Chain extended into his peripheral vision, swaying once before slipping away.
Qi Luo narrowed his eyes.
"Who's watching me?" he asked under his breath.
The wind blew through. No one answered.
Only the forbidden sigils over his heart warmed, very deep inside—like a reflexive response to some distant Chain's feather-light touch.