ruat caelum
You are Cai Renxiang, and you are a clock.
You are cold and dispassionate machinery cut into a woman's shape; ten thousand moving parts oscillating in perfect order. You are less a person than an answer: the ephemeral world dissected into quanta, the breath of the universe delineated into countable infinities. You are the strict proof set eternal in bone—an anthropomorphic shard of the singular reality that is Cai Shenhua.
It is not surprising.
You are, in the end, what you have been made to be.
You saw your mother for the first time when you were six years old and it broke you because that is what she is. You could not have imagined it was not deliberate. Nothing she does is not deliberate: careful, measured, a gear turned and a cord tugged and reality unfolding like the petals of a flower beneath her radiant sun. To think yourself independent is to fundamentally misunderstand the nature of cause and effect: Cai Shenhua is the cause and you are the effect.
(This is, of course, a lie. Even Cai Shenhua makes mistakes. But you were only a child when you looked up and felt for a moment as the first humans must have, before the stars were counted and named—staring up into the pitiless night and hearing a silence so vast it permitted nothing except itself. You saw something without doubt and you thought that made it right.
You emerged from that moment a diamond: not because you were flawless and shining but because you had been crushed too perfectly to be allowed to be anything else).
She broke you, and she remade you, because she can do no more and she can do no less. You were recast in her image—and yet you are nothing like her at all. You are short where she is tall, serious where she is amused, strictly industrious where she gives every appearance of being indolent. She is not, of course, but the point is that you cannot imagine even pretending to be. And deeper still is this: your truths do not converge. They diverge, each step in the sequence of your relationship forever trending further apart no matter how much you try to contort yourself to her ineffable purpose.
This is a problem that has vexed you for some time. You exist as you are because it is what Cai Shenhua wishes you to be. And yet when you seek the meanest insights into her simplest designs you come away with more questions than answers. Even her arts, the elegant expressions of her empyrean soul—they offer you nothing.
When you think of perfection, you think of her. But with every step you have taken along your Way, the ontological entelechy of Cai Renxiang not as she is but as she
must be, the truth sears away your thoughts like the Sun sears away the night: you are not Cai Shenhua. You
cannot be Cai Shenhua.
Does anyone in the world understand how that feels? To have seen the pinnacle of heaven, the tyrannical radiance that scours away all imperfection and impurity, a glory so absolute that by its very nature it cannot allow anything less to exist, and know not that they will never be that great but that it is
wrong to be that great?
Does anyone in the world understand how it feels to turn away from perfection and know that they are right?
Cai Shenhua is the one who breaks.
When she broke you, what emerged is something that wishes no other needs to be broken. You look around yourself and you see inefficiency. Excess. Corruption. Impurity. These things offend you. But you do not wish them gone because they are anathematic to the principles of order. Order is not enough. The blade that pares the world must be swung not because it is correct but because it is
right. Each cut must be kinder than the last.
It was not kindness, the mistake that led to Cai Renxiang. But it was a lesson. Only a world that turns on the axis of virtue need never know the tyrant's light. The arc of the universe is long, but you will see it bend toward justice—and if not you, then those who come after, who have grown amid the pillars of a city that sees purity as a means but never an end.
Cai Shenhua is perfection.
Cai Renxiang, you are coming to understand, is
iteration.
You do not exist to shatter the world in your image. You exist to take the world that has already been shattered and make it better. This is why you have Gan Guangli. This is why you have Ling Qi. You surround yourself not with those who have always known glory but those who have suffered because of it. You need them because they know what it means to have lived as you wish no other has to live; you need them because they understand the end you seek when you chase the difference between a world that is at order and a world that is good.
You were wrong, before. You had thought to make of yourself an answer—a solution to the problem of evil, a
quod erat demonstratum that the only possible society is assembled from ten thousand moving parts that thread through one another like a key into a lock. You sought to reflect the truth that broke you as if you were nothing more than a mirror convinced it was a person. But you are none of these things. You are not an answer. You are a question.
Is this good?
Is this right?
Is this
just?
If it is, let it remain—if it is not, let it be so.
How could anyone have ever thought you dispassionate? Who could have ever called you cold? You do not seek a world that cuts down a hundred bandits because it cannot permit them to exist; you seek a world that never has to cut down a single bandit because it
does not permit them to exist.
This is your radiance. This is why Gan Guangli towers beneath its fury, with glory on his brow and duty in his fist. This is why Ling Qi lurks within its shadows, with moonlight in her hair and winter between her teeth.
This is why you are more than you were made to be.
You are Cai Renxiang, and you are a clock.
A clock is something that names the invisible, that defines it with each sharp
tick and booming
tock until it is counted and known. It is a mechanism that translates something beyond human comprehension into a friend of fools and children alike. A clock does not discriminate between the rich and the poor, the powerful and the meek: it offers them the same truth from the same face regardless.
You are a clock, but not for time.
It is justice that moves your hands.
And you will keep it until the world is kind again.
CRX is my favourite character in this series of quests, so I wrote something about her. Shoutouts to
@Xepheria and
@Erebeal for feedback, and a thank you to
@yrsillar for writing such an excellent character.