Chapter Text
The first time Rin wrote a letter, she had just been thrown out of Combat.
“Waste of a uniform,” Jun had spat as she limped off the sparring floor. His voice still rang in her ears as she stormed into the library, bruised and humiliated, her hands itching for just about anything to burn.
She grabbed the first scrap of parchment she could find and scrawled, furiously:
Dear Jun,
You’re a sad, washed-up sack of horse shit who takes joy in making students miserable because you’ll never be half the warrior you think you are. I hope one day you choke on your own spit.
Cordially, Rin.
She folded it once, twice, then shoved it into her book bag before she could think better of it.
It was ridiculous and childish the more she thought about it. But when her heartbeat slowed, she realized her hands didn’t ache to strike anymore. The pressure in her chest had eased.
So she did it again the next time she wanted to shove someone against the wall.
At first, the letters felt as if she was casting some sort of hex. In a way, it made her feel better, like she could trap her anger within the pages instead of letting it burn her alive.
Dear Venka, may you one day drown in your own smugness. Yours insincerely, Rin.
But after a while, they stopped being filled with rage. They became something closer to confession. She even wrote to Sinegard's star pupil Altan—words she’d never say aloud. She also wrote to Kesegi—lines dripping with guilt she could never resolve.
And then there were the ones to Nezha.
Those started as venomous as one would imagine:
Dear Nezha, you pompous ass. I’d rather sleep next to Sunzi than spend another second near you.
But somehow, against her better judgment, they softened. A little.
Dear Nezha, I hate the way you fight. Mostly because I can’t stop watching.
Dear Nezha, I don’t know why you get under my skin, only that you always do.
She told herself it didn’t matter. They were just scraps of parchment buried under her mattress. A burn book no one would ever read.
➽──────────────❥
Until Jiang got bored.
“Rin, off you go,” he waved her toward the gate one afternoon, thrusting a basket at her. “Rare mushroom. Lingzhi. North slope. Looks like a shriveled tortoise. Try not to die.”
She was halfway down the mountain path when Jiang sighed, alone again in his garden. He plucked a cluster of mushrooms from the shadow of a willow, brushed the dirt from their caps, and popped one straight into his mouth without hesitation.
By the time the high was curling pleasantly at the edges of his mind, the garden had lost its charm. Even the glowing vines were dull when you’d stared at them for too many years. Being sober was intolerable; being high became boring.
Surely his pupil had something interesting tucked away. So he wandered toward Rin’s dorm.
And oh, she did not disappoint.
By the time he snuck back to the garden with a paper stack-shaped lump in his robes, he was cross-legged under the willow tree with her folded notes, cackling like a madman as he read.
“Dear Nezha, If you dropped dead tomorrow, I would not cry. I would sleep better.”
Jiang slapped his knee. “Oh, that’s rich!”
He flipped to another. His grin sharpened. “Ohhh. Ohhh. She likes the princeling.”
That sealed it. These were far too entertaining to keep to himself.
So, with all the solemnity of a drunk monk performing a sacred ritual, Jiang gathered the letters, found a pouch of spare coin, and strolled down to the Sinegard postmaster. He addressed each envelope with care and sent them off into the world.
By the time Rin returned, sweaty and clutching a shriveled fungus, her fate had already been sealed.
Within a week, right before the Trials, Yin Nezha would be standing in front of her with one of her letters in hand. Smirking.
And Rin would wish she’d burned them all.