Painting Sixty-Three: Rebellion?

“It looks like the Grand Tini Cathedral Square. I remember now—this is the backstage of the final performance of the Celestial Saint’s interstellar tour!”
“That person is the Lady of a Hundred Blossoms…”
The Lady of a Hundred Blossoms, holding her terminal, turned pale and cried out, “Impossible! There were anti-recording shields at the venue—how could he possibly have any footage? It must not be broadcast! Damn it, Jordan, you fool, why aren’t you stopping him—”
Boom!
Before she could finish, an explosion erupted at the live broadcast site. The anti-counterfeit expert was engulfed in a cloud of red smoke, and the footage being played vanished. A colossal tree-being charged into the center of the studio, roaring, “Slander! This is illegal! You’re violating the Lady of a Hundred Blossoms' privacy! I’ll file a complaint! May the Mainframe destroy your consciousness and reduce you to a mindless low-level program!”
Who would dare cause such chaos on the anti-counterfeit expert’s broadcast?
Weren’t they afraid their secrets would be laid bare?
Suddenly, another tree-being leaped up, declaring, “I object! He’s not one of my kin. None of my kind could be so foolish as to use our guise for wrongdoing and tarnish our reputation for valor, integrity, and reliability. Master, let’s expose all his secrets!”
Laughter rippled through the crowd, and the farce turned into a comedy.
Sang Sang chewed her jerky vigorously: Little Jin, was the image orb destroyed? I want to see what was on it.
[It doesn’t matter if it’s destroyed. Any intelligent being would have backup data. The anti-counterfeit expert probably has more backup copies than he has octopus tentacles.]
“Ahem, brings back memories. How many years has it been since someone last caused such a scene on my show? Mainframe, don’t bother—I’ll handle this myself.” The anti-counterfeit expert spun his eight tentacles like a tornado, bursting out of the smoke. Behind him, the red mist deepened, condensing into a dark crimson whip that lashed out like a serpent, coiling around the troublemaking tree-being.
Leaves fell in a flurry, bark was stripped away, revealing Jordan himself. But in Sang Sang’s eyes, a chubby snake was wriggling over the tree-being, making it squirm and shudder until it returned to human form.
“It’s Jordan, the Lady of a Hundred Blossoms’ Knight Commander!”
“Her chief assistant and Knight Commander!”

“How can someone with that kind of brain be a chief assistant? Doesn’t he know that in a live broadcast, the host always has the upper hand?”
“He must have had no other choice. The Master wasn’t fazed by threats or bribes. Still, to have stayed by Lady of a Hundred Blossoms’ side since their school days, he can’t be that stupid.”
Jordan wasn’t a fool—he simply had no alternatives. He understood Lady of a Hundred Blossoms well. The Celestial Saint refused to intervene, and Sena had rejected all compromise. Someone of status had to take the fall, and that person could only be him. Better to step forward now than after the anti-counterfeit expert aired the footage.
“Anti-counterfeit expert, I’m not running. Our business can wait.” Jordan stood tall in his silver-white armor, the crimson whip still coiled around him. His considerable aura as a Xuan-level cultivator was apparent. Composed, he surveyed the room, quieting most of the whispering: “Sena, come out. I know you’re here.”
Sang Sang patted her chubby cheeks: Little Jin, your future subordinate is quite skilled at tying people up. Does he know that this kind of binding usually appears in S/M scenarios?
[His knowledge is broader than mine right now—he definitely knows.]
Jordan, receiving no reply from Sena, called out coldly once more, “Sena, come out. If you have the guts to act, have the guts to admit it!”
His words only spurred another round of audience chatter. The anti-counterfeit expert used two tentacles as a chair, two as armrests for his chin, wearing a mysterious smile—all while one tentacle remained linked to the crimson whip.
“What does he mean, ‘have the guts to admit it’? Still trying to deny responsibility? Master, let’s keep watching the footage—we don’t need to see this ugly man.”
“We demand to see the Master’s collection!”
“Don’t make a fuss, fanatics. Sena, come out—two men facing off live would be a spectacle in itself.”
Sena did come out, but not to confront Jordan. Instead, he approached Sang Sang, bowed, and said, “Your Highness, your teacher has informed me that the holiday is long over—it’s time for class.”
Sang Sang glanced at the elf-disguised Sena, then at Jordan in the center, swallowed her jerky, patted her hands, hopped off her chair, and left the studio.
Walking along the Starlight Avenue, she occasionally caught glimpses of the anti-counterfeit expert’s show being rebroadcast elsewhere; Jordan was still calling for Sena to appear.
Sena, seeing Sang Sang pause before a broadcast, said, “He’s doing this on purpose.”

Sang Sang nodded. “He wants to take the blame for the Lady of a Hundred Blossoms?”
“Take the blame?” Sena didn’t recognize the phrase, but the context made it clear, and his smile was laced with sarcasm. “He’s always been this naive—obedient since childhood. Even if he didn’t step forward, he would have been abandoned. But if she thinks she can escape by letting her Knight Commander and chief assistant take the fall, she’s dreaming. She doesn’t have the talent to make dreams come true.”
Sang Sang was silent for a moment before asking, “What do you plan to do next?”
Sena gently patted the tiny horns atop Sang Sang’s head. “That’s for the legal team now. My job is to look after you.”
Sang Sang dodged his hand and raised her brows. “So you’re just dropping it?”
Sena laughed—a genuine smile this time, without a trace of irony. “You’re still young; you don’t understand the baser nature of beings—no, of all lifeforms. Life is long, and apart from dull cultivation, gossip is essential. News like this—destined for the annual headlines—how could people not want to dig deeper? All the main players except for the innocent Sang Hongye are adults; there’s no need to worry about offending children’s rights groups. And there’s a chance to learn the hidden secrets of the Celestial Saints—a lot of people will be interested.”
“Won’t this damage the prestige or image of the Temple? Doesn’t the Mainframe care?” Sang Sang had wanted to ask this for a long time. In her mind, the Mainframe was omnipresent, almost omnipotent, more like a god than the Internet God itself. In truth, many called the Mainframe the Lord God.
“The Temple’s prestige is the product of history; it can’t be destroyed by any individual or faction. Competition among staff is allowed, and it’s even fiercer among the Saints. As for the Mainframe, it’s an intelligence that has existed since the Court of Heaven was founded. They say it’s reached godhood, just like the Lord of the Court. Wherever the Starweb reaches, its domain extends. For it, this kind of public opinion skirmish that doesn’t cause physical harm is child’s play. It records, but doesn’t intervene. Only students of the Divine Academy can apply for protection from the Mainframe if attacked by public opinion; adults must fend for themselves.” Sena paused, then explained, “If a minor doesn’t apply proactively, even if they’re targeted, the Mainframe won’t interfere.”
Wherever the Starweb reaches, its domain extends—that was Little Jin’s ideal, too.
Sang Sang felt Little Jin curled up in her pocket and reached in to gently stroke him in comfort.
“Public opinion battles involving the Saints are actually rare. There’s no rule, but it’s an unspoken understanding that clergy should maintain a positive image—no one would go all out to destroy them. This time, the Lady of a Hundred Blossoms struck first. My counterattack ends here. Where things go from now on depends on the will of the netizens. If she doesn’t want to lose her place, she’ll have to see if she has the heart to reinvent herself. But first, she’ll have to get past the Celestial Saint.”

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