On the eighth day at the orphanage, conflict arrived in its most mundane form—supply rationing.
In the morning corridor, children formed a loose line, waiting to receive their weekly soap and toothpaste. Qian Hui stood in the middle of the queue, with Shan Jue half a step behind her, his gaze calmly sweeping over those ahead.
At the distribution table, the one in charge was a tall, thin teenager the children in the orphanage called "Chen He." He had been there for five years, one of the few whom the administrators trusted enough to delegate even a sliver of authority. At that moment, he was cutting a bar of soap in half.
"Supplies are tight this week," Chen He's voice wasn't loud, but it carried through the line. "Half a bar of soap per person, toothpaste halved. Orders from the headmaster's office."
A murmur of unrest rippled through the line. The children exchanged uneasy glances, yet no one dared to question it. Next to Chen He was posted a handwritten notice, bearing what was indeed the headmaster's office seal.
Shan Jue's gaze lingered on the notice for three seconds, then shifted to the unopened supply crate beside Chen He. The side of the crate was stamped with the standard quota label from the Welfare Bureau.
It was Qian Hui's turn. Chen He pushed half a bar of soap and a nearly flattened tube of toothpaste toward her. Just as Qian Hui reached out to take them, Shan Jue's voice sounded from behind her:
"The notice says, 'Due to warehouse adjustments, this week's rations are temporarily reduced.'"
Chen He's movements halted. He looked up at Shan Jue.
"But the Welfare Bureau's delivery cycle is once a month," Shan Jue's tone was as matter-of-fact as discussing the weather. "Last week was this month's delivery. Warehouse adjustments shouldn't affect supplies already delivered to the institution."
The line fell completely silent. Every child was staring at Chen He.
Chen He's face showed no expression, only a slight tightening of his fingers. "It's the headmaster's decision. If you have questions, go ask the office yourself after lunch."
"No need." Shan Jue reached past Qian Hui's shoulder, pointing at the supply crate. "The crate label states: 'Full quota per crate. Invalid if opened.' That's the Welfare Bureau's anti-fraud design. You opened the entire crate to split it across two weeks—handing out half this week. Where's the other half being kept?"
Dead silence.
Chen He's eyes turned cold. "What are you implying?"
"What I mean is," Shan Jue's voice remained calm, "there are three layers of rules. The first layer, the headmaster's office notice. The second layer, the Welfare Bureau's delivery regulations. The third layer—"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over a few of the older children in the line whose expressions had grown tense.
"—you privately promised those older kids who are about to age out of the orphanage. You promised them extra rations to trade for cigarettes and pocket money at the outside shops."
The air in the corridor froze solid.
Qian Hui saw the faces of the older boys behind Chen He abruptly change, their hands subtly moving toward their pockets. Shan Jue, however, acted as if he didn't notice and continued:
"The problem is, you violated the most fundamental rule: **do not harm others.** You withheld everyone's survival rations, harming the entire group. And once you harm the group—"
"—you create enemies." Qian Hui heard her own voice softly complete the thought. She didn't know when she had grasped the logic of her brother's chain of reasoning.
Shan Jue glanced at her, a trace of faint approval in his eyes.
"Correct." He turned back to Chen He. "The problem you face now isn't 'whether I have proof,' but this—everyone in line now knows they were supposed to get their full rations. You gave them the perception of 'being harmed.' And the original sin of that perception is yours."
Chen He finally smiled, a smile devoid of warmth. "Nice words. So what? You're going to report me? Where's your evidence? The headmaster's office notice is in black and white, and I've already dealt with the crate. Who do you think the administrators will believe—you, or my five-year record here?"
"I don't need to report you," Shan Jue said. "I only need to do one thing: make everyone here believe they really were only supposed to get half rations this week."
Chen He froze.
Shan Jue turned to the line, his voice clear. "Everyone, Chen He lied just now."
A stir ran through the children.
"The Welfare Bureau's delivery for this month is indeed complete, and supplies are sufficient. However, the headmaster's office received a call this morning. The orphanage in the neighboring district had a fire last week and urgently needs basic supplies. The headmaster decided to halve our institution's rations this week, with the other half being urgently reallocated for support."
He took out a folded piece of paper from his pocket—it was the official institutional stationery everyone had seen before, with handwritten text and a blurred stamp impression. Shan Jue unfolded it for three seconds, long enough for the children at the front to see clearly, then put it away.
"This is an internal notice the headmaster asked me to pass to Chen He," Shan Jue said, looking at Chen He. "But he might not have had time to read it carefully yet. Now, please execute according to this notice: halve this week's rations, and immediately organize the other half of the supplies. Someone will come to collect them before noon."
Chen He's expression shifted from a cold smile to confusion, then to a kind of alarmed suspicion. He stared at Shan Jue, trying to find a flaw in that calm face.
A child at the front whispered, "I think I saw the stamp..."
"Me too, it was the headmaster's seal..."
"So that's what happened..."
"Then why didn't Chen He explain it clearly just now?"
The atmosphere in the line shifted. Suspicion toward Chen He transformed into acceptance of a "sudden incident," even tinged with a faint sense of honor from "supporting others." Their perception of having been harmed was overridden by Shan Jue with a higher-level, more "legitimate" reason.
Chen He stood utterly frozen in place. He realized he was trapped in an inescapable snare:
* If he insisted there was "no such notice," he would be publicly admitting to withholding rations.
* If he admitted there *was* such a notice, he would have to immediately hand over the other half of the supplies he had hidden, exposing his fraud.
* And regardless of the choice, his authority within the group had already collapsed—he would be either a liar or incompetent.
Shan Jue had given him a "choice," but both entrances to this choice led to his social death.
"Now," Shan Jue's voice was as light as a whisper, audible only to Chen He and Qian Hui, "you have two options."
"First, stick to your original story. I will publicly 'discover' that this notice is forged and report to the administrators that you attempted to use a forged document to cover up your fraud. Result: you are severely punished for fraud, and I might receive commendation for 'exposing a forgery.'"
"Second, admit you were 'negligent' and didn't read this notice properly. Immediately distribute this week's full rations to everyone and make up the half that 'should support the neighboring institution' out of your own pocket—using the supplies you've hidden. Result: you receive a demerit for negligence, but preserve your reputation as someone who 'barely managed the task in an emergency.' And I will 'forget' your original intent to withhold rations."
Chen He's Adam's apple bobbed violently. Sweat trickled down from his temple.
Qian Hui watched the scene, a familiar chill creeping up her spine. She suddenly understood—her brother was **writing a program in real-time**. Chen He withholding supplies was the "red line being crossed." Her brother, using a sheet of paper of unknown authenticity, had created two "entrances." No matter which Chen He chose, he would lose, and her brother would gain something: not supplies, nor reputation, but—
**Control over the "power of interpretation."**
Whoever could define what had happened held mastery over reality.
"I..." Chen He's voice was hoarse. "I might have missed the notice. I'll go distribute the rest now."
He turned around, movements stiff, opened the cabinet behind him, took out the other half of the supplies he had hidden, and began redistributing them. A low cheer rose from the line. The children receiving their full rations looked at Chen He with more leniency—"He was negligent, but at least he fixed it."
No one glanced at Shan Jue anymore. He resembled an invisible programmer who, having finished writing the code, faded into the background.
Only Qian Hui saw it—as Chen He turned away, her brother uttered a single sentence, so softly it was barely audible:
"Make me a copy of the key to the cabinet where you've been stashing supplies. From today onward, I want to see everything before it's distributed each week."
Chen He's back stiffened violently. He didn't turn around, only gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
The conflict was over.
No shouting, no fighting, not even any intervention from the administrators. Just a conversation, a piece of paper, a choice.
Yet Qian Hui knew that something had changed forever. Chen He had shifted from being an "enforcer of the rules" to becoming "a person bound by the rules." And her brother had just completed a silent takeover of the orphanage's micro-level authority, right under everyone's gaze.
On the way back to the dormitory, Qian Hui whispered, "That notice... was it genuine?"
Shan Jue didn't answer directly. He took the piece of paper from his pocket and, right in front of Qian Hui, tore it into shreds, throwing the fragments into the corridor trash bin.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "What matters is that they believed it was real. And what made it real wasn't the stamp. It was Chen He's choice."
He looked at Qian Hui, his eyes deep as a well.
"Do you understand now? The true program isn't on paper, isn't on the wall. It's in people's minds. You just need to create a strong enough cognitive framework, and they'll walk into it themselves. With their choices, they'll help you turn that framework into reality."
"This is a higher level than controlling supplies," he said softly. "This is controlling the 'narrative' itself."
Qian Hui suddenly remembered what her brother had said the previous night: *Read its default entry design.*
Today, she had personally witnessed her brother design an entrance, and then watched everyone—including Chen He, including the entire line—walk through it themselves.
And she was the only spectator.
Also the only other person who knew the truth of the "story."
The moonlight had not yet risen, but Qian Hui already felt that the orphanage's daylight hours were more fertile ground for unwritten rules to grow than any night.