The old house was quiet at dawn, wrapped in a pale mist that clung to its moss-streaked walls. Its wooden beams creaked faintly in the breeze, as though whispering to the years they had endured. From the outside, it still resembled an abandoned relic of another age—its tiled roof dulled by rain and time, its walls veined with weathered cracks. But within, life had returned.
Little Water stirred from the study where he had fallen asleep. His borrowed face, plain as any mortal's, betrayed nothing of the storm sealed inside his chest. He walked into the corridor, the sound of his steps soft against the newly polished floorboards.
There, he noticed a stairwell leading downward, freshly carved from stone. He descended slowly, and the air grew cooler with each step. At the bottom lay a chamber—tidy, ordered, almost unnatural beneath such an old house. Shelves stood ready to store herbs, iron shackles bit into the ground where test creatures had once been bound, and in a corner rested a narrow bed for one tired worker.
The guard who had built the place lay asleep on the floor, his face streaked with dirt, his shovel still in his hand. His exhaustion was honest; his snoring filled the silence.
Little Water regarded him for a moment, then turned back upstairs. The repairs were complete above as well. The bedrooms, once rotten and sagging, had been restored with new beams and fresh planks. The entire house now lived again, though its outward shell remained cloaked in age. Like a wolf in sheepskin, it hid its strength behind a fragile mask.
He stepped into the garden. The mist there was thinning, exposing wildflowers among weeds. The world felt calm.
Then a figure moved across the hallway. A woman, dressed in the flowing silks of the Beauty Pavilion, carried a tray with a wine jar upon it. Her face was veiled, leaving only her eyes—eyes that flickered with a dancer's grace yet carried a hint of caution.
Little Water lifted his left hand to ask after Qianya's health. But the moment his sleeve rose, agony struck.
It was as though nails were hammered into his heart. His chest convulsed. He tore open his robe and saw it: on his left shoulder, a cracked circle glowed faintly purple, jagged lines spreading like fractures in glass. The poison cage had begun to fail.
The pain drove him to one knee. His breath faltered, his vision wavered. Inside his body, water Qi and poison Qi wrestled like beasts locked in a cage.
The woman dropped her tray and rushed to him. "Sir, are you all right?" she asked, kneeling.
He did not answer. His focus was turned inward, his Qi threading through broken veins, trying to bind the cracking seal. But it was not enough. The poison in his body was too little—he needed more, or his heart would tear itself apart.
She shook him gently, panic rising in her eyes.
When his eyes opened again, they burned red, glowing like a beast's under the moon. She gasped, stumbling back, fear seizing her breath.
But he only reached for the wine jar, tearing away the seal and drinking deeply. The bitter liquid burned down his throat, its faint poison mixing with his blood. Slowly, the storm in his chest dulled. The cracks dimmed, though the purple circle remained etched like a scar.
He exhaled, voice rough. "Take me back… to the old house."
The woman slipped her arm under his shoulder and guided him inside. Her perfume, light as spring blossoms, brushed against him, but he paid it no mind. Once in the study, she eased him into his chair.
"Leave," he said flatly. "Tell everyone to stay away. Especially women."
She hesitated, then bowed and left in silence. Her name—Yun Feixue—never reached his ears.
Alone once more, Little Water pressed his palm against his chest. The faint thrum of the poison cage lingered, fragile as glass about to break. Yet before he could dwell on it, a chill swept through his soul.
Something was wrong. Distant. Familiar.
He closed his eyes. A thread of essence trembled in the void, a bond that tied him to his brothers. He followed it, his soul leaving his body, stretching across unseen miles.
And then—
The thread snapped.
Little Water's soul convulsed. He staggered within the void, breath lost. The bond of Little Wind was gone.
Grief struck him like thunder, yet behind it rose a cold realization.
So this is consciousness, he thought. It is the mirror that sees itself. And when the mirror shatters, there is no reflection left.
His eyes opened again. But this time, he was not in the old house. He was standing before the Wind Clan.
---
The night sky writhed with storm clouds. Lightning split the heavens as disciples at the gate noticed the lone figure in plain robes approaching.
"Who goes there?" one demanded.
Little Water's voice was calm, but it carried like a blade of ice. "Bring me the elder who killed Little Wind."
Confusion flickered in their eyes. Then a wave of purple Qi burst outward. Their veins blackened, their cries choked, and they collapsed lifeless to the earth. He stepped over their corpses without pause.
The courtyards bustled with activity—disciples tending to wounds from the trial, elders speaking of valor and failure. Laughter and whispers filled the air.
Until silence fell.
Every gaze turned to the man walking the stone path. His face plain, his steps unhurried. Yet the weight of his presence pressed on the lungs of even Soul Creation cultivators.
An elder barked, "Who are you to trespass into the Wind Clan?"
Little Water's crimson eyes flickered. "I am the end of a bloodline."
From the hall emerged Shuye's uncle—the man who had struck Little Wind's final breath. His expression was calm, even mocking. "Another stray dog of Shuye's? Do you dare—"
He never finished. Little Water appeared before him in a single step, hand clamping his throat. Poison Qi surged like molten lead, corroding his meridians, unraveling his core. The elder's eyes bulged in terror.
"I am the brother of the boy you murdered," Little Water whispered.
The body cracked, shattering into poisoned mist.
Screams tore through the clan. Descendants of the elder rushed forward, blades of wind and glowing talismans filling the night.
The massacre began.
Wind blades shrieked like a storm, but water arcs shimmered into being, slicing through their techniques and through flesh alike. Poison mist followed his steps, and every cry of defiance turned into gurgling silence.
One youth, no older than twenty, charged with twin spears. "Grandfather's honor will not fall!" he roared.
Little Water brushed his hand in a circle. The spears corroded instantly, the metal crumbling. The youth's heart ruptured with a muffled crack, and he fell without a sound.
Another fled, shouting for help. A drop of poison-water flicked from Little Water's fingertip, piercing his back. He stiffened mid-stride, his skin turning dark purple before collapsing.
Blood soaked the courtyard stones. The Wind Clan's proud estate became a charnel house. The storm above rumbled as though echoing the slaughter below.
At last, only one figure remained—a girl of fifteen, clutching a broken sword. Her body trembled, eyes wide with terror. She collapsed to her knees, sobbing. "Please… I don't know anything… spare me…"
Little Water's gaze lingered, then turned away. "Live. Bear the memory of this night. That will be your punishment."
---
Beyond the carnage, he saw Shuye. She stood pale, her eyes swollen from tears, yet she did not flinch.
"You came," she whispered.
He walked to her, his bloodstained robe dragging behind. His hand reached to rest gently on her head.
"He entrusted his last moments to you," Little Water said softly. "He fought because he believed in you."
Her voice broke. "He always did…"
"He left behind his will, his cultivation, and his memory," Little Water continued. "I carry them now. He is not lost—he lives in me."
"Then… let me see him once more."
For a moment, a wisp of Little Wind's aura drifted from him, brushing against her cheek like a final breeze. She gasped, tears spilling freely. "Little Wind…"
Silence lingered. Then he withdrew the aura, stepping back. "Do not drown in grief. Carry him with you, but live as yourself."
And then he was gone, vanishing into the storm.
---
Dawn broke when he returned to the old house. The sunlight spilled through cracks in the window, falling across his bloodstained hands.
He sat in the study, staring at the faint reflection in his teacup.
"Consciousness…" he murmured. "It is the mirror that sees itself. When the mirror shatters… the reflection survives only in another."
His crimson eyes dimmed, but the weight of another soul now burned within them. The burden of Little Wind—his will, his memory, his cultivation—rested upon him.
And the mirror saw itself anew.
----To be Continued---