Luo Qinghan stared at the scar.
But her thoughts had already left the surface.
She remembered a forgotten tome buried deep in the Jing Sect's forbidden archives—its title half-erased beneath the dust of exile:
"Ash Law: The Inverse Dream Chapter."
A relic. Fragmented. She'd once glimpsed a line that never left her:
"There are dream-marks not born of mind, nor spell—neither etched nor cast—but awakened by the mirror itself. These are the 'Forbidden Mirror Scars.' They are untraceable, unerasable. To witness one is not to record, but to endure."
Back then, she thought it was superstition.
But now—
The texture of the mark. The impossible resonance with the mirror's foundation. The sense that the page wasn't holding a memory—
But staring back.
She retrieved an old mirror-ring from her case and placed it gently on the page.
"Click."
A sound like frost cracking.
Not from the surface.
But from the mirror's verdict.
Her pulse quickened.
If this truly was a Forbidden Scar—it should not appear on a sealed paper-mirror under someone else's control.
Unless—
The scar hadn't come from him.
She looked down. A tingling sensation spread beneath the skin of her palm—as if something ancient and faintly warm stirred there, not burning, but crawling… awakening.
A realization rippled through her.
The scar—
Hadn't just answered the page.
It had answered her.
Something stirred at the edge of her thoughts—distant, blurred, not of Shen Jin's Seal.
More akin to—
That echo trapped inside her.
The one sealed years ago. The one they called a mistake.
The one they never named.
She hesitated.
Was this scar a message?
Or a question?
A question—posed to her.
She didn't leave.
The flame-scar still trembled across the surface of the mirror—like a pulse, like a breath, as if it were waiting… or singing to itself, calling for something to wake.
Luo Qinghan slowly closed her eyes.
Her thumb brushed the edge of the paper.
This time, no talismans. No chant.
Only her mind.
She summoned the quiet sense known only to a few among the Jing Sect—the "inward mirror sight"—a discipline of stillness, where vision entered the artifact not through spell or force, but by resting one's awareness in the space between image and dream, between reality and that which had not yet chosen to exist.
The paper-mirror warmed faintly beneath her touch—like a drop of water, suspended on the edge of falling.
Then—
A flicker of light stirred beneath the page.
Not flame.
Not spirit.
Something else.
Mirror-light. Faint, chaotic.
A scatter of glyphs tangled in the threads of memory and dream.
She kept still.
Three broken lines began to surface—rising from the scar like veins of old glass—no full characters, just slanted shapes, straddling the edge of script and symbol.
She watched.
Waited.
Then she saw them.
Day. Night. Inverse.
A jolt spread through the page.
The center of the mirror pulsed, shedding dust from ancient silence.
And then—
A whisper.
Not a voice.
Not a sentence.
Just the shape of a thought.
Torn. Drifting. Familiar.
"…Before the mirror shattered… who did you reflect?"
Her eyes snapped open.
A slight tremble in her fingers.
Gone.
The light vanished. The glyphs faded. The scar dulled.
Only the faint warmth beneath her palm remained.
But something had shifted.
She had never written those words.
Never heard them.
And yet, somewhere deep in her own unspoken memory—
They stirred.
Rising through her like breath.
Waiting to be named.
Stillness.
The mirror had ceased its glow. The scar lay flat. The glyphs—Day, Night, Inverse—were gone.
What remained was only the bare grey-white surface of the paper-mirror—like a field of ice that had endured too many winters. Cold. Blank. Deceitfully still.
But Luo Qinghan did not withdraw her hand.
Her fingertip rested on the same spot—on a line that had once shimmered faintly.
Now, it gave off the slightest trace of warmth.
Not fire.
A dream-thread.
Thin as smoke. Barely there.
It rose from the mirror's inner vein, curling along her finger like breath drawn backwards, slipping beneath her skin.
It didn't come from outside.
It wasn't summoned.
It emerged. Quietly. Unprovoked.
A line of intent, seeking nothing, yet tracing her blood like a quill searching for parchment.
It did not touch her mind.
But it moved through her—as if testing.
As if writing.
Her fingers twitched.
She almost pulled away.
But didn't.
Because—
It didn't hurt.
It just felt… true.
As if another version of herself had begun to stir, buried somewhere within the mirror's reflection.
The surface of the paper-mirror began to darken.
Not in color.
But in presence.
It faded into something closer to absence—as though the mirror no longer reflected, but remembered.
Something had begun.
She opened her eyes.
Stared at the blank surface.
No marks.
No words.
But she could feel it.
There was something being written.
She whispered:
"…It's begun to answer me."
Not a declaration.
A question.
To the mirror.
Or to herself.
—
The main hall of the Ningyuan Judiciary stood still, as if frost had settled upon its beams.
An incense stick burned near its end, a thin thread of smoke curling upwards in silence. Ash clung to its tip, swaying but not yet falling.
Shen Jin sat quietly at one of the side seats, eyes fixed on that single fragile moment of balance.
Then—
Footsteps.
Measured. Unhurried. Each one landing with the precision of a blade sheathed in calm.
The doors opened without sound.
Linyuan Ling Wanzhou stepped through in plain black robes. No retinue. No ceremonial mantle. Only a seal at her sleeve—carved in faint divine script—marking him not as diplomat, but as something colder:
A silent envoy of law.
The gathered officials rose at once.
Only Shen Jin remained seated.
Ling Wanzhou inclined his head toward the deputy chief of the Ningyuan Judiciary. A half-bow, formal but not overreaching. His tone, as always, soft.
"By order of the Divine Review Division of the Lingyuan Council, I bring a command to seal."
She held out a lacquered scroll—black wax, unbroken.
"For the containment and escort of Shen Jin, bearer of an unbound Seal."
The deputy accepted it calmly. Unrolled it. Read.
His expression didn't change.
"There was no prior notice," he said.
Ling Wanzhou's answer was smooth.
"For orders of this class—none is required."
He let that settle before continuing:
"The Seal's anomaly has triggered observable tremors within the law-net. The bearer's dream-threads have disrupted regulated patterns. Under Statute Seventeen of the Divine Codex, those who wield unsanctioned Seals may be subject to immediate mind-seal and judicial transfer."
The air in the chamber shifted—only slightly—but enough.
The deputy rolled the scroll shut with careful slowness.
"Ningyuan law requires proof of active threat before forceful seizure," he said.
"That condition remains unmet."
Ling Wanzhou turned his gaze to Shen Jin.
There was no accusation in his eyes.
Only formality.
"Shen Jin," she said gently,
"will you surrender the Seal yourself, and accompany me to the Divine Court for proper examination?"
A pause.
The flame-scar still lingered on his palm.
Deep inside, the Seal stirred—as if listening.
His voice, when it came, was quiet.
"…No."
Ling Wanzhou blinked once. Not surprised.
He returned the scroll to his sleeve without comment.
Then, softly:
"If you refuse, then protocol proceeds. Under field-review clause, the Court may execute a tri-fold seal of mind, severing your dream-flow for ten years."
Silence fell.
One of the law scribes twitched visibly.
Shen Jin lifted his gaze.
And smiled, just slightly.
A strange calm settled into his voice.
"…Then try."