The path to Habin was not slashed by cart or beast. It was a trail whispered in the dreams of cultivators and etched upon the memories of sages long gone. Those who dared to tread it did not do so for wealth or fame, but for the accounting of the self—the encounter with the echoes of Heaven that stir within a mortal coil.
Xiao Hua walked alone.
Snow fell in quiet confession from the sky, drifting into his robes and melting as though not wishing to touch a man whose existence now appeared less flesh than silence itself. Each step he took along the ancient ridgeline removed him further from the world of men and drew him nearer to the world of things unsaid.
On the fringe of the mortal realm, where even the wind had forgotten to wail, he arrived at the Stone Gate of Wuji—a primordial arch inscribed with mantras so ancient, their glyphs changed if one gazed too hard. This marked the Heavenly Abode, a realm invisible to the unenlightened, inaccessible to those still bound to hunger and terror.
A voice—male, female, loud, or soft—spoke to him like a wind brushing against the soul:
"What do you want, child of bone?"
Xiao Hua bowed low.
"I want not power to remake the world,
but wisdom no longer to be remade by it."
The gate opened—not in thunder or pomp, but in the soft scrape of old bamboo on stone. Therewithin was a world hued in paradox: gardens blooming with fire, lakes murmuring riddles, mountains upside down.
And there waiting were the Trials of the Sages, tempered by cruelty's compassion and compassion's cruelty.
The First Trial: The Bodhi of Endless Reflection
He was led to a temple with no walls, just an open area of wind and golden leaves. In the center was a mirror—standing upright, round, and covered in coils of sleeping dragons.
When he looked into it, he did not see himself.
He saw all the people he had failed:
His mother, weeping behind closed doors.
His dead friend, smiling before battle.
Ling Yan, standing in snow, waiting.
The mirror then broke—not beneath his hand, but from within. A thousand Xiao Huas stared back, each making a different choice, each following a different path. Some were cruel. Some were cowardly. Some perished young. Some aged disgracefully. None were free.
Just the one before the mirror chose to do nothing.
He bowed—not to the mirror, but to the pain—and the tribulation vanished.
The Second Trial: The Jealous Heirs of Heaven
He entered a hall where jade and golden thrones were empty except for whispers. The children of the gods—arrogance's children, fed on starlight—regarded him with disdain.
"A mortal dares to stand among us?" they scorned.
"What right have you to rise from mud and speak of transcendence?"
They called up visions to entice and torment him.
—A crown with Ling Yan by his side, the world underfoot.
—The power to revive the dead.
—A sword that could slay even karma itself.
But Xiao Hua only smiled, his voice a feather brushing against the flame:
"A sword forged in envy rusts in the hand.
A crown grown in illusion tightens until it strangles.
I do not need to surpass Heaven,
only to be erect in myself."
And the jealous heirs, not finding any crack in him to enter, froze and crumbled.
The Third Trial: The Monster That Thrives in Snow
In the center of a glacial steppe, he met a monster not formed of flesh but of forgotten myths—a great white snake with plum flowers growing on its back. It wept as it fought, its fangs glinting with sorrow.
"I was like you," it hissed, "hopeful and on fire. I became a god. And yet, I froze from the inside out."
They struggled—not in power, but in will. The creature assaulted with despair. Xiao Hua stood firm with tranquility.
Finally, when the creature embraced him in a last hug, he whispered:
"If flowering in snow is a curse,
then let me be the blossom that dies happily,
knowing it lived."
The snake sighed, and its body flowered into petals that scattered in the air.
Three trials passed. Days bled into nights, nights bled into months. His body, once strong, now hung off his bones like a lantern burning from within. He no longer knew hunger. He no longer knew time.
But he remembered the warmth of Ling Yan's weaving.
He remembered the snows of Hubei.
He remembered who he once was.
When the final gate opened and he stepped into the radiance of awakening, a mirror fashioned of mist and dew reflected his own image back to him.
He was not handsome.
He was not divine.
He was gaunt, trembling, spent.
And fully, utterly alive.
The spirit was purified. The body—now frail—awaited its trial.