The ruins of the Mirror Mist Pavilion loomed before them, like a fractured memory stitched into the land. Once a sanctuary for sword cultivators who studied illusion and clarity, now it lay shattered—an abandoned echo draped in silent mist and tangled vines.
Raen stepped cautiously over a cracked stone tile, his boots whispering against damp moss. The mist here wasn't natural. It pulsed faintly with mana, hiding sharp edges, false doors, and whispers not spoken by human tongues. Talin followed, grip tight on his short sword, while Nira, ever alert, sketched counter-runes in the air with each step.
"This place isn't dead," she muttered. "It's dreaming. The structure's soul is still here… somewhere."
Raen nodded. "The Mirror Mist cultivators didn't just vanish. They sealed themselves. Or something sealed them."
Talin frowned. "Then why are we here again? This place doesn't have treasure, just traps."
"Because it's where the Heaven-Split Sword Hall last set foot before they vanished," Raen replied. "And I need to know what they found… or feared."
At the heart of the ruin stood a broken reflection pool, its waters still miraculously clear. Raen knelt beside it and drew his blade. The surface rippled—not from wind, but in recognition. A pulse vibrated through the steel, a tone only Raen could hear.
"The Silent Edge remembers."
The sword spirit spoke again, this time clearer than ever. A memory not Raen's flickered in the reflection: sword-wielding figures crossing the threshold, robes of black and blue swirling in fog, blades humming with resonance. The Heaven-Split warriors. Their forms shimmered with power and dread.
One stepped forward, eyes cold like frozen dusk. His voice echoed across time:
> "The Mirror Mist is not meant to be understood. Only navigated."
Then—chaos.
A screaming tear in space. Runes collapsing. A blade severing light.
Raen gasped and dropped his sword, sweat beading at his brow. Talin grabbed his shoulder. "What happened?"
"They triggered something. Something alive."
Suddenly, the mist thickened. From within, figures emerged—not phantoms, not corpses, but reflections of themselves. Raen stood… facing Raen. His double wore a cruel smile, his blade already drawn. Talin and Nira gasped as they too saw mirror-versions of themselves emerging from the fog.
"Reflection trials," Nira whispered. "Old sect technique. Meant to test one's inner weakness… but this feels corrupted."
Mirror-Raen spoke, voice distorted. "You lie with every breath. You swing a blade but fear its cost. You pretend to walk the path of silence, but you crave recognition."
Raen didn't respond. He simply drew his sword again and stepped forward.
"You are not me," he said. "You're the shell I shed. A hollow echo."
The mirror clone lunged.
The fight was unlike any Raen had faced. His mirror self knew all his stances, all his tricks. Every move was anticipated, every dodge matched. For every cut he delivered, he took one in return.
But Raen changed tactics. He stopped following the sword forms. He stopped fighting as the world expected. He let instinct and intuition guide his strikes, weaving unpredictability into his blade.
He dropped low beneath a standard guard, twisted, and used the Soundless Crescent in reverse form—an unorthodox move that should have failed.
But it worked.
Steel bit through the reflection's throat, and the mirror form shattered into mist.
Talin and Nira followed suit, defeating their reflections with grit and insight. As the mist cleared, the air grew lighter. The reflection pool shimmered with approval, and in its center floated an ancient stone fragment—etched with the Heaven-Split emblem.
Raen took it carefully.
"We're getting closer," he murmured. "The Heaven-Split Sword Hall walked into something… and I think it's calling me too."
They turned from the pool and pressed onward, deeper into the ruins. The real trial had only just begun.
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To be continued…