The next few days passed like leaves drifting on a slow river. In the quietude of his bamboo-enshrouded dorm, Yao Yi trained alone, read silently, and listened to the wind. The mirror lay always at his side—silent, but never quite still.
He hadn't heard from Ling Yue or Elder Silvermoon since the trial, but that was no surprise. The inner sect functioned on its own strange rhythm, and initiates like him were expected to prove themselves without guidance.
Yet he couldn't shake a sensation: he was being watched.
Not in the mundane sense—no footsteps, no glances—but a constant awareness in the back of his skull, like eyes peering from behind his shadow.
On the fourth evening, just as dusk slipped into the deeper violet of night, the mirror trembled.
It had never done that before.
Yao Yi, sitting cross-legged on his meditation mat, opened his eyes. The mirror glowed faintly, a ripple of silver threading across its dark surface. Then—words appeared, etched in flickering light.
"The chamber awaits."
He blinked. Then again.
The words were gone, the mirror still.
"What chamber?" he muttered.
As if in response, the door to his dorm creaked open on its own. Outside, the wind shifted direction, blowing not from the mountains, but toward them.
A summons.
He took only the essentials—mirror, token, a small pouch of spirit herbs—and followed the wind.
The trail led him beyond the bamboo grove, along a narrow stone path half-hidden beneath moss and roots. Fireflies blinked on either side like silent sentries. After a long climb, the path curved behind a forgotten ridge, revealing a stone structure built into the mountainside.
It was not on any map he had studied.
Carved above its entrance was a single character:
"祠" — Ancestral.
A shrine.
The moment he stepped inside, warmth pressed against his skin. Not heat, but blood warmth, as if the stone remembered something that lived long ago.
Torches flickered along the walls, though none had been lit.
He walked carefully, deeper, until the chamber opened into a circular sanctum. In the center stood a pedestal—and on it, a mirror identical to his own.
His heart skipped a beat.
As he approached, the two mirrors resonated. His at his waist shimmered, rising of its own accord, drifting into the air like a silver feather.
The second mirror pulsed in reply.
Then—
A voice. Not heard, but felt.
"Return."
Yao Yi's mind went blank. His knees buckled. The chamber twisted. Light flooded his vision—not blinding, but ancient.
He stood in another place.
Not physically. His body remained in the chamber. But his senses… his soul had been drawn elsewhere.
A vast plain stretched beneath a sunless sky. Broken mirrors jutted from the ground like grave markers. And at the center, a throne—black as obsidian, its occupant cloaked in robes made of flame and shadow.
"Who…" Yao Yi whispered, though his voice felt distant.
The figure raised a hand. A single shard of light floated between their fingers.
"Your name is Yao," the voice echoed. "But not only that."
The shard drifted toward him, passing through his chest.
Suddenly—images. Memories not his own.
A battlefield drenched in golden fire.
A woman laughing, her silver hair fluttering in the wind.
A child—no, a baby—swaddled in silk, placed within a coffin of light.
Then—
The coffin shattered.
Yao Yi gasped as he snapped back to the shrine.
He staggered. The mirror clattered to the ground, its glow fading.
What… was that?
Was it a vision? A memory? A warning?
He looked at the mirror. It was silent once more. But now, on its frame, a new marking had appeared: a sun-shaped sigil, with one ray broken.
The same symbol as the blood mark Ling Yue had shown him.
Yao Yi took a long breath. His body trembled, but his mind burned with a strange clarity.
Whatever this was, it wasn't just a treasure. It was part of him.
And someone—something—wanted it back.
When he returned to his dorm, a letter awaited him, sealed with Elder Silvermoon's wax.
It read:
"You awakened the mirror's first memory. That means it's begun. The rest will come faster now. When it does—don't fight it. Let it show you who you are. And be ready to choose who you wish to become."
No signature. Just the seal.
He sat in silence for a long time, the letter in one hand, the mirror in the other.
Then he whispered to the empty room:
"Who am I really?"
The next morning brought no answers—only orders.
Yao Yi was summoned to the Inner Sect's northern training field, where intermediate disciples gathered for dueling exercises.
A senior instructor, scar-faced and short-tempered, pointed at him as soon as he arrived.
"You're the new one from the arena trial. Let's see if you can actually fight when it's not staged."
Yao Yi said nothing. He stood calmly as the man gestured to a line of ranked disciples.
"You'll face Liu Qiren. Fifth rank, spirit root type: earth. You get one chance. Win, and you're assigned to our combat patrol unit. Lose, and you go to logistics."
Liu Qiren stepped forward, arms crossed. He was taller, broader, and radiated the quiet confidence of someone used to winning.
"Ready?" the instructor barked.
Yao Yi gave a small nod.
The moment the match started, Qiren stomped the ground—pillars of stone erupted beneath Yao's feet.
He jumped, flipped midair, and twisted as a second attack surged from the side.
Rather than dodge, he summoned the mirror. But this time, he didn't just reflect.
He bent the light itself.
The mirror shimmered—then splintered his form into three mirages. Qiren's strike passed through an illusion.
From behind, Yao Yi swept low, kicked Qiren's legs out, and pressed the mirror's edge to his neck.
Silence.
The instructor blinked. "That… was fast."
Qiren looked stunned—but not angry. He nodded once in respect.
Yao Yi lowered the mirror and stepped back.
The instructor scratched his chin. "You're with Combat Patrol now. Report tomorrow before dawn."
He walked away, muttering, "Silvermoon wasn't wrong. This one's not normal."
That night, Yao Yi couldn't sleep.
The mirror sat on his desk, utterly still. But he could feel it humming, not with power—but with memory.
And somewhere deep inside, a name echoed.
Not Yao Yi.
Something older.
Something buried.
He stared out his window, toward the distant mountains, where storm clouds were gathering.
And he whispered, "If I'm not who I thought I was… then who am I meant to become?"