Darkness.
As the black gate closed behind him, Yan Zhi felt as though he had sunk into an ocean without surface or floor. No sky, no ground—only a void that pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of some unseen giant.
Each step made no sound. Yet his shadow lingered in the air, refusing to vanish, clinging to existence.
"This is the Fourth Layer," the voice whispered, seeping into his marrow. "Here, you will find no light—only reflections of yourself."
Yan Zhi's jaw tightened. "I don't need reflections. I need a way out."
Silence. Then, before him, shards of glass began to form—thousands of them, suspended midair, each reflecting his image. But none showed him as he was.
In one shard, he was a sect elder—cold, regal, eyes burning with hunger for power.
In another, he stood upon mountains of corpses, smiling with cruel satisfaction.
In yet another, he was only a child—crying, reaching for hands that never came.
The shards trembled, voices leaking from them—laughter, sobs, whispers.
"This is you, Yan Zhi. Every possibility, every rejection, every betrayal."
Suddenly, one shard shattered, falling to the unseen ground. From within crawled a Yan Zhi with hollow eyes and a twisted smile.
Another shard broke. And another. Until dozens of "Yan Zhis" walked free—each bearing a weapon, each radiating murderous intent.
Yan Zhi gripped his sword tight. The shadow beneath his feet writhed, thirsty for blood.
"If these are my reflections… then I'll destroy them all."
The battle erupted.
Steel clashed, shadows lashed, and the cries of countless "selves" filled the abyss. Each strike felt like cutting into his own heart, but he fought without pause. Because beyond this gate… only one Yan Zhi could leave alive.
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