The hall had fallen into a hush.
Qiao Wen stood before the mirror, his reflection gazing back at him with the same dark eyes, the same still expression. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sound like water rippling, the reflection stirred—and stepped forward.
The world around him dissolved.
He was no longer in the hall. Instead, Wen stood in the middle of a bustling marketplace, yet not a single person spared him a glance. Merchants shouted, children laughed, families haggled, but their voices slid past him like the wind.
"Hello," Wen said softly. No one turned.
He reached out, but his hand passed through a man's shoulder like smoke. The world was full—yet he was utterly alone.
The mirror whispered to him, not in words but in the weight that settled in his chest: This is what you fear. That you will always be on the edge of things, unseen, unheard. That even if you climb the heights of cultivation, no one will truly walk beside you.
Wen's breath caught. He hated the sting of truth in it. From childhood, he had been the quiet one, the boy who never spoke unless asked, who trailed behind brighter voices like Feng's. Even now, as he stood at the threshold of the sect, was it not Feng who drew eyes and admiration first?
The crowd thickened. Shadows pressed closer. Their laughter rang louder, cutting against his silence. He tried to move, but his legs felt rooted.
You don't belong. You never will.
Wen clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. The words stabbed deeper than blades, because part of him believed them. A surge of anger swelled—at the mirror, at himself.
And then, faintly, another voice came to him. Not from the illusion, but from memory. Feng's voice, laughing, fierce, steady:
"Wen, you're the only one I trust to stand at my side."
The loneliness wavered. His chest eased.
Wen exhaled slowly. The silence didn't vanish—it was still there, vast and heavy—but it no longer crushed him. Instead, it was space. Space to breathe, space to choose, space to stand on his own feet.
He took a step forward. The shadows recoiled. Another step—and the market shattered like glass, dissolving into a thousand shards of light.
Wen opened his eyes.
He was back in the hall. His reflection was just that: a reflection. The mirror no longer pulsed with illusions.
His robes were damp with sweat, but his face was calm, his eyes steadier than before.
Elder Zhao gave the faintest nod. "Pass."
Feng hurried to his side, relief brightening his face. Wen managed a small smile, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. For him, that was enough.
The two of them stood together, side by side. Changed.
Then, Elder Zhao turned to the group. His voice rang across the chamber, sharp and commanding:
"The Mirror Hall has judged you. Now comes the second trial. At nightfall, you will walk the Path of Constellations. Prepare yourselves—many falter where the heavens weigh upon the heart."
Gasps and whispers rippled through the disciples, some eager, others pale with dread.
Feng and Wen exchanged a glance, a silent pact passing between them.
Outside, the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long. Above, the first stars began to appear, one by one, like watchful eyes.