The night after the starfall, Jing Kong's body felt… different.
He stood again on the slope outside the village, shirtless, bathed in silver moonlight. His chest rose and fell steadily as he repeated the stances imprinted into his mind by the mirror. Each movement flowed into the next as if guided by unseen hands.
Where once his breath rasped like knives, it now deepened with ease. His skin, though still thin, no longer stung with every gust of wind. The ache in his bones seemed to fade with each motion. His blood pulsed warmly, circulating as if awakened from long slumber.
Most of all, his cursed leg—the weak limb that had mocked him since birth—no longer buckled. It trembled, yes, but now there was strength hidden beneath the weakness, as though it were slowly remembering how to be whole.
Jing paused, his lips curling into something rare: a true smile.
"This mirror…" he whispered, gazing at the bronze treasure resting against a nearby stone, its surface dark yet faintly warm. "You've given me a path the heavens denied."
He bowed his head slightly, an instinct born of gratitude, and spoke aloud for the first time:
"From now on, I will call you the Heaven-Fallen Mirror."
He did not know how the treasure worked. He did not understand the laws that made its surface ripple with diagrams or the force that had scanned his broken body. But he knew this much: the method he had learned that night was life-changing.
For the first time in his life, Jing walked back to his home not in exhaustion, but in quiet triumph.
His house was little more than a shack of wood and mud, its roof patched with straw, its walls crooked with age. Inside, the air smelled faintly of damp earth and smoke from the day's cooking fire.
At the small table, his mother sat sewing by candlelight. Her face bore the lines of hardship, yet her back remained straight, her expression calm despite the weight of endless labor. Beside her, his younger sister knelt, grinding millet with clumsy hands. She was barely eight years old, small and thin, her black hair tied into a simple knot. Though her eyes were bright, they carried the same hunger that haunted the village children.
On the far side of the room lay his grandfather. Once strong enough to serve in a martial clan, now he was nothing more than skin and bone upon a bed of straw. His breathing rattled, shallow and weak, yet his eyes still shone with a stubborn flame that sickness had not extinguished.
Jing stepped inside, carrying the faint scent of sweat and earth. His mother glanced up.
"You're late again," she said, though her voice was not sharp, merely weary. "Training in the woods?"
"Yes, Mother," Jing replied. His tone was calm, steady as ever. He set down the bundle of firewood he had carried from the slope, then fetched the water jar resting by the door. His life was a cycle of burdens: chopping wood, carrying water, tending to his sister, caring for his ailing grandfather. He was the pillar of this fragile household, and he bore that weight without complaint.
His grandfather stirred faintly. Though his voice was hoarse, his words carried the firmness of his old self.
"You've changed," the old man murmured. His clouded eyes narrowed as he studied Jing's frame. "Your steps… steadier. Your shoulders… not so bent."
Jing froze for a moment, then forced a small smile. "It's nothing, Grandfather. Perhaps my body is finally adjusting to your servant's method."
The old man chuckled weakly, coughing midway. "Adjusting? Hmph… no mortal body adjusts so quickly. But if your spirit carries you further, then so be it. Just remember, strength is not only for yourself."
Jing bowed his head. Inside, his thoughts were steady, directed only toward his path: Strength is my only way forward. With strength, I can protect them. With strength, I can escape the mud of this village.
He ate little that night, leaving most of the millet for his sister, then stepped outside once more when the moon climbed higher.
The forest embraced him like an old friend. Crickets sang, and the wind carried the cool breath of the mountains. Jing returned to the clearing where the Heaven-Fallen Mirror lay hidden among roots and moss.
He set the treasure before him, bowed slightly again, and began training.
Night after night, he repeated the movements, refining each posture until his body moved as naturally as flowing water. His back straightened, his lungs opened, his muscles thickened. Veins swelled with vitality, his arms gained strength, and the limp in his leg nearly vanished. Each day, the villagers who once mocked him began to notice the difference: the once-crippled boy now carried water with ease, chopped wood with surging blows, and no longer fell beneath the weight of his tasks.
His mother remained silent, but in her eyes flickered relief. His sister began to follow him at times, copying his movements clumsily when no one watched. His grandfather only observed in silence, too weak to question, yet certain that something had changed forever.
A few days later, as Jing completed a set of stances with flawless precision, the mirror stirred once more. Its surface rippled, glowing faintly, then shifted to reveal something greater than before.
One by one, images unfolded—no longer simple postures, but entire sequences. A path of the body itself.
He saw skin like iron, bones forged like divine steel, marrow glowing with life essence, blood roaring like rivers of power. He saw organs strengthened until they became engines of vitality, tendons snapping with the explosive force of divine beasts. He saw flesh healing instantly, limbs regrowing, a body that could endure heaven's wrath itself. He saw an immortal physique, half-divine, radiating laws of the Dao.
And finally, he saw a form that transcended mortality entirely: the Dao Body, an eternal vessel, indestructible, resonating with the laws of creation.
The images seared themselves into his mind like scripture written in fire. Jing did not understand their meaning, but his heart trembled with awe.
"I don't understand," Jing whispered, voice calm and steady, "but I will remember."
He clenched his fists, feeling the warmth coursing through his veins, the almost-healed strength in his leg, the life he had never tasted before.
"The Heaven-Fallen Mirror… you've given me a future."
Under the pale moonlight, Jing's shadow stretched long upon the earth. Though the world remained vast and indifferent, that night marked the first step of his true path.
As the mirror's glow faded and silence returned to the forest, Jing lifted his eyes to the sky. A different thought surfaced.
"Tonight… is the night."
Each month, once without fail, he would meet Lian by the old willow trees near the river path. That meeting was tonight.
With calm steps and steady breath, Jing turned from the clearing. His training was far from finished—but before the moon waned, he would see her.