The road from Yānchéng to the Celestial Sword Academy took five days on foot—six if you were cautious, seven if you were wounded and trying not to bleed out in front of every roadside inn.
They took six.
Mei walked with the Frost Token tucked inside her inner sleeve, pressed against skin like a second heartbeat. The hairpin—now cracked in three visible places—remained eerily quiet. No memories. No pulses. Just a dull, persistent ache behind her left temple, like someone had left a needle there and forgotten to pull it out.
Sùyīn didn't speak much during the march.
She bandaged Mei's forearm where the giant's boot had left a deep purple bloom, changed the dressing twice a day, forced her to drink bitter qi-nourishing teas that tasted like boiled tree bark. When they camped she took first watch without being asked, sat with her back to the fire so the light wouldn't blind her to movement in the dark.
On the fourth night, under a sky thick with stars, Mei finally broke the silence.
"You don't have to come all the way."
Sùyīn poked the embers with a stick. Sparks drifted upward.
"I know."
"Then why?"
Sùyīn was quiet for so long Mei thought she wouldn't answer.
Then:
"Because the first time I saw you, you were barefoot in a murder forest, bleeding from the head, talking to a cursed hairpin like it was an old friend. And you still looked at the world like you expected something good to happen."
Mei stared into the fire.
"That's stupid."
"Very." Sùyīn gave a small, crooked smile. "But I've run from enough things. I'm tired of running ahead of someone who's running toward something."
Mei reached out—slowly—and touched the back of Sùyīn's hand where it rested on her knee.
Sùyīn didn't pull away.
They sat like that until the fire died to coals.
On the morning of the sixth day, the academy appeared.
First as rumor: white peaks piercing clouds, mist curling around jade rooftops like dragon breath.
Then as silhouette: seven tiered pagodas linked by moon bridges, arrays shimmering faintly in the air like heat above summer roads.
Finally as reality: towering gates of white spirit-jade, thirty meters high, carved with coiling sword qi that moved when you blinked.
Hundreds of hopefuls already gathered before the gates—young cultivators in fresh robes, older wanderers with scarred hands, a few nobles with entourages of bodyguards. Banners snapped in the wind: green for outer disciples, blue for inner, silver for direct transmission.
No one wore black.
Exiles didn't get colors.
Mei pulled her gray hood lower.
Sùyīn stayed at her side.
A bell tolled—deep, resonant, shaking dew from nearby pines.
The gates didn't open.
Instead a platform of floating jade rose from the inner courtyard. On it stood three elders in white—two men, one woman—all radiating late Core Formation pressure that made the air taste metallic.
The woman in the center stepped forward.
Her voice carried without amplification.
"The spring trial begins. Three gates. Three truths. Only those who pass all three may enter the outer sect."
She raised one hand.
The gates split—not like doors, but like water parting. Beyond them: three arched tunnels of light. Green. Blue. Violet.
"First gate: the Mirror of Intent."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
The elder continued.
"Step inside. Face what you truly desire. Survive what it shows you. Those who break will be ejected. Those who lie will be consumed."
Mei felt the cracked hairpin stir—faint, warning.
Sùyīn gripped her sleeve.
"You still have the forged token?"
Mei nodded. The student token she'd bought with half the blade-dance winnings—good enough to get her past the initial array scan, worthless once the mirror looked deeper.
Sùyīn exhaled.
"Then go. I'll wait here."
Mei turned to her.
"If I don't come back—"
"You will."
Mei searched her face—sharp eyes, faint scar, stubborn mouth.
She leaned in—quick, reckless—and pressed her forehead to Sùyīn's for one heartbeat.
"Thank you."
Sùyīn's breath hitched.
"Don't thank me yet. Just… come back."
Mei pulled away.
Joined the line of hopefuls filing toward the green arch.
When her turn came she stepped through.
The world folded.
She stood alone in an endless hall of mirrors.
Every surface reflected her—dozens of Meis, hundreds—some in librarian cardigans holding paperbacks, some in torn noble silk clutching a cursed hairpin, some older, some younger, some bleeding, some smiling.
And in the center mirror—largest, clearest—stood Lán Xīuyīng.
No mask.
Silver hair loose around her shoulders.
Eyes the color of first frost.
She looked straight at Mei.
"You came back," she said. Voice soft. Almost gentle.
Mei's throat closed.
The hairpin cracked again—fourth fracture now. Pain spiked behind her eye.
Xīuyīng stepped closer—mirror to mirror—until only glass separated them.
"What do you want, Lin Mei?"
Mei's hands shook.
"I want—"
The mirrors pressed in.
Every reflection spoke at once.
To be forgiven.
To be seen.
To be loved.
To win.
To die trying.
The voices overlapped, deafening.
Xīuyīng—only the real one, the one behind the glass—tilted her head.
"Choose one truth. Or the mirror chooses for you."
Mei stared at her.
Felt the weight of every borrowed memory, every shard already given, every heartbeat she'd stolen to get here.
She lifted her chin.
"I want to stand in front of you," she said, voice cracking but clear, "and have you say my name again. Not as a traitor. Not as a ghost. Just… my name."
Silence.
Then Xīuyīng smiled—small, almost invisible, the first real crack in the ice Mei had ever seen.
The mirror shattered.
Not violently.
Quietly.
Like frost giving way to spring.
Mei stumbled forward—out of the green arch, onto the inner plaza.
She was through.
Behind her the elder's voice rang out.
"Lin Mei. Accepted to the first gate."
Gasps from the crowd.
Sùyīn stood at the edge, eyes wide.
Mei looked back once—found Sùyīn's gaze—and nodded.
Then she turned toward the blue arch.
Two more gates.
Two more truths.
And somewhere inside those white walls, a silver-haired girl had just heard her name spoken aloud—again.
The hairpin pulsed once—faint, fading, almost fond.
One piece left.
Mei stepped forward.