Chapter 9: The Mirror Gate of Deep Reflection:
"Not all mirrors show your face.
Some reflect what the world forgets."
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Golden light spilled across the ceremonial platform like warm tea over white parchment, gilding each stone step and lotus bloom in morning splendor. It would've been breathtaking—if Wei Yehan weren't squinting into the sun, pressed between Jian Qingzhou's still-as-a-statue presence and Feng Yusheng's disturbingly elegant silence.
Behind them, disciples gathered by groups, murmurs weaving through the tension like nervous thread. In front, five elders from the great sects stood side by side in solemn formation.
Wei Yehan resisted the urge to nudge Feng Yusheng beside him and whisper something idiotic like "Does this feel too much like an execution lineup to you?" But that would've required looking at Feng Yusheng directly—and he wasn't sure he could do that without remembering the awkward brush of sleeves, the scent of sandalwood and morning rain, or the way Feng Yusheng had looked at him during their last quiet conversation under the magnolia tree.
Nope. Safer to stay silent. Safer to stare at the giant gate ahead.
The Mirror Gate of Deep Reflection loomed at the far end of the platform, half-shrouded in veil mist. Its stone arch curved like a silent eye, closed yet waiting, carved with inscriptions long faded from centuries of wind and rain. The surface shimmered faintly now, like a pond disturbed by thought.
A hush fell. The elders stepped forward as one, and from the center, Elder Qingxu of Lianfeng Sect raised his head.
Wei Yehan never liked that man.
"Disciples of the Five Great Sects," Elder Qingxu spoke, voice smooth as silk over steel. "Today begins the Spirit Assessment Ceremony. The Mirror Gate will open—and what you carry within will be brought to light."
His tone was gracious, welcoming even, but Wei Yehan couldn't shake the feeling that Elder Qingxu's gaze skimmed over them not as cultivators-in-training… but as tools. As chess pieces.
Especially when his eyes flickered—just for a moment—toward Feng Yusheng. It was nothing like an Elder would look at his sect's junior but like a predator looking at it's prey.
Elder Hua Ling of Longling Pavilion stepped forward next. Clad in crimson and ash-gray, her expression was composed, with a gaze that flickered like flame.
"You will be tested not only by force or form, but by that which lies beneath," she said, voice clear and level. "The array responds to truth—yours and the world's. It cannot be lied to. It cannot be bargained with. Go forward not to prove yourself, but to see yourself."
The warmth in her tone was a balm. Wei Yehan breathed in the faint scent of lotus incense curling on the breeze. Beside him, Jian Qingzhou stood utterly still, unreadable as a painting half-finished.
Next came Elder Shi Taoyun of Yunjian Sect, her presence cutting the air like a sword drawn in silence.
"Stay together," she said, voice sharp, words trimmed to bone. "Only clarity of purpose will keep you grounded. The array does not favor hesitation. If you doubt, you will fall behind."
Yue Chenxiao tilted his head slightly at that, like he was filing it away. Wei Yehan was still trying to decide if that was ominous or comforting.
Elder Mo Cheng of Ziyue Pavilion followed, robes trailing like ink over snow, his hands clasped before him.
"The array observes the heart," he said. "You may see shadows that are not your own—or truths you did not ask for. Accept them. Resist, and you may lose more than your path."
Wei Yehan swallowed. Great. More cryptic spiritual poetry. Just what he needed before walking into a mysterious illusion realm.
Then Elder Lei Han of Leishen Sect stepped forward, arms behind his back like a soldier on inspection.
"There will be no intervention once you enter. No talismans or techniques will carry you through," he said. "Only what you bring within. Let your spirit stand taller than your sword."
It sounded like something Feng Tingshen would quote while polishing his nails.
And then, finally, Elder Qingxu stepped forward—not to add, but to finish.
"The array is ready," he said, voice softer now, yet somehow echoing louder than before. "Each group will be summoned in turn. The Gate will shape your path. Time within may stretch. Do not be alarmed by what you see."
He raised one hand, fingers spread like a spell or command—and the entire platform seemed to exhale.
Below the high arch of the Mirror Gate, mist that had once clung like dew was now lifting, drawn upward as if answering an invisible call. For a breathless moment, nothing happened.
Then came the sound—low at first, like wind humming through hollow bones. It wasn't sound so much as sensation: a trembling in the chest, the teeth, the soul. The faded inscriptions carved into the Gate's weatherworn stone began to flicker—one after another—silver veins pulsing beneath ancient moss and dust.
Wei Yehan's breath caught.
The stone itself glowed from within. Not brightly. Not with heat. But with memory.
As if the Gate was awakening from centuries of sleep.
A soft, musical resonance spilled across the platform. Not song, exactly—more like chimes falling through water, the kind of sound that made the hairs on your arms rise, that pressed softly behind your eyes as if urging you to remember something you'd forgotten in a dream.
The arch flared with pale silver light—then dimmed—then bloomed again, this time brighter, fuller, as if the spirit within it had accepted something. The surface beneath the arch shimmered and folded, no longer mist or stone, but a translucent veil of ever-changing reflection. Not quite a mirror. Not quite water. It rippled with glimpses:
—A trail of floating lanterns across a black river.
—A crumbling shrine overgrown with thorns.
—A child's hand reaching for a burning lotus.
—Eyes. Dozens. Watching from the dark.
Wei Yehan blinked, and the visions were gone. He wasn't sure if anyone else had seen them.
Then came the pull.
Not physical. Not visible. But deep in his chest—just below his ribs—where the mark on his left palm had once burned bright in the dawn. That strange flicker that now whispered faintly beneath his skin, like it recognized something. Like it remembered the Gate.
The light around the arch twisted, expanding outward like ink dropped in clear water. Petals of brightness unfolded in silence—spiral upon spiral—before collapsing back into perfect stillness.
And then it stood open.
The Mirror Gate of Deep Reflection.
Waiting.
Wei Yehan realized, in that suspended moment, that he could no longer hear the disciples murmuring behind him. Even Jian Qingzhou's breathing was silent. Everyone—everyone—had gone still.
Even time, it seemed, was holding its breath.
And behind them, like a shadow too deep for sunlight to reach, Elder Qingxu watched them all—his gaze unreadable.
But when it swept over Feng Yusheng, something cold and ancient stirred beneath it.
Wei Yehan didn't know what it was—but he knew this: the Mirror Gate had not opened for them alone. It had opened for something else as well. Something that had been waiting.
And now, the Gate remembered.