Slowly, deliberately, a weapon took shape in its grasp—a sword of jagged glass, its blade long and narrow, edges gleaming with fractured brilliance. Each tiny facet reflected light wrong, bending it until it seemed the weapon was shifting constantly in his grip.
"Oh," Wuxie whispered, grin spreading wider as if this was exactly the kind of entertainment he'd been waiting for. "So that's how it's gonna be."
The hall itself seemed to stir at those words.
The mirrors lining the chamber quivered faintly, as though trembling with anticipation. Reflections flickered rapidly, no longer copies of him but scenes—dozens of versions of Wuxie locked in combat. Some clashed with monstrous shadows of themselves. Some swung blades wildly. Some lay sprawled in defeat, bleeding onto mirrored floors, while others stood victorious, battered yet grinning.
It was like peering into countless fates at once.
The crowned reflection didn't wait.
It lunged.
