The Mirror of Heaven pulsed brighter with each heartbeat. Silvery light rippled across the courtyard, and one by one, the disciples convulsed, sweat beading on their brows as the illusion deepened.
Elder Sun Zhen's eyes narrowed. "Third Phase," he murmured. "The Shatter Phases... where illusion breaks into truth—and truth, into madness."
Inside the Mirror Realm
Lin Wuxie stood alone in a corridor of fractured glass. Every surface around him reflected a different version of himself—some distorted, some eerily accurate. The realm no longer followed any spiritual formation logic. It pulsed with instinct and narrative—shaped by those within.
He reached into his robe and drew out a familiar object: a golden monocle, etched with the image of a coiling serpent biting its own tail. Its lens shimmered unnaturally, the reflection within moving a heartbeat out of sync with reality.
"Let's see how much of this realm you're truly hiding," he whispered.
Sliding the monocle over his eye, the reflections twisted—revealing threads of falsehood in the illusion itself. Weak points. Hidden scripts. Memories stolen from others. He traced the outlines of fragmented scenes from other disciples—echoes of their fears, regrets, and ambitions.
And a presence.
"Someone else is watching."
His gaze drifted beyond the mirror's constructed world—where a thread of crimson shimmered in the fog. A whisper reached him:
"You don't belong, Trickster."
He smiled. "Neither do you."
Elsewhere, Mei Yao stumbled through a temple cloaked in moonlight and shadow. A younger version of herself walked ahead, obedient and silent, toward the throne of the masked elder who bore her father's voice.
"Obedience is truth. Truth is blindness."
The illusion trembled. Mei Yao clenched her fists.
"I am not your puppet anymore."
She reached for her jade pendant. It flared with a cold, pale light—and cracks appeared across the floor of the temple. Mirrors shattered along the walls, revealing twisted versions of sect elders and family members, watching her fall, fail, kneel.
But she stood tall. Her Dao of Unveiling surged. Behind her, the younger Mei vanished like smoke.
In the distance, a silver ripple passed over the illusion.
Shen Ziyao knelt before a tribunal of faceless judges—blindfolded, yet all-seeing. One by one, the scrolls were opened: false sins, forged truths.
"You judge to feel righteous. Not to uphold balance," a voice hissed.
Her surroundings crumbled into ash, revealing a reflection of herself atop a stairway of bones, eyes glowing with heavenly flame.
"Purity is my path. Mercy is corruption."
She rose. "No. Justice is clarity—not eradication."
A mirror cracked behind her—and through it, she glimpsed a temple submerged in silver fog. A figure waited inside.
Lin Wuxie.
He stood calm, watching her illusion collapse from within.
"You again?" she barked. "Stay out of my vision."
He tilted his head, monocle gleaming. "You called me here. Or your truth did."
With a flick of his sleeve, her mirror snapped in half.
Shen Ziyao screamed.
Outside, Elder Sun's hand twitched. Sigils flickered.
"Three illusions just collided," a formation master gasped. "And merged."
"That shouldn't be possible," said another. "Unless..."
"Unless one of them isn't bound by illusion," Sun Zhen finished.
He turned toward Lin Wuxie, who remained still. But the air around him now pulsed with a rhythm the Mirror had not shown before. Like a second heartbeat. Like a concealed cadence unraveling the fabric of the illusion.
"His monocle..." Sun Zhen muttered. "Is that an artifact?"
Back inside, the fractured corridor widened. Lin Wuxie walked with leisure, his monocle illuminating paths through dreamstuff. He saw memories—not just his own. Echoes of Crimson Whisper. Half-forgotten chants of the Mirror Sect.
A name echoed: He Yunxu.
The Mirror trembled as he neared its heart.
A voice—like wind against broken glass—whispered:
"Your monocle sees more than it should. You are not Lin Wuxie. What are you really?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached out—and touched the glass.
A thousand faces stared back. His. Amon's. Mr. Fool's silhouette. The King of Angels, not yet divine.
He smiled.
"I'm whoever you need me to be."
The monocle shimmered, absorbing the mirror's glow, refracting not just images, but essence.
And with that, the mirror cracked—clean down the center.
The next trial had begun.