The air at the mouth of Death Canyon was thick and stagnant, heavy with a silence that felt older than the stones themselves. It was a silence that was fundamentally wrong, a void where the whisper of the wind and the skittering of unseen things should have been. And at its heart, the source of this unnatural stillness, was the maelstrom.
It wasn't a whirlwind of dust or wind, but of pure, absolute blackness—a spiraling vortex of night that seemed to drink the very light from the sky. It churned slowly, deliberately, a great, dark eye opening into oblivion.
Into this oppressive quiet stumbled a figure, breaking the tableau of rock and shadow. He was dressed in fine brocade silks, the kind worn for courtly functions, now stained with grime and something that looked disturbingly like dried blood. His face was a waxy, bloodless white, a stark canvas for the feverish, crimson light that burned in his eyes. He looked like a man who had stared into the abyss and found it staring back.
But the true horror wasn't the man himself. It was the burden he carried. Slung over his back, identical in every stitch of clothing and every line of his face, was his own corpse.
There was no mistaking the truth of it. The man with the crimson eyes was a phantom, a mirror image given horrifying life. The body he carried, still and lifeless, was the original. This unfortunate soul had not shared the luck of others, like the warrior Xiao Ke. He had faced his reflection in battle and lost, becoming a trophy for his own killer, a specter now marching to a final, unknown purpose.
The mirrored clone stopped just short of the maelstrom's edge. With a motion that was unnervingly tender, it embraced the corpse, pulling it close. Then, the impossible happened. Both figures began to dissolve. They didn't burn or crumble, but unraveled, their forms melting into a plume of inky black smoke. The smoke didn't dissipate. Instead, it was drawn, as if by an inexorable breath, into the spinning vortex, becoming one with the deeper darkness. The maelstrom seemed to pulse once, its rotation infinitesimally stronger, its color a shade more profound.
He wasn't the last. From the shadowed crags and hidden paths of the canyon, more began to appear. Dozens, then scores of them, each a crimson-eyed duplicate carrying its slain original. One by one, they reached the precipice, embraced their dead selves, and dissolved into smoky tributes for the hungry vortex. The air grew cold, thick with the silent screams of souls being unmade, a grand, grotesque ritual playing out under a sunless sky.
Far from this spectacle, huddled behind a jagged outcrop of granite, a group of people watched in stunned silence. They were a motley assembly—weathered veterans and ambitious youths, their varied armor and robes marking them as warriors from across the land. Each had followed a different trail, a unique clue—a whispered rumor, a faded map, a dying man's last words—all leading to this same impossible scene. Now, united by their shared destination, they could only stare, the same question etched on every face: What in the name of the gods is this?
This was no gathering of common mercenaries. Among the two-hundred-strong crowd, the weakest among them bore the rank of an eighth-level Fierce General. Their unspoken leaders, however, stood in a class all their own. One was Ye Huan, the famed Fifth Young Master of the powerful Ye clan. The other was Zhang Wenyuan, a formidable master from the equally respected Zhang clan. Both were tenth-level Grand Generals, titans whose power radiated from them like a palpable heat, warping the very air.
A younger warrior, unable to contain his awe and confusion any longer, broke the silence. His voice was a reedy whisper directed at the two masters. "Young Master Ye… Master Zhang… what do you make of it? That vortex… could it be the sign? Is a celestial treasure about to manifest?"
Zhang Wenyuan's gaze was hard, his mind racing. Treasure? he thought with a grim internal laugh. This is no birth of an artifact. This is a blood sacrifice on a scale I've only read about in forbidden texts. He tried to comprehend the sheer power required for such a feat—to conjure a Sky Veil, a barrier that sealed the entire region, and then to spawn these mirrored assassins to harvest the life force of every warrior trapped within. It was a power that defied imagination. But for what purpose? What entity demanded such a horrific tribute?
He opened his mouth, ready to warn them, to shatter their greedy fantasies with the cold, brutal truth of their situation. This wasn't an opportunity; it was a slaughterhouse, and they were the cattle.
But Ye Huan spoke first, his voice smooth and confident, cutting through the tension. "The black maelstrom before us is undoubtedly the source of the recent disturbances. When heaven and earth themselves warp and change color, it can only mean one thing: a peerless treasure is about to be born. But as we all know," he added, his eyes sweeping over the crowd, "such prizes are always guarded by fell beasts and wicked spirits. Claiming it will require not just strength, but a healthy dose of luck."
Zhang Wenyuan's eyes widened. He shot a sharp, questioning look at Ye Huan. What is he doing? He's no fool. He must see the same signs I do. For a fleeting second, he felt a chill of betrayal. But then his gaze met Ye Huan's, and beneath the charming smile, he saw it—a deep, gnawing anxiety, a flicker of profound worry. In that instant, he understood.
Ye Huan knew. He knew this was no treasure hunt. As the grandson of the esteemed Elder Ye, a pillar of the Imperial Cabinet, he carried the weight of the empire on his shoulders. He recognized this phenomenon for what it was: a threat of catastrophic proportions. And it had to be understood. To let it fester in the lawless lands could mean doom for them all. He was lying to these men not out of malice, but out of necessity. He needed soldiers, expendable or not, to pierce the veil of this mystery. If he had spoken of a sacrificial ritual, this mob of glory-seekers would have vanished into the hills without a second thought. But the promise of treasure? That was a leash he could use to pull them straight into the mouth of hell.
As predicted, a wave of excited murmurs rippled through the crowd. Greed, a far more potent motivator than fear, had taken root.
Seizing the moment, Ye Huan raised his voice again. "The guardians of this prize are many. I propose we first unite our strength to exterminate these abominations. Once they are dealt with, the treasure within the vortex will belong to whoever is bold enough to claim it. Do you agree?"
A chorus of assent roared back.
"Agreed!"
"The Young Master speaks wisely!"
"Let's do as he says! Fortune awaits!"
Ye Huan turned to Zhang Wenyuan, a polite, almost challenging smile on his lips. "Master Zhang, what say you?"
Zhang Wenyuan gave a slow, deliberate nod, playing his part in the charade. "I will naturally follow the Young Master's lead."
"Excellent." Ye Huan's smile became a sharp, predatory grin. With a flourish, he drew a magnificent sword, its hilt inlaid with gold and jade. "Then let us begin. First, we cleanse this ground of these demonic puppets!"
His words still hanging in the air, Ye Huan vanished. He didn't run; he simply ceased to be in one place and appeared a hundred meters away, his blade already scything through the neck of a mirrored clone. The display of sheer speed and power sent a fresh jolt of awe through the onlookers. Not to be outdone, they surged forward, a wave of steel and fury crashing against the silent, crimson-eyed abominations.
Zhang Wenyuan watched them go, a bitter smile twisting his lips. Fools, he thought. So blinded by avarice. If a treasure of this magnitude truly existed, do you honestly believe a man of Ye Huan's power would let it fall into your hands?
Yet, he knew Ye Huan's goal was a noble one, even if his methods were cruelly pragmatic. These men were driven by personal gain; it was only fitting that their greed be used for a greater purpose. As a representative of the Zhang clan, whose patriarch was the Imperial Tutor himself, Zhang Wenyuan shared Ye Huan's sense of duty. This darkness had to be confronted. With a sigh, he too joined the fray, his own power erupting in a storm of destruction.
The battle was short and brutal. Though the mirrored clones were formidable, they were no match for a coordinated assault led by two Grand Generals. Within minutes, the ground was littered with their dissolving remains. But victory was not without cost. More than twenty warriors lay dead, cut down by their own faces.
The survivors, now numbering just under two hundred, gathered before the maelstrom. The initial euphoria of battle had faded, replaced by a mixture of excitement and raw trepidation as they stared into the churning abyss. All eyes turned once more to Ye Huan. "Young Master Ye," one of the men asked, his voice trembling slightly, "what now? Who goes first?"
Ye Huan's expression was somber. "I will be honest with you. We have no idea what lies within that vortex. The first to enter will face the greatest danger—they may not return. However," he paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in, "they also stand the greatest chance of claiming the prize. The choice is yours. Fortune favors the bold."
A tense silence fell over the group. And then, a clear voice cut through it. "I will go."
All heads turned. Stepping forward was a young man in the armor of a Chiliarch, his face set with a fierce determination. He was only an eighth-level Fierce General, far from the strongest among them. It was Ling Feng.
Ye Huan's brow furrowed. He had met the young man once before and knew of his connection to Xiao Ke. He felt a pang of responsibility, an urge to stop him. But Ling Feng's resolve was like granite. Before Ye Huan could find the right words, three or four other men, emboldened by the young warrior's courage, stepped forward to join him.
Ye Huan hesitated for a fatal second. In that moment of indecision, Ling Feng and his small vanguard turned and, without a backward glance, walked directly into the black, swirling curtain. They were swallowed by the darkness, vanishing as if they had never been.
Just as the last of them disappeared, the roar of an engine shattered the silence. A military jeep bounced over the rocky terrain and screeched to a halt nearby. A tall, powerfully built man in a Chiliarch's uniform vaulted out. His handsome face was a mask of grim urgency. It was Xiao Ke.
He scanned the crowd, his eyes searching. Spotting Ye Huan, a flicker of relief crossed his face. "Fifth Young Master Ye!"
Ye Huan looked genuinely surprised. "Commander Xiao. What brings you here?"
"I'm looking for my second brother," Xiao Ke said, his voice strained. "Have you seen him? Ling Feng?"
Ye Huan's expression soured. He raised a hand and pointed a single, grim finger at the churning vortex. "Your sworn brother," he said slowly, "just walked into that maelstrom with a few others. He volunteered to be the vanguard, to scout for the treasure."
Xiao Ke's blood ran cold. "What!"
Xiao Ke stared at the great black maw, a swirling vortex of cosmic dread, and his voice was a choked whisper. "He really went in there?"
Ye Huan offered a pained smile. "I told him it was dangerous. I said the first to enter faced the greatest risk. But he was determined. The promise of treasure… it can make a man do foolish things."
Treasure. The word was meaningless to Xiao Ke. All he could see was the blood-red moon he had witnessed earlier, the mindless slaughter in the wilds, the relentless pursuit of originals by their mirrored killers. This entire region was a deathtrap, and the maelstrom at its center felt like the very heart of the nightmare. It didn't look like a gateway to riches; it looked like the gullet of some primordial demon, yawning wide to devour the world. Ling Feng, blinded by ambition or bravery, had just thrown himself in.
He couldn't stand by. "I'm not leaving him in there alone," Xiao Ke declared, his hand already on the hilt of his saber. "I'm going in after him."
"No, you can't!" Ye Huan moved instantly, blocking his path.
In Ye Huan's mind, the calculus was simple. Both Xiao Ke and Ling Feng were sworn brothers of his cousin, Ye Yun, but Xiao Ke's importance was on an entirely different level. He couldn't shake the feeling that his own sister, Ye Yun, held a deep, unspoken affection for the stoic commander. He had felt it was his duty to at least try to dissuade Ling Feng, but he could not, in good conscience, allow Xiao Ke to follow him into what was almost certain death. If Xiao Ke were to die on his watch, he knew his sister's grief and anger would be a burden he could never escape.
"Why not?" Xiao Ke demanded, his eyes flashing with impatience.
Ye Huan fumbled for a reason, settling on a partial truth. "It's… It's too dangerous for you. Your power level… You shouldn't take the risk."
Xiao Ke shook his head, his jaw set. "Ling Feng is my brother in arms. He might be dying in there right now. I am not sitting here while he faces that alone. Stand aside."
Seeing the unshakeable resolve in Xiao Ke's eyes, Ye Huan knew it was useless. A decision snapped into place. With a sigh that sounded like surrender, he gritted his teeth. "Fine. Then I'm going with you."
This was the final push the rest of the crowd needed. They had been wavering, their greed warring with their fear. But now? Their leader, the Fifth Young Master of the legendary Ye Clan, was going in himself. If someone of his stature was willing to risk it all, the prize had to be beyond their wildest dreams.
A new wave of reckless courage swept through them.
"That's right! We go together!"
"If there's a fortune to be made, we all get a share!"
And so, with the matter settled, Xiao Ke and Ye Huan led the charge, stepping over the threshold into the swirling dark. The rest of the warriors followed close behind, a river of fools flowing into oblivion.
Xiao Ke was right on Ye Huan's heels, but the moment he crossed the boundary, the world dissolved. He felt a violent, wrenching sensation, as if his body were being twisted apart and reassembled atom by atom. The darkness gave way to a blinding flash of light, and he found himself standing on cool, polished stone.
He was in what appeared to be a vast, empty palace hall. The air was dead, the silence absolute. Of Ye Huan, who had been a mere pace ahead of him, there was no sign. The dozens of men who had followed were also gone.
"Ye Huan?" he called out, his voice swallowed by the oppressive emptiness. "Ling Feng? Second Brother, can you hear me?"
Only silence answered. It's an illusion, he realized with a sinking feeling. A pocket dimension. We've all been separated.
Worse, when he turned, the swirling black doorway through which he had entered was gone. There was no way out. He was trapped.
So be it, he thought, a grim resolve settling over him. He was here for Ling Feng, and he wouldn't leave until he found him. His hand tightened on the hilt of his saber, Meng Jiang, as his eyes scanned the cavernous hall. He began to walk forward, his footsteps the only sound in the dead world.
A voice, ancient and resonant, suddenly echoed from the stone walls around him, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Heh heh heh… such an insignificant little human. To dare step into my domain is to beg for your own death."
Xiao Ke spun around, his saber half-drawn, but saw nothing. The hall was filled with rows of life-sized warrior statues, frozen in stoic poses, but otherwise, it was deserted.
Then, one of the statues directly in front of him began to crack. A web of fissures spread across its stone surface, and with a soft, crumbling sound, the outer shell fell away in pieces, revealing a living figure within.
The figure was him. An exact duplicate, from the style of his armor to the determined set of his jaw. The only differences were the deathly pallor of its skin and the smoldering, crimson coals of its eyes.
The disembodied voice boomed again, dripping with cruel amusement. "The most formidable enemy is, and always will be, yourself. Now, perform for me. Fight yourself to the death. I do so relish watching the despair in your eyes as you are slain by your own hand."
The mirrored clone raised its saber and charged.
…
Across countless identical palace halls, the same scene was playing out. Ling Feng, Ye Huan, Zhang Wenyuan, and every other warrior who had entered the maelstrom found themselves isolated, confronted by the same mocking voice and a perfect replica of themselves.
Ling Feng, a born competitor who thrived under pressure, met his clone head-on. His lightsaber was a blur of motion, a dance of high-risk parries and audacious lunges. In a gamble that would have meant his death had he been a fraction of a second slower, he ducked under the clone's swing and thrust his blade upward, impaling his double through the throat.
As the clone dissolved into dust, Ling Feng gasped for breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had won, but it had been too close.
He allowed himself a brief moment of relief, but it was shattered by the return of the ancient, mocking voice. "Heh heh… You think killing one of them means you get to leave? Fool. This is my domain. I can create as many of you as I wish. I will drown you in your own reflection until you finally break."
Ling Feng's eyes widened in horror. With a series of loud cracks, three more statues nearby shed their stone skins, revealing three more of his mirrored clones. All of them turned their heads in unison and began to advance.
"No… this can't be happening!" he screamed.
…
The others were facing the same hell. They would strike down one clone only for two, or three, or five more to take its place. These duplicates possessed all of their skills, all of their core energy. Overwhelmed by sheer numbers, many of the warriors fell, their dying gasps echoing in their private hells. Even masters like Ye Huan and Zhang Wenyuan were being pushed to their limits, fighting a desperate, losing battle against an endless tide of themselves.
The only exception was Xiao Ke.
As his first clone lunged, Xiao Ke drew Meng Jiang. There was no hesitation, no complex exchange of blows. He met the charge with a single, overwhelming cleave, his body and blade moving as one. The clone, expecting a parry, was instead bisected from shoulder to hip, its two halves dissolving before they hit the ground.
Instantly, five more statues shattered, and five more Xiao Kes rushed him.
But the master of the domain had made a critical miscalculation. Xiao Ke's power was not just in technique or the manipulation of core energy, which the clones could replicate perfectly. His true strength was his raw, inhuman physical force, a power that was his and his alone. The clones had his skill, but they did not have his strength.
They were no match for him.
Xiao Ke strode forward to meet them, a force of nature. Meng Jiang became a whirlwind of destruction. He didn't just block or parry; he shattered their blades, broke their stances, and carved them into pieces with contemptuous ease. In seconds, all five clones were reduced to fading dust.
A new sound echoed in the hall, not from the walls, but seemingly from the very fabric of the dimension itself.
"Hmm?"
It was the ancient voice, but for the first time, the smug, sadistic glee was gone. It was replaced by a note of genuine surprise, a hint of confusion that bordered on panic, as it watched the one warrior who was not playing by its rules stride deeper into the palace, his heavy saber resting on his shoulder, hunting for the master of the game.