In the West, the dead are weighed—by Anubis's scale, by St. Peter's key, by the flame of Hades.
But in the East, the soul is not measured. It is revealed.
When Scholar Liu awoke in darkness, he thought he was dreaming. The battlefield had taken his body, yet his mind drifted, still clutching the memory of his sin—a single betrayal that had doomed a friend. The air smelled of cold incense. From the mist rose a palace of obsidian, and before it stood a mirror taller than the heavens.
Two wardens brought him forward. "All must face the truth," they said.
At first the surface showed nothing. Then the glass rippled—and the scenes of his life unfolded. His youth, full of ambition; his oath sworn under moonlight; the night he broke it for gold and fear. Each image burned brighter until he could no longer breathe.
"Enough!" Liu cried, "I know my guilt!"
But the mirror did not stop. It showed what came after—his friend dying alone, whispering forgiveness to the wind. It showed the tears of his mother, the famine that followed the war he helped cause. It showed not punishment, but consequence.
At last, Yan Luo himself appeared within the reflection—calm, eternal."You sought glory," said the Lord of the Dead, "but glory is a fire that reveals, not hides. Look again, and you will understand."
And when Liu lifted his eyes, the mirror no longer showed the past—it showed the world reborn. He saw his soul kneeling, reborn as a peasant child, doomed to labor yet free of deceit.
When the vision faded, the wardens led him away, silent as dust. Behind him, the mirror dimmed once more, waiting for the next soul to arrive—its surface smooth, its truth endless.
It is said that every dream of regret is the flicker of that mirror, catching us for a moment, before we wake and pretend not to remember.