Shen Jin awoke, but his mind still floated in something viscous, like a memory trapped underwater.

He was in the west wing of the Archive Tower — a neglected reading room, lit only by a single fading lamp.

He couldn’t recall returning there.

Only the voice lingered:

“If you’ve seen Guiyao… then you are chosen.”

Qi Ming Heng’s parting words still hung behind his ears, branded into his thoughts like a slow-burning sigil.

He sat. Leaned. Let the weight return to his limbs.

And then —

—

He fell.

Weightless.

All around him: black fire.

A massive circular mirror hovered in the void above, its frame churning with violet flame.

It was not a mirror that reflected.

It devoured.

The mirror turned — slowly, backwards.

And in it: a man.

Or something shaped like one.

His features blurred, barely assembled — like shards of broken glass arranged into the memory of a face.

Eyebrows, lips, jawline — softly shifting.

“…Key…”

“…Lord…”

“…Unreturned…”

The words didn’t echo in Shen Jin’s ears.

They bloomed behind his thoughts.

He tried to move.

Couldn’t.

His body was frozen, but his awareness was pulled forward — dragged toward the fire at the mirror’s heart.

The figure inside raised its head.

Its mouth opened.

No sound came.

The mirror cracked.

Fire burst out.

The flame reached for him.

Burned between his brows.

And just before it pierced him, he heard:

“Do you truly wish… to return?”

Not a threat.

Not an offer.

A measurement.

As if someone — or something — were weighing his soul.

—

He gasped awake.

The shard on his desk glowed faintly.

His fingers — still warm.

Still burning.

The question echoed in his mind, soft as breath:

“Do you truly wish… to return?”