The Warden of Echoes
"The past does not die. It lingers, waiting for those who dare to look back."
---
The river carried Xian Ren to the edge of an obsidian platform, suspended in a void where neither sky nor earth existed.
Behind him, the river vanished into nothingness.
Ahead, a lone figure sat upon a throne of crumbling jade.
A warden.
A sentinel of the forgotten.
His robes were ancient, woven from shadows and silver threads. His face, hidden beneath a cracked mask.
He did not move.
Yet his presence filled the space like an unshakable storm.
"Mortal."
The voice was neither loud nor soft. It simply was.
It carried no malice, no warmth—only inevitability.
Xian Ren stepped forward.
"I am not lost."
The warden's mask shifted slightly, as if in amusement.
"No. But you are not found, either."
His skeletal fingers curled.
The space around them trembled.
And then—
The walls of the void came alive.
---
Mirrors.
Thousands of them.
Reflecting not the present—
But the past.
Xian Ren turned.
In the nearest mirror, he saw a boy kneeling in the snow, his hands clutching the lifeless form of a woman.
His mother.
Blood seeped into the frost, turning it a deep crimson.
A man in golden robes loomed over them, his expression unreadable.
Xian Ren's breath hitched.
He knew this memory.
This was the day he became alone.
The day the world abandoned him.
His fingers curled into fists.
But before he could turn away—
The warden spoke.
"Do you hate this moment?"
Xian Ren's gaze darkened.
"Hate?"
He exhaled slowly.
"Hate is a fire. It burns bright, then fades to embers."
His red eyes glowed like dying coals.
"I do not burn. I endure."
The warden tilted his head.
The mirrors rippled.
Another memory surfaced.
---
A temple, half-buried in ruins.
A young Xian Ren knelt before an old man, his body bruised, his spirit unbroken.
The elder smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"You wish to grow stronger?"
Xian Ren's younger self nodded.
The elder chuckled.
"Then you must first answer a question."
He gestured to a broken sword lying before them.
"What is a blade without a wielder?"
The boy frowned.
"Nothing."
The elder shook his head.
"Wrong."
His gaze sharpened.
"It is a truth untold. A story waiting to be written."
The memory faded.
The warden watched him.
"And now?"
Xian Ren closed his eyes.
When he spoke, his voice was quieter.
"A blade does not need a wielder."
He opened his eyes.
"It simply is."
The warden chuckled.
For the first time, the weight of his presence lessened.
And then—
The mirrors shattered.
---
Fragments of glass fell like dying stars, vanishing into the void.
The warden rose from his throne.
His form began to fade, dissolving into mist.
"You are ready."
His voice echoed.
"Go forth, and carve your path."
The void trembled.
A doorway of white light appeared behind the throne.
Xian Ren stepped forward.
And as he crossed the threshold—
The past was left behind.
And the future awaited.