Through the Threshold

The moment Liang Ming's fingers brushed against the shadowed threshold, the world imploded. Not in an explosion of force, but in silence—a void swallowing every sensation, leaving him weightless and untethered. The darkness did not feel cold or warm, did not push or pull. It simply was.

Then came the falling.

It was not the pull of gravity but of something deeper, something woven into the fabric of his very existence. He plummeted through layers of unseen reality, flashes of imagery bleeding into his mind—glimpses of places he had never been, faces he had never met, yet somehow recognized.

A towering city of onyx and glass, its sky fractured by threads of silver light.

A battlefield littered with corpses, their eyes open, yet devoid of souls.

A spiraling tower with no end, rising into the abyss above.

And then—

A chamber of mirrors, infinite and formless, where his own reflection stood in wait.

Ming hit the ground with a force that rattled his bones, the impact sending ripples through the air itself. He groaned, pushing himself upright, his palms pressing against smooth stone.

The chamber stretched endlessly, its walls lined with reflections of himself at different points in time—some older, some younger, others distorted beyond recognition. The air hummed with quiet energy, as if the space itself was alive, observing him.

He rose to his feet, his breath slow and measured. His eyes scanned the endless reflections, each one frozen in their own moment.

And then—one of them moved.

Ming's blood turned to ice.

A figure stepped forward from the reflection. It was him—but not as he was now. This version bore scars along his arms, his clothes tattered, his eyes carrying the weight of countless battles. He radiated an undeniable presence, as if time itself bowed before him.

"You are close to understanding," the reflection spoke, its voice calm, yet edged with something unreadable. "But you are not ready."

Ming steadied himself, his hand drifting to the dagger at his waist. "What is this place?"

The reflection did not answer immediately. Instead, it extended a hand, palm facing upward. A book materialized in its grasp—a mirror image of the one Ming carried.

"This is the Threshold," the reflection said. "The point at which the Spiral separates the lost from the chosen."

Ming's grip tightened around his weapon. "And which am I?"

The reflection smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "That depends on what you do next."

A pulse of energy shot through the chamber, and suddenly, the reflections around him began to shift. One by one, they blinked—their faces changing, morphing into figures from his visions.

The woman in the fractured city.

The cloaked man in the shadows.

The child clutching the book.

Each of them turned to look at him, their gazes filled with knowledge he did not yet possess.

The air grew heavy. The reflection of himself took a step closer.

"You think you are in control," it said, voice lower now, almost pitying. "But every step you take, every choice you make, was already written. The Spiral is not a path you walk. It is a force that consumes. And soon, it will take all that you are."

Ming's heart pounded. He had heard warnings before, but this one felt different. Closer. More inevitable.

A sharp wind tore through the chamber, and the reflections began to crack—fractures spiderwebbing across the mirrored walls. The vision was breaking. Reality was shifting again.

The reflection of himself began to fade, its form dissolving like mist.

"Remember this, Liang Ming."

Its final words echoed as the world around him collapsed.

Ming's eyes snapped open, his body hitting solid ground once more. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart hammering in his chest.

He was no longer in the mirrored chamber.

The sky above him churned with dark clouds, a city sprawled beneath him in the distance. Towers stretched impossibly high, their structures woven with glowing silver threads. The air was thick with energy—power that hummed in his bones.

He had seen this place before.

Not in the monastery, not in any book.

In his visions.

He pushed himself up, his gaze locking onto the towering skyline. He had crossed the Threshold. And now, he stood in a world not meant for mortals.

The Spiral had brought him here.

And it was far from finished with him.