Chapter 170 – The Mirror of the Fallen

The atmosphere within the Cathedral of Bone and Stars thickened like a storm held in suspension. Every heartbeat echoed off the fossilized ribs of the vaulted chamber, each breath stirred centuries of undisturbed dust. Ancient symbols carved into the stone glowed faintly, resonating with old and forgotten magics. Zhao Lianxu stood at the heart of the grand cathedral, fingers still resting on the altar that pulsed with a rhythm not his own. Around him, his companions waited in taut silence, eyes flicking across shadows that seemed to crawl and breathe.

Yue Xieren, always poised and composed, now shifted her weight from foot to foot, her eyes narrowing at every flicker of movement on the walls. Tension coiled in her stance like a spring wound too tightly. Qiao knelt beside a fallen pillar, sketching fresh defensive sigils across the stone in fast, precise strokes that left glowing trails. Lin remained still, unmoving except for the occasional glance toward the altar—and Zhao.

Zhao pulled his hand back from the altar. A cold tremor passed through him.

"It's not over," he said, voice rough with strain and weariness. "The vision... it wasn't just a warning. It was a doorway. A fragment of what's coming."

Yue stepped closer, voice steady but soft. "Do you know where he is? The one who wears your face?"

"Not exactly," Zhao murmured, shaking his head slowly, "but I felt his presence. Close. Too close. If we remain here, he will find us. Or worse, he'll pull us into his version of the world."

Lin looked up, eyes sharp. "Then what is this place? A trap? A test? Or something older still?"

"Both," said Qiao without looking up, her hands never ceasing. "This cathedral is a nexus. A convergence point between realities. Time, fate, memory—they all twist here like threads in a storm. It's why the dead speak. Why visions bleed into our minds."

The altar pulsed again, stronger now. Lights shimmered along its edges, not warm but surgical and cold. It cast no shadow.

Zhao inhaled deeply. The air smelled of incense and blood. "I have to go in."

Yue frowned. "Go in where?"

He turned to her, eyes clear as starlight. "Into the mirror."

The altar unfolded like a blooming lotus made of bones and light. At its center rose a shard of mirrored crystal, taller than Zhao, its surface rippling like disturbed water. His reflection stared back at him. Then it moved—blinked—before he did.

Yue drew her saber with a soft hiss. Lin's hand hovered above his staff. Qiao stood slowly, her eyes narrowing to slits, every muscle taut.

Zhao raised a hand to stop them.

"This is my fight."

"You don't have to do this alone," Yue said quietly, pain threading her voice.

He smiled faintly. "But I do. Just this part. He is me. Or what I could become. No one else can confront that."

Zhao stepped into the mirror, and the world shattered.

The world turned inside out, folding in on itself like the petals of a burning flower.

He fell through layers of broken sky, down spirals of forgotten light. Voices screamed in languages older than stars. Images flashed: his mother, dying with fire in her veins; his father, bleeding into the roots of the World Tree; Yue, standing over his body, her blade soaked in sorrow. A thousand lifetimes collapsed into one heartbeat.

Then silence.

He landed on obsidian ground, beneath a blood-soaked sky. Mountains drifted in the air, chained by threads of lightning. Rivers ran with silver fire. Trees whispered names of the long-dead. And on a throne of swords and bones sat the other Zhao Lianxu.

He looked the same, yet older. Worn. Eyes colder than the abyss.

"So," the Mirror Zhao said, voice like glass grinding on stone. "You came."

Zhao straightened. "You knew I would."

The other nodded. "We are the same, after all."

"No," Zhao said firmly. "We were the same. You chose differently."

Mirror Zhao rose, his steps silent and deliberate. "I chose what worked. What survived. You still cling to the illusion that mercy means strength."

"Mercy is strength," Zhao replied. "Compassion is not weakness. It's what separates us from monsters."

The Mirror's laughter echoed across the desolate plain. "Tell that to the realms you've failed to save. The friends you've buried. The lovers you've lost."

Zhao took a step forward, unflinching. "I carry them with me. Every loss. Every scar. They don't weaken me. They remind me of what matters."

The two faced each other, reflections split by fate, one forged in grief, the other in fire.

Then Mirror Zhao drew his sword.

Their blades met with the sound of thunder cracking bone. The very air shattered around them.

Zhao moved with precise intent, his techniques a blend of three bloodlines. Space rippled with his sword's passage. The Mirror moved like inevitability, each strike calculated, cruel, perfected through centuries of cold conquest.

The sky trembled with each clash. Worlds groaned. Realities flickered like dying candles.

Zhao called upon the Sealed Sword's will. Lightning curved around his blade. Mirror Zhao responded with the Abyssal Flame, black fire that devoured light and memory. The land beneath their feet cracked and bled.

"You could have ruled all of them," the Mirror snarled, parrying a strike that cleaved a mountain in half. "But you chose love. Weakness. Doubt."

"I chose to be human," Zhao shouted, forcing him back.

"You chose to lose!"

"Not yet!"

He unleashed a flurry of strikes, each one resonating with memories: his mother's lullaby, Yue's laughter, Lin's quiet courage, Qiao's unwavering resolve. They surged through him, gave weight to his sword. Each blow sang with meaning.

And then, at last, he pierced the Mirror's chest.

The Mirror stumbled, gasping. "You think this ends me?"

Zhao stepped closer. "No. But I accept you. You are the shadow of my path. Not my master. Not anymore."

The Mirror fell, dissolving into stardust. Light returned to the dark sky.

Zhao awoke back in the cathedral, surrounded by his companions. The air was heavy with the scent of ash and stars. Yue was kneeling beside him, hand on his shoulder, her eyes searching his.

Lin and Qiao stood watch, their eyes filled with cautious hope and quiet awe. Outside the windows, the horizon glowed faintly as if dawn approached for the first time in centuries.

"It's done," Zhao whispered. "But the war has only begun."

Yue smiled faintly, her fingers tightening around his. "Then we walk it together."

And overhead, the stars burned brighter, as if bearing witness to a soul reclaimed and a destiny realigned.