Chapter 171 - Ashes of Stars, Roots of Memory

The winds that howled through the ruins of the Cathedral of Bone and Stars were no longer cries of agony, but the sighs of something ancient released—like a soul finally freed from chains of fate and time.

Zhao Lianxu stood at the edge of the altar, the vast hall behind him eerily silent. Around him, the glimmer of starlight still lingered on fractured stone. The mirror was gone, leaving only a faint outline scorched into the black marble floor. His breath steamed in the cold air as the weight of what had transpired began to settle on his shoulders.

He had not merely vanquished a shadow of himself—he had embraced it.

"You were gone too long," Yue Xieren said quietly, stepping to his side. Her blade rested sheathed, but her eyes remained alert, as though watching for an echo that might yet return.

Zhao turned toward her, his face pale but calm. "Time worked differently in there. I fought him for what felt like a lifetime. I lived... a thousand outcomes. I was emperor in one. A tyrant in another. A corpse in many."

Her lips tightened. "And what did you learn?"

He looked into her eyes, and his voice was softer than a whisper, "That I can still be all of them, but I choose to be me."

A long silence passed between them.

Qiao approached, ink still smudged along the cuffs of her robes. She carried an old scroll that pulsed faintly—one of the few surviving relics of the cathedral.

"The mirror didn't just test you," she said. "It marked you. Look at your shadow."

Zhao looked down. The outline that stretched from his feet shimmered faintly, like oil slick on water. It moved even when he did not.

Lin approached last, stoic as always. "Your soul has changed. It's denser, deeper. As if it touched something... beyond the divine."

Zhao nodded. "He showed me a path. But not just upward. Inward. The next breakthrough isn't in power, but in purpose."

They turned from the altar together and began their descent from the cathedral. What lay ahead was unknown. But what lay behind could no longer bind them.

The world outside the cathedral had shifted.

Clouds hung heavy like bruises in the sky. The lands surrounding the cathedral—once frozen wastelands—were thawing. Life trembled beneath ash and frost, uncertain whether to bloom or retreat.

They made camp near the base of a cracked hill. Fires glowed soft gold, while Lin stood watch with his staff across his knees.

Zhao sat alone beside a low ridge, his thoughts drifting through layers of memory—real and reflected.

Yue joined him. No words, at first. Just the soft crunch of boots over thawing earth.

Then, "You don't have to carry it alone."

"I'm not," he replied. "But parts of it only I can bear."

Her fingers brushed his. "Then let me carry the rest."

Their silence afterward was warm. Filled not with tension, but acceptance.

Behind them, Qiao stared into the flames. Her thoughts were elsewhere—on the symbols in the cathedral, on the sigils she had felt beneath the altar. One had burned her fingers, even through the ink.

She pulled out the scroll again and traced the strange rune at its corner—a symbol that flickered between known and unknown, shifting when not watched.

"The mark of a Celestial Architect," she whispered.

Lin heard her. His eyes narrowed. "We need to find the Verdant Library. If we're to understand what's truly happening, we need the Archivists."

Zhao turned to them. "Then that's our next step."

Their journey through the shattered world took them across landscapes haunted by memory and mutation.

Forests where trees wept black sap and whispered in the voices of the dead.

Valleys where time reversed itself every third step.

A sea of glass that reflected not the sky, but distant futures.

And through it all, Zhao's connection to the mirror deepened. He began to see pieces of the other world leaking through—fractured moments, unfamiliar faces.

He dreamed of a woman in chains of light, her eyes gold as dawn. Of a boy standing in fire, smiling as if unburned. Of a city above the clouds, built on spinning rings of scripture.

These weren't just visions.

They were callings.

He felt it one night, sharp and piercing—like a cord pulling at his soul.

"We're not alone," he said.

The others stirred, instantly alert.

"Not enemies," Zhao added. "But not friends yet. They're... watchers."

From the shadows emerged five figures. Cloaked in silver-threaded robes, faces obscured, a sigil of a closed eye emblazoned on their chests.

"The Witnesses," Qiao whispered. "I thought they were a myth."

The tallest stepped forward. "Zhao Lianxu. Son of Three Bloods. We have seen the echo of your reflection. You passed the trial. But what you carry now is far greater than you know."

Zhao didn't flinch. "Then help me understand."

The Witness nodded. "Come with us. To the Root of Memory."

They traveled deep into the Riftlands, past dead mountains and rivers made of humming crystal. Eventually, they reached a crater vast enough to swallow cities.

At its center grew a single tree. Twisted, massive, and glowing with threads of silver and gold. Its bark was covered in moving glyphs—names of those who had lived, died, and been forgotten.

The Root of Memory.

"You must touch it," said the Witness. "Only then will you know what the mirror unlocked."

Zhao hesitated. Then stepped forward.

His palm met bark that felt like breath.

And the world fell away.

He stood in a space beyond time. A realm of golden threads and screaming stars. All around him, versions of himself moved—millions, maybe more.

One led a rebellion. One destroyed an empire. One vanished into the stars. One lived and died as a simple healer.

In the center stood a version of him who had never taken up the sword. Who had never fought. Who had only loved, and been loved.

The vision shattered. And from it rose a singular truth:

There was no single destiny. Only choices.

Zhao staggered back from the tree, breathing hard.

The Witnesses knelt.

"You have touched the thread of the Multiverse," the tallest said. "Now, you must decide whether to protect it... or rewrite it."

Zhao looked at his companions—Yue's unwavering gaze, Lin's silent strength, Qiao's curious fire.

And he smiled.

"I choose both."

The stars above them blinked.

Something vast had awoken.