Journey to the Mirrored Vale

Three days after the proposal in the Round Circle of Ancients, Aeon stood on a floating jade platform, hovering high above the White Palace. The wind carried traces of ancestral chants from the lower courts, but Aeon's mind was already far from the Empire.

He looked toward the southeastern skies, where clouds parted like silk veils — the direction of the Mirrored Vale.

He would go alone.

Though some protested, Aeon insisted. This was not a military alliance, nor a transaction of wealth. It was a request — no, an invitation — to shape destiny together. It had to be done through cultivation language, not imperial authority.

With a flick of his sleeve, the jade platform turned into a ray of light, shooting across the continent like a comet hidden in daylight.

The Mirrored Vale was not a place one simply "arrived" at.

As Aeon stepped past the outer veil, the world changed. Forests became memories, rivers whispered secrets, and the sun dimmed as if second-guessing its own light. His first step landed not on soil — but on a mirror-like surface that reflected nothing of him.

He immediately understood: The Trial of Entry had begun.

"Show us the truth you fear most," a voice whispered, not through ears, but directly in his soul-sea.

Aeon stood still. His spiritual sense flared gently, but he didn't resist. He had prepared for this.

In the next breath, he saw himself — not as prince, not as cultivator, but as a child, holding the dying hand of a servant who had taken a blade for him during a court ambush years ago.

He had cried then. Not because of grief — but because he realized… he didn't feel grief. Just understanding. Just... calculation.

The illusion deepened.

Now he stood before a thousand thrones — each one occupied by a version of himself, each declaring why they should ascend the Tower of Existence. Scholar-Aeon. Tyrant-Aeon. Monk-Aeon. Demon-Aeon. And among them, one who whispered:

"You don't want to refine existence. You want to control it."

Aeon clenched his fist.

"I do," he said softly. "But not for myself."

He closed his eyes — not to shut them out, but to draw them in.

"I will climb the Tower too. And strip every false layer of my intent."

At once, the illusion shattered like glass touched by thunder.

When his eyes opened again, he stood before the Gleaming Gate, the entrance to the true Mirrored Vale. A graceful woman in silver robes awaited him. Her pupils shimmered like lakes touched by moonlight.

"Welcome, Son of the Sovereign," she said. "I am Lady Huayin, Illusion Monarch of the Mirrored Vale."

Aeon bowed. "Thank you for granting audience."

"You passed the Vale's first trial. Not many do. Some... never leave."

Aeon nodded. "Illusion is the domain of soul. And my soul was always too loud to lie to."

She smiled faintly. "Then come. Let us speak of towers."

Inside the Mirrored Hall, they sat across a table of thought-forged crystal. No guards. No elders. Just Aeon, and Lady Huayin — the last True Monarch of a dwindling kingdom.

"Your proposal has stirred both hope and fear," she began.

"Hope, because our arts may finally find reverence again. Fear… because we cannot afford another betrayal."

Aeon didn't flinch. He'd anticipated resistance.

"I understand," he replied. "But I offer more than promises. I offer purpose. We will not just preserve the Illusion Dao — we will elevate it. In the Tower's Projective Strata, your illusions will become laws of cultivation."

"Illusions, as laws?" Huayin's tone sharpened.

"Yes. Not as deception — but as refined meaning. Archetypal realms. Mental crucibles. Floors that force cultivators to confront their inner weakness. And in doing so, forge stronger Dao Hearts."

Lady Huayin tapped her fingers on the table, considering.

"What do you offer in exchange?" she asked.

Aeon raised his palm. An imperial seal appeared — not one of command, but of protection. It shimmered with ancestral qi.

"Your Vale will become an official protectorate of the White Palace. You retain internal autonomy. But no power will dare encroach on you again. Your children will walk openly. Your illusions will weave the world's cultivation path."

Lady Huayin's eyes softened for the first time. Yet her next words came not from her lips, but through a constructed dream — an illusory realm where souls met directly.

Aeon found himself in a garden, infinite and serene. Lady Huayin stood beneath a flowering tree.

"One final trial," her voice echoed.

"You say you believe in illusion as truth. Then enter your own illusion — and refuse to escape, even when offered the chance."

Aeon nodded. He stepped forward into the garden.

He lived an entire life there.

He married. Had children. Cultivated a quiet path. Grew old.

It was peace — the kind he had never known.

And then the door appeared. The Exit. A glowing portal back to the real world.

His illusory son tugged his sleeve.

"Don't leave, father. We're happy here."

Aeon closed his eyes.

"That's why I must leave. Because happiness without truth is bondage."

He walked through.

Back in the real world, Lady Huayin stood and bowed.

"We will help you build the Tower of Existence."

Aeon exhaled, for the first time in hours.

"Then let us reshape the cultivation path together."

Three days later, illusion masters from the Mirrored Vale began arriving at the Empire. Aeon personally assigned each one a stratum to design — war, love, regret, obsession, solitude, time.

The Tower of Existence had begun.

And Aeon, having passed the trials of soul and strategy, stood not just as a prince of power — but as one who dared to give shape to the formless