As Lord Ling led Shao through the winding corridors of the Night Realm, Shao’s thoughts drifted—almost involuntarily—back to the moment his world had changed. He hadn’t meant to step into another life. That moment had been ordinary, even forgettable. The rain had just begun to fall, slicking the streets of the old town in silver.

  Shao had wandered aimlessly through its narrow alleys, his coat pulled tight against the chill. The lamplight above flickered as he passed, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers reaching for him. He had no destination in mind, just a mind full of noise and a heart heavy with a loneliness he couldn’t explain.

  Then he saw it. A faint golden glow spilled from a crooked antique shop wedged between two buildings that looked like they'd given up on time centuries ago. The sign above creaked mournfully in the wind, faded letters barely legible beneath the grime. The windows were cloudy with dust, but something about the place had pulled at him—an unseen thread winding around his ribs, tugging him toward the door.

  He remembered hesitating, hand hovering over the doorknob, before finally pushing inside. The scent hit him first: incense, old wood, something faintly metallic—like rust and roses. The shop was cluttered, overflowing with relics and trinkets that looked like they’d lived a thousand lives. And then he saw the mirror. It hadn’t been particularly grand—just tall, framed in tarnished silver, leaning slightly crooked against the far wall. But the moment he looked into it, everything had shifted. The reflection had shown his face, yes—but not just his face. Behind him had been a room he didn’t recognize, lit by flickering candles and veiled in heavy curtains. And his eyes—his eyes had not been his own. There had been a hunger there, a sadness ancient and echoing. A version of himself that felt both foreign and hauntingly familiar. He couldn’t look away.

  The mirror had spoken—not in words, but in images. Glimpses of another life. Crimson-stained hands. A crown of thorns and shadow. A name whispered through time. And then—darkness.

  Lord Ling’s voice shattered the memory like glass underfoot. “We’re here,” he said softly, pushing open a door carved with sigils that pulsed faintly under the touch of his fingertips. Shao blinked, disoriented. The chamber beyond was unlike anything he’d ever seen. The room opened like a cathedral carved into night. Walls of deep obsidian were laced with veins of silver that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. Hundreds—no, thousands—of candles lined the room, their flames swaying in unison, as though breathing. Incense hung heavy in the air, thick tendrils of smoke curling around strange artifacts: bone-charmed staffs, feathered masks, bowls of dried petals and polished stones, each humming with unspoken stories.

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  And at the center of it all, dominating the far wall, was the mirror. This one was different from the one in the shop—taller, grander, framed in carved onyx and etched with runes that glowed faintly blue. Its surface shimmered like water disturbed by a whisper. But Shao knew, without doubt, that it was the same mirror. Or at least, the true form of it. The one that had summoned him. Shao stopped in his tracks, breath caught in his throat. The connection he felt to it was immediate and overwhelming. Not like curiosity. Not even like recognition. It felt like home. A terrifying, forgotten home he had once fled from in dreams. Behind him, Lord Ling stepped closer, his presence like a rising tide.

  “Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice velvet-soft. Shao could barely nod. “I... what is this place?” Lord Ling’s eyes gleamed with quiet knowing. “This is where the veil between worlds is thinnest. Where memory is not bound by time, and souls remember what they were meant to forget.” Shao swallowed, his heartbeat loud in his ears. “And that mirror?” “It is a doorway,” Lord Ling said, his voice echoing gently in the chamber. “A reflection of your soul’s truth. What you were. What you might become. It called to you because a part of you has already crossed through it before.” The words sank into Shao like stones into water, disturbing something deep beneath the surface. He didn’t want to believe it—but he knew. He remembered, in fragments and feelings. Pain. Power. A storm of magic and sorrow.

  Lord Ling stepped in front of him now, eyes locked to his with unbearable intensity. “This is where your journey truly begins, Shao. Not the one you remember, not the one you were living—but the real one. Are you ready to uncover the secrets that lie within?” Shao didn’t answer immediately. The mirror pulsed softly, as though beckoning him forward. Part of him wanted to run. To turn away and pretend the old world still made sense. But the other part—the part that had followed the scent of incense and the sound of Lord Ling’s voice—leaned in. His chest rose and fell, heart thudding like a war drum. “I’m ready,” he said at last. Lord Ling smiled—and the mirror began to shimmer.