The night lay still as stone.

  Moonlight spilled across the window frame in a pale river. YiChen sat upright, breath measured, the Taiwei Guiyuan Art threading through his meridians.

  Then—at the crossing of his heart-veins—a faint hitch.

  A flaw.

  Something that had never been there before.

  He stilled, guiding his qi around the obstruction, coaxing it open with careful patience. Three cycles later the current loosened, circulation returning to form.

  Yet unease remained.

  This body was fragile.

  Without Shadowfang, without divine arms at his side, his strength was little more than a shadow of what it had once been. He would have to rebuild quickly, if he meant to protect the life he had clawed back.

  But beneath weakness stirred something colder.

  Half a month had passed beneath the roof of his family. The days were warm—almost painfully familiar. Yet everywhere, strangeness rippled: his father’s smallest habits, his mother’s phrasing, ChengYu’s laughter, even the paint of the corner street signs. Every detail rang of déjà vu, but blurred, as if glimpsed through fogged glass.

  Worse—memories displaced. Moments he remembered with clarity, recalled differently by those he loved. At first he told himself it was faulty memory. But the longer he stayed, the sharper the truth cut:

  This was not misremembering.

  It was as though he lived inside a mirror-copy of the world.

  And then the thought that gnawed bone:

  Perhaps this was never his world at all.

  YiChen lowered his gaze, fists tightening. He could no longer flee the question.

  “Shixi,” he whispered.

  Consciousness sank toward the golden void where the Gate of Star-Bones had once split.

  But tonight the radiance was dim. The little beast lay curled in sleep, silver fur rising faintly, too exhausted to stir.

  YiChen called again, softly.

  No response.

  Of course. Shixi had burned herself dry to open that door. Now it slept beyond reach.

  “…Then I can’t ask you.”

  He was about to withdraw—when a thought pierced him.

  —I can ask the Patriarch.

  Night was when heaven’s essence brushed closest against the mortal world. If ever there was a time to cry out, it was now.

  YiChen rose, moving silent as shadow through the house. He listened—his parents’ breaths were steady, ChengYu’s light snores undisturbed.

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  He descended into the garage.

  From a forgotten cabinet he drew an incense burner, candles, yellowed talisman paper. His mother had kept them without knowing their weight.

  YiChen carried them to the living room. One by one, candles flared. Incense coiled upward, painting his face in wavering gold.

  He pricked his fingertip. Scarlet welled, and with measured strokes he traced blood-lines across the talisman. The seal of summoning unfurled, ancient as the bones of stars.

  This was a rite left for despair.

  The Patriarch of Taiwei had long since ascended, beyond realms and cycles, unswayed by mortal cries. To pass down the Guiyuan Art itself had already defied heaven. Only when a descendant had lost all bearing would he stir to answer.

  And now YiChen dared call again—if only to tear away the fog gnawing his soul.

  Smoke spiraled higher, drowning the room in silence too deep, too wrong.

  YiChen pressed his palms together, eyes closed. His voice came low, but steady:

  “Patriarch… this disciple YiChen begs audience.”

  ——————

  A thin gleam rose from the void, condensing like dew at dawn. Slowly it lengthened, sharpening into a tall figure—

  The Patriarch of Taiwei.

  Hands clasped behind his back, immortal radiance flowed about him. Wide snowy sleeves stirred though no wind touched them. His features were jade-carved, his brows like blades, lips etched with steel.

  But it was his eyes—bottomless as wells, yet filled with galaxies of memory—that pressed the soul into silence.

  YiChen bowed low, forehead near the ground.

  “Disciple YiChen greets the Patriarch.”

  A single glance, and the Patriarch spoke:

  “Two souls in one body?”

  YiChen’s heart jolted. He lifted his head, voice taut.

  “Please, Patriarch—grant this disciple clarity.”

  So he poured out everything: the assault on his home, the Church’s schemes, ChengYu’s death, the hand that stole his soul, the beast called Shixi, and at last—this strange mirrored world.

  When he finished, the Patriarch asked, voice cold as stone:

  “Then tell me—what do you believe this place is?”

  YiChen’s tone grew heavy.

  “…Not my world. Perhaps a parallel plane. Or worse, an illusion wrought by Shixi.”

  The Patriarch’s lips curved faintly.

  “Not illusion. This is real. But you are right—it is not the world you came from.”

  The words fell like stone into a still pond. The last thread of hope inside YiChen frayed.

  “…Then time was not reversed. My brother… truly died?”

  The Patriarch’s gaze softened.

  “His soul was taken by the Hand of a God. That is no death. He lingers still. He may yet be saved.”

  YiChen’s head snapped up, voice trembling.

  “Then—how?”

  “Seek his soul. Nurture it with divine force. Shape flesh anew—then life will return.”

  YiChen staggered. Divine force…

  The Patriarch’s voice was distant as falling water:

  “In other words—you must wield the power of gods. You must become one.”

  YiChen’s breath caught. A god…?

  “There are two paths,” the Patriarch said.

  “One—swallow sun and moon, endure centuries until Heaven itself bends.

  The other—the Spirit Realm stands open. Faith now condenses into substance. Temples, chants, belief gathered like rivers to the sea. But you are not of this world. Faith will not take root. Wine sweet to the tongue, poison to the bone—will you drink it?”

  YiChen’s teeth ground nearly to dust. His brother’s soul rose again before his eyes, pinned beneath the Sovereign’s claw.

  “I will! No matter the price. Just give me one chance.”

  The Patriarch regarded him long. His tone eased, yet bore the weight of eternity:

  “You already bear two souls. This body will break. And yet… you and he are like one moon reflected in two lakes. Ripple for ripple the same. Which is yours, which is his? The line has long since vanished.”

  The void bloomed with visions: his mother’s smile lines, his father’s callused hands, ChengYu’s bright grin. Each detail glowed with living warmth.

  “These are real. The grief, the joy, the tears—none are false. When your mother’s hair whitens, the ache is real. When you shield your brother, the vow is real.”

  The voice drew close, soft as wind over still water:

  “The distance you feel is not Heaven’s. It is your own heart.”

  Light scattered, weaving nights of blood, mornings of battle, laughter, pain—each thread golden, inseparable.

  “When dawn comes, and your mother sets a bowl of porridge in your hands—do not ask which world it belongs to.

  When your father clasps your shoulder—do not question whose memory it matches.

  When your brother calls, Ge!—elder brother— then smile. Simply for that word.”

  The void rang bright, fragments circling him.

  “And when the day comes that you whisper I am home—and cease to ask which world it is…

  Only then will you be whole.”