Snow fell like silk over Broken Soul Mountain as the midnight bell tolled once, then fell silent.
Fang Xi stood at the foot of the Mirror Hall, a vast dome-shaped building normally sealed to outer disciples. Tonight, its ancient bronze doors yawned open.
No guards.
No elders.
Just silence.
And the scent of fear.
Sixteen disciples stepped inside — handpicked from among hundreds. All had gained merit, caught the eyes of elders, or stepped on the wrong toes.
Fang Xi walked in last.
Inside, the hall was cold stone and shadow. Lanterns flickered along high alcoves. At the far end stood a black-robed elder with no name tag, no expression — just a sharp voice.
"You have been called for one reason: to rise."
He paused.
"Or to vanish."
So it is a purge.
The elder raised a hand. A bronze plate hovered, glowing faintly.
"You have no names here. No ranks. You will be given numbers."
He pointed.
"Step forward. Take your token. Do not speak."
Fang Xi moved.
When his turn came, he received a circular talisman etched with the number: Eleven.
He bowed once and stepped back into the circle of tension.
The elder spoke again.
"There are three rounds. Win two, and you enter the Inner Courtyard. Lose two, and you are dismissed."
A beat.
"Lose once without standing back up… and you are buried."
Round One: The Arena Without Rules
The floor of the Mirror Hall shifted. Stone slabs rumbled, sliding outward as the center sank into a deep arena.
Circular. Cracked. Lined with black sand.
There were no weapons.
No medics.
Only watchers.
"Number Three and Number Eleven."
Fang Xi's eyes flicked up.
A boy with a long scar down his left cheek stepped forward. Tall. Arms thick. Cold eyes.
He was already rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the pit.
Fang Xi followed — calm as moonlight.
The elder said nothing more.
A silver bell rang.
And the duel began.
Three charged first — straight punch, unguarded stance.
Too confident. Probably crushed someone last year.
Fang Xi side-stepped, twisted, and swept low.
Three rolled, reversed grip, and came up swinging with a knife-hand aimed at the throat.
Fang Xi caught the strike with his forearm — pain lanced up his wrist.
He's faster than expected. But… sloppy.
Then Mirror Vein Insight activated.
Fang Xi's vision pulsed — faint Qi threads lit up Three's arms and back.
Too much power in the right leg. Weak recovery. Slight hesitation on follow-through.
A plan formed.
He feinted high — drew the guard — then dropped to one knee and slammed his heel into Three's calf.
The leg collapsed.
Fang Xi rose, grabbed the robe's collar, and slammed Three's face into the stone.
Once.
Twice.
Three lay still.
The elder raised a hand.
"Eleven. Advance."
Fang Xi returned to the shadows, heart calm, breath controlled.
One down.
Fifteen left.
Later That Night: A Crack in the Mirror
After three more rounds — two bloody, one forfeited — the elder called a halt.
"Rest. You will be summoned again at dawn. The next round will not be kind."
Fang Xi didn't return to the outer quarters. Instead, he was led to a cold side chamber with nothing but stone walls, a basin of icy water, and a single sitting mat.
Perfect.
He sat cross-legged.
Closed his eyes.
Began channeling the four Qi threads slowly.
Pain radiated from his forearm — where Three had struck hard — but Fang Xi welcomed it.
Let the pain anchor me.
Let the blood flow sharpen me.
A faint mist of Qi circled him.
Just as it reached his third meridian loop — a voice interrupted:
"You fight well, Number Eleven."
He opened his eyes.
A girl stood in the doorway.
Short hair. Steel-blue robes. She held no token — meaning she'd passed too.
Number Four?
"Should I thank you?" he asked.
She smiled faintly.
"No. Just don't get in my way in the third round. It's not one-on-one anymore."
And then she was gone.