Dawn broke across the Greenleaf Sect, casting soft golden rays over the tiled rooftops and training fields. The world stirred with spiritual chants, swords humming in the air, and incense smoke rising from the inner sanctum.
But Lin Wuxie was already awake, crouched in a neglected library hall deep beneath the servant dorms.
The sect had long abandoned this place—its contents either outdated, damaged, or considered useless. But to Wuxie, it was a treasure trove of forgotten truth.
His fingers brushed a half-burnt scroll titled Mirror Sutra: Fragment II.
"That which the world sees, it believes. That which it cannot see… is not real."
He copied the words with care into his stitched-together cultivation journal—a false book of techniques he was composing from broken fragments. The sect had their Paths—Fiery Blade, Spirit Root, Thunder Meridian—but his path required secrecy.
A path where perception itself became cultivation.
He closed the scroll and slipped through the hidden stone tunnel back to the outer courtyard.
Today, however, something was different.
A crowd had gathered near the practice field. In its center stood Senior Brother Yue, face twisted with a smirk, while two younger servants knelt bruised and humiliated before him.
"Stealing spirit herbs? You worthless rats think you're worthy of even sweeping here?"
One of the servants coughed up blood. It was Mei Yao.
Wuxie's eyes narrowed.
"She didn't steal," he said quietly, stepping forward. "The herbs were leftovers from the alchemy hall. Unused. I told her to gather them."
Yue's gaze shifted. His eyes were like polished iron—cold, heavy, and full of scorn.
"You?" he said with amusement. "The ghost of the kitchens speaks. What are you now, her master?"
"No," Wuxie replied, voice calm. "Just a broom with eyes."
The crowd laughed nervously.
Yue stepped forward. "Then let me show you how we treat brooms who don't know their place."
He struck.
A flash of qi-infused force shot forward, aimed at Wuxie's chest. Fast—too fast for a normal servant to dodge.
But it never hit.
Instead, Yue's strike passed through Wuxie, shattering a stone basin behind him. Dust exploded into the air.
Gasps rang out.
Wuxie blinked calmly. "Oh. Did you miss?"
Yue growled. "You—!"
He lunged again, this time aiming lower. Wuxie ducked—but in truth, he hadn't moved at all.
What Yue had seen was a mirage. A flickering afterimage. A technique from the first phase of his cultivation: Echo Mirage.
He had spent months meditating, reshaping his qi not to attack, but to mislead. To become wrong in the world's eyes.
Yue overextended.
Wuxie stepped forward, his palm brushing Yue's shoulder in passing.
Just a touch.
"Thread of the Lie."
Wuxie whispered it inwardly.
A sliver of false intent laced his spiritual sense, threading into Yue's mind like an invisible needle.
"Wuxie is too weak to bother with."
"Not worth the effort."
"He's just a background figure."
The thoughts bloomed like natural conclusions. Yue blinked, dazed for a moment, his fury dampening inexplicably.
"Forget it," he muttered. "Clean this mess up. All of it."
He turned and stormed off.
The gathered crowd looked between Mei Yao and Wuxie in confusion. But no one said anything. They simply… moved on.
Just as planned.
That night, Mei Yao sat in Wuxie's room, nursing a bruised rib while he brewed a faint herbal paste using what little qi he could channel.
"I don't know what you did," she said, "but thank you."
"I didn't do anything," he said. "He just missed."
She stared. "I'm not that dumb. No servant dodges like that. Are you… cultivating?"
Wuxie didn't answer. Instead, he handed her a small jade bead.
"Swallow it when you return to your quarters. It'll hide the bruise until tomorrow. The outer elder doesn't care about injuries—but he notices 'troublemakers.'"
Mei Yao nodded, then hesitated. "I heard something else. One of the elder's inner disciples found an old artifact in the mountains last week. They're bringing it back tonight. Maybe you can… do that thing you do."
Wuxie looked up. "What thing?"
She smirked. "Disappear."
That night, under a new moon, Wuxie crept into the forbidden vault behind the alchemy hall.
Two guards stood watch, both half-asleep and drunk on spirit wine.
He didn't sneak past them.
Instead, he walked openly, wearing the borrowed aura of a disciple from earlier that day—a result of his self-made technique, Veil of the Borrowed Face.
Inside the vault, rows of spiritual tomes, tools, and glowing relics sat in silence. But Wuxie's eyes went straight to the far corner, where something pulsed faintly beneath a layer of silk.
He lifted it.
A cracked obsidian mirror, round as a moon, engraved with faint celestial patterns. Its surface shimmered with shadows that moved when he did.
His breath caught.
This wasn't just a treasure.
It was a fragment of Truth, like the artifacts from his old world. Something twisted and unstable, yet powerful. A shard of belief—perfect for the Dao of Mirage.
The mirror whispered to him without sound.
"Who are you?"
He smiled faintly.
"Who do you want me to be?"