Chapter 37: Trial of Reflection
Dust still drifted in slow, lazy spirals long after the ruins sealed shut. The air was thick and unmoving, heavy with old energy that pressed against the skin like a damp cloth.
The glow beneath the floor had dimmed, but faint lines of light still pulsed between the cracks—breathing slowly, rhythmically, like the entire ruin had a heartbeat.
The rogue cultivators stood frozen, each one shaken differently.
Scar Jaw's spear tip trembled.
The broad man clenched his jaw, failing to hide the fear creeping under his anger.
The woman tried to calm her breathing.
The silent one watched everything with sharp, darting eyes.
Ashen said nothing.
He simply stood, listening to the ruin's pulse.
The woman swallowed and whispered, "Something's… moving."
The air shifted.
A cold breeze brushed past their ears.
Not from wind.
From inside their thoughts.
Ashen tensed.
The Trial had begun.
---
The First Illusions
A hum rose from the ground. Pale fog seeped from cracks in the stone—thin at first, then thickening, swirling around their ankles, climbing their legs, rising toward their faces.
The broad man staggered back.
"What—what is this!?"
Scar Jaw swung his spear through the fog. It sliced the air but met nothing.
The quiet cultivator whispered a single word:
"Mental formation…"
His voice cracked.
"A trial."
Before anyone could prepare—
—the world shifted.
The hall flickered like a flame in a gust.
The murals blurred.
The pillars swayed as if melting.
The ceiling stretched upward into darkness.
One blink— and the ruins disappeared.
Each cultivator now stood alone.
Scar Jaw screamed as shadowy shapes rose around him—warped images of cultivators he had killed, reaching for him with rotting hands.
The broad man collapsed as the stone floor turned to water beneath his feet, dragging him into visions of drowning, suffocating, gasping.
The woman clutched her head and sobbed as she saw dozens of reflection-versions of herself—each one failing, dying, breaking, screaming accusations.
The quiet one stood frozen, hands shaking uncontrollably, staring at something unseen. Tears slipped down his face silently.
All of them were trapped in illusions.
Ashen stood apart from them.
Or so he thought.
---
Ashen's Trial Begins
The fog around Ashen thickened—but didn't attack immediately. Instead, it coiled around him like a curious serpent.
Testing him.
Waiting.
His sight warped.
His breath slowed.
His heartbeat echoed unnaturally loud in his ears.
The long hall vanished.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Something cracked behind him.
He turned—
—and saw himself.
But not exactly.
A figure stood in the darkness, facing him, dressed in the same shadowed robes he wore… but the similarities ended there.
This version of him had:
No emotion.
No hesitation.
No warmth.
No anger.
No curiosity.
Nothing.
Just empty black eyes that reflected light like cold steel.
Like a corpse.
Ashen stared at the illusion silently.
"…So this is it."
The illusion didn't speak.
In fact, it didn't need to.
Because this was not a nightmare or fear forced on him.
This was a possibility.
A future he could become.
---
The Path He Fears Most
The illusion Ashen moved.
Not fast.
Not threatening.
Just walking.
Slowly.
Casually.
But the ruins trembled with every footstep he took, as if even his presence shook the foundations of the world.
He reached a ruined corpse on the floor—unrecognizable, nameless—and lifted it by the neck with effortless strength.
He didn't look at it.
He didn't feel anything.
Then he dropped it like a meaningless stone.
More corpses lay scattered across the floor.
Rogue cultivators.
Sect disciples.
Demonic beasts.
Innocents.
Enemies.
People who had begged for mercy.
All dead.
The illusion Ashen walked through them like they weren't there.
Like nothing had weight.
Like nothing mattered.
Ashen's jaw tightened.
"…Is this what the valley thinks I will become?"
The illusion finally paused.
It tilted its head slightly—exactly the way Ashen sometimes did when observing something curious.
But when the illusion did it, the gesture looked wrong.
Mechanical.
Empty.
Dead.
The fog shifted, revealing more visions—layers of possible futures folding over each other.
A path lined with bodies.
A world where Ashen rose endlessly in strength, but lost everything that made him himself.
A version of him who walked forward because he no longer remembered how to stop.
A cultivator who had no purpose—
just instinct.
Just killing.
Just motion.
A monster wearing Ashen's skin.
Ashen clenched his fists.
"That's not me."
The illusion Ashen mirrored his stance perfectly—fists curling, body shifting, expression empty.
But there was no defiance.
No emotion.
Just replication.
A future molded entirely by instinct.
---
His Roots, His Fear, His Resolve
Ashen's breath slowed, and he finally spoke aloud:
"I know the path I walk is dangerous."
His voice echoed through the illusion world like a whisper carried by wind.
"I know power can twist people… turn them into something they don't recognize."
The illusion took another step toward him.
Ashen didn't move.
"I know—" his voice hardened "—that I have a temper. That I fight too easily. That I choose violence when other paths exist."
The illusion's hand reached toward him.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"And I know I could become you."
His illusion froze inches away, as if the words held weight inside the illusion itself.
Ashen slowly exhaled.
"But I won't."
The illusion tilted its head again.
Ashen's brows lowered.
"I won't walk that path."
He stepped forward, through the illusion's reaching hand.
"I refuse."
For a heartbeat, the illusion's form flickered—like static in a broken image.
Ashen pushed forward again.
"I won't become a blade without purpose."
The illusion twisted.
Darkness rippled.
Lines of the false world fractured.
Ashen stepped again—
and his illusion shattered like glass.
Darkness ripped open.
Cold wind rushed past.
The illusion was gone.
---
But Not Without Scars
Ashen stood alone again in a blank void.
His breath shook.
He didn't realize it until that moment.
A faint crack of light split the darkness—
—not outside him.
Inside.
A tiny fracture ran across the core of his will.
Not visible to the eye.
But he felt it.
A tremor.
A weakness.
A flaw.
He gritted his teeth.
The illusions were cruel.
Too precise.
Too close.
For a moment—
just a moment—
he had hesitated.
He had seen a version of himself too real to dismiss.
A path that felt possible.
A path that frightened him.
A path that whispered:
"Eventually… all cultivators drift."
Ashen pushed the thought aside.
His breathing steadied.
But the crack remained.
---
Return to Reality
The fog dissolved.
The ruins returned in a harsh flash.
The rogue cultivators were scattered across the floor:
Scar Jaw curled in a ball, shaking violently.
The broad man screaming silently, eyes wide with terror.
The woman sobbing into her hands.
The quiet one staring blankly forward, completely broken.
Some were still trapped.
Some were already beyond saving.
Ashen looked around with a steady gaze.
"Trial of Reflection…"
He exhaled slowly.
"…Cruel, but effective."
The ruins pulsed again.
A loud crack echoed deeper within the walls.
The next trial was coming.
And Ashen had no choice but to keep going—
even with the fresh fracture inside him
aching quietly
like a wound he couldn't close.