The violent shudder of the black lacquered coffin echoed through the hall like a thunderclap, the sound vibrating in the marrow of the survivors' bones. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the world plunged into an unnatural, suffocating silence.
It was not the mere absence of sound, but a predatory silence that seemed to swallow the very air.
Lin Yue stood still, his gaze fixed on the coffin. Beside him, the fifty-odd silent mourners, who had spent the last two days mimicking every twitch and breath of the players, suddenly ceased their movement. They didn't just stop; they froze into statues of grey cloth and featureless flesh, their blank faces tilted upward in a collective, mindless stare.
The mimicry was over. The mirror had shattered.
