He didn’t know he looked so haunting.

Fu Ran stared for an uncomfortable amount of time, really taking in the sight of himself in such a ruined state. Knowing his own skin to be sickening pale, only now did it look wrong. When worn on another figure, it made himself look frightfully dead, no different than the ghosts of Bei Zangli.

The mourning robes matched perfectly with a disheveled and bruised look. Fu Ran thought that this reflection showed a look so fitting.

"You… are the one using my likeness to terrorize my disciples," Fu Ran hissed, his words now shaking with unstable negative emotions.

"Nonsense, I only have one disciple," the fake “Fu Ran” said.

Tremors shook Fu Ran to his core when his mirror spoke, because that voice was undoubtedly his. It sounded more tired and strained, but it was unmistakable. To highlight the difference in their capabilities, the fake pushed back Shi Wei Ji all the way until its point met the ground.

Fu Ran winced trying to keep it upright, but his own physical strength was completely incomparable. He felt like he was no better than a simple barricade for Tian Han and Wan Yu.

This was proven even more true when the impostor moved his gaze away from the Peak Master. He had the confidence to look away from the man with a blade, because he felt no fear of losing his grip.

When the mirror’s eyes fell upon Tian Han, the smile on his face dissipated. "So you can be a good disciple. I am pleased that you followed my expectations." His lips twitched between a grin and a grimace, the latter not unlike the expression Fu Ran often gave Tian Han.

“Tian Han!” Fu Ran yelled, stealing a glance from his companion.

Tian Han’s eyes were too wide, too filled with terror, and his hold onto Wan Yu was messily shaking. His mouth hung open, and tried to form the shape of words for several seconds. Tian Han decided on saying, “You should be…”

Words trailing off, his gaze nervously looked over every inch of the fake’s body, inspecting his condition. His eyes were too focused to be torn away, and they were locked onto the impostor’s thin and bruised neck, before they fell to inspect purple hued wrists and ankles.

Truthfully Fu Ran had noticed this too, but didn’t want to linger on it for long. It felt almost sickeningly relevant to some of his nightmares.

It was clear that the tyrant didn’t want to move or run, but he couldn’t waste time being frozen stiff in place. Fu Ran wanted to urge him to leave somehow.

Better gone than stunned to silence! Fu Ran thought.

“Tian Han,” he demanded, but the tone came out in a sharp plea. “Are you going to keep staring at a fake, or are you going to try and get Wan Yu away from here? You aren’t carrying a blade, so leave.”

This seemed to stir something within those amber eyes. Tian Han muttered, “You are…just a fake?” It was clear that he was running unnecessary worries around in his head, with the way he was both unfocused, and nervously shifting weight on his feet.

Only when looking at the boy in his arms did his face relax and take the appearance of responsibility.

Calmness spreading over Tian Han’s face seemed to disappoint the fake “Fu Ran,” and backing away from the stage seemed to instigate his anger further.

Even Fu Ran could see a touch of upset worn on the mirror’s features, his lips drawn into a frown. When he spoke, the words sounded hurt, and pained. “Do you really…” Just the first half of his sentence had Tian Han freeze in place.

“...see this Shizun as a fake?”

Tian Han began to shake his head back and forth. Small mutters of “No. No. No!” could barely be heard.

As Fu Ran called out to Tian Han, his desperation was evident in his voice. "Tian Han, please!" The words came out more pleading than he had intended, betraying the true depth of his concern.

Meanwhile, the fake "Fu Ran" observed Tian Han's broad shoulders heave up and down with increasing speed, signaling the tyrant's growing agitation and fear.

Fu Ran's voice grew increasingly desperate as he repeatedly called out to Tian Han. Finally, Tian Han, with Wan Yu tightly cradled in his arms, began moving his feet towards the stage, disappearing through a door that was barely discernible beyond the sound of its closure.

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As he watched them vanish, Fu Ran couldn't help but notice how familiar Tian Han seemed with the exits of the theater. He had imagined that behind the stage would be nothing more than cluttered props and backstage commotion.

From mere inches away from him, Fu Ran’s reflection dramatically laughed, his brows furrowed in pitiful shock. “Really? Do you think that is a wise decision?”

“A wise decision is to keep dangers away from my disciples,” Fu Ran said.

“You don’t know the amount of ruin you are causing by letting that man run wild as he pleases.” The mirror leaned closer to Fu Ran, and brushed his bangs away from his ear, this simple action causing shivers to rush over his body. He whispered, “The ruin will be your own.”

When the reflection dropped his gaze, he seized up Shi Wei Ji between his fingers in newfound strength. Calmly, he said, “I can’t kill you, nor do I really want to. But seeing you like this, really brings my mind somewhere else.” All light in his eyes had seemed to fade away with the declaration, and he continued. “Naivete is so… annoying.” The fake let his fingers trail down soft cheeks and rake across a sensitive neck, stealing a series of frightened shakes from Fu Ran.

Taking advantage of Fu Ran’s flustered shock from being touched intimately, it was near effortless to tear the sword from his hands.

Fu Ran’s eyes were wide, but when he reached for his blade, a firm, but bare, foot was pressed to his chest. A kick, accompanied by a crack, forced an agonizing burn to slide through his gut.

His hands wrapped around his waist in reaction, a sickening nausea welling up in his throat, but it served no aid to the aches. Something must have broken, he thought.

Why is he this strong with no weapon? Not even using Shi Wei Ji is… deplorable!

He couldn’t understand the differences in their power, and it only furthered the gap of what he knew and the truth. Why did someone much better at fighting, choose to impersonate him and not someone more fit?

Fu Ran’s stance was wobbly, after having a bone in his core broken, but he didn’t want the fake to run off with his sword. So he tried again. Shockingly, no efforts were made to block or dodge him this time, and his fingers wrapped around the blade.

“Can you not let me talk with an old friend for just a few moments?” the mirror asked.

Fu Ran’s grip on the blade tightened and he could feel his cherished weapon leaving thin lines of red into his fingers. “You know nothing of Shi Wei Ji!”

With new accusations being thrown, the fake “Fu Ran” seethed, his fangs and teeth visible. Had he not just moments ago made his intentions known, Fu Ran had the thought that he might have chopped him in half right there. For reasons unknown, the reflection was far too angry at words alone.

“Quiet!” he yelled, tearing the blade from Fu Ran’s hold.

With a whimper and a pained gasp, a searing strike of red slid across a previous unblemished hand. With grit teeth, Fu Ran winced. He’s mad- was the last thing Fu Ran managed to think before a palm pressed in front of him. It was a simple and light tap but a large burst of qi sent a shock wave throwing him backwards towards the stage.

As he was thrown into the cages on stage, screeching metal slid across the hardwood flooring. Screams of the audience members made it hard to hear the cries of children near him. Fu Ran was thrown with enough intensity that, not only did the cage corner shatter against his weight, the girl inside had been horribly launched against the metal grating.

When his head stopped spinning, and the ache subsided, a girl with teal buns lay motionless inside this small prison. After hitting the metal walls, she didn’t so much as move, and little drips of red stained her forehead and slipped through the bars.

He felt nauseous. Why did this always happen? Need it always be children? His body shook with unease. Her condition couldn’t be judged from here, but he knew she needed aid.

When he pushed up, he groaned. With the ferocity of the toss, his hair had fallen into a mess around him, and his body hurt. He fought to regain any composure with slow and steady breaths. Panic was too easy to set in, and far too hard to get rid of.

Fu Ran was furious, and when he looked to the white sword in the hands of the fake, he yelled, “Come!” His pupils shrunk and he felt a second wave of sickening disbelief when his sword ignored him. Shi Wei Ji wasn’t listening to him? The fake in the center of the room held his blade almost sweetly. He ran fingers along the blade, almost as if he were petting it.

With a quiet cough, the older man, who hadn't moved even an inch away from the entrance, spoke. “Fu Ran,” he said.

It was his own name, but it felt terribly incorrect to his current memories. The man’s vocal intonations were of a sickening familiarity that sent shudders up Fu Ran’s spine. Heart racing and sweat pooling beneath Tian Han’s robes on his back, Fu Ran went rigid.

That’s wrong, he thought, shaking. That voice has to be wrong!

Fu Ran sat limply on his hands and knees.

“He isn't dead. I swore that I would never break our promise,” the fake said near nonchalant. In the center of the aisles of the auction house seating, stood his mirror, gently stroking the top edge of Shi Wei Ji’s blade. While his face wasn’t visible, a faint light of qi shone over the white sword.

Shockingly, he pressed the non-sharp edge of the blade towards the front of his face, appearing to share a tender moment while he hummed an inaudible chant.

The old man called his name again, and he sounded impatient this time. The fake “Fu Ran” finally sighed, and he gave a simple “Thank you,” and dropped the silver blade to the carpeted floor with a clang.

Fu Ran’s heart skipped a beat, and he wanted to immediately lunge for his cherished spiritual sword. The other version of himself had done something to Shi Wei Ji.

The older man sheathed his sword and crossed his arms when the look-a-like returned to his side. With a low, dismissive tone, he said, “Hunt him down.”

“Don’t worry, I have a new idea,” the fake chuckled.