The days that followed passed by easily enough. Song Mingzhen continued to rebuild his strength and cultivation base, while Song Minghan managed the investigation. As Ning Feiyun had promised, a checkpoint was set up on the border between Dayuan and Yinshan, which resulted in an ever-so-slight delay in the transport of goods, but not much else. The chilly autumn breeze turned even colder, shaking the last of the brightly-colored leaves from the trees until the branches stood bare against the pale grey sky. Each day, the clouds grew heavier and heavier, and a whisper of promised snow was on the wind.
Now that he had recovered quite well, Song Mingzhen began to grow restless. It would no doubt take time to rebuild his reserves of spiritual power, so there was no need for him to spend so many hours each day in meditation. He began to spend far less time cooped up in his own courtyard, instead choosing to wander about Ruijian Pavilion’s grounds, pausing here and there to correct a young disciple’s sword stance or to watch a group training session. He spent long hours poring over the library’s books, trying to fill any gaps in his memory to the best of his ability.
Unfortunately, it seemed that the memories he had lost were gone for good. Though his body had recovered now and his cultivation was stable enough, his own life’s history up until the moment he woke up was a hazy whisper at best, a fathomless void at worst. This naturally caused some difficulties— each day, there was another person who greeted him that he did not remember at all, and Song Mingzhen had to do his best to smile, nod his head, and give generic answers and responses that would not betray the fact that he had no idea who these people were, or why they might wish to hold conversation with him. While he didn’t doubt that rumors of his memory loss had spread, he thought it best not to make it too obvious.
After spending a month or so in this way, Song Mingzhen began to feel like a hunting falcon in a gilded cage. His restlessness could only be momentarily satisfied here before the desire to broaden his boundaries became too much to bear. By the time the dense grey clouds broke open to release a powdering of snow over the land, Song Mingzhen had taken flight, leaving Ruijian Pavilion behind to go wander the streets of Anfeng City and patrol the surrounding farmland.
He was quite the celebrity at first, barely able to set foot in the city without being surrounded by a group of well-wishers and curious onlookers who all wished to thank him for his protection. He often found himself laden down with gifts, finding it too difficult to refuse them, and began to carry a qiankun bag out to the city with him for this exact purpose. Eventually, though, he became a regular sight wandering the streets, and the interest in his comings and goings tapered off to a far more reasonable level. Now that it wasn’t such a novelty to see the cultivation clan’s young master out in the city, the sight of Song Mingzhen perusing the market stalls or riding through the countryside on horseback was somewhat reassuring to the people, who were still a bit shaken-up by those recent events.
Song Mingzhen couldn’t help but feel, more often than not, that he didn’t have any sort of set place. This… well, it was reasonable enough, he thought. He had been gone for five years, after all, and during that time the world had been upended and rebuilt anew— naturally, it had grown up around him, leaving every role he had played filled by someone not currently incapacitated. The world couldn’t be expected to wait five years for his recovery. Song Minghan led the patrols and the investigations, while Song Weicheng handled diplomatic affairs for himself. Even the sword lessons Song Mingzhen used to teach had now been passed off to other masters and seniors from the branch families, and Song Mingzhen wasn’t about to push them out of these roles just to get his old positions back. In the end, he was still the clan leader’s heir— that was good enough.
Or at least, it ought to be, but simply being an heir with no additional responsibilities hardly tempered his restlessness, and aimlessly wandering the streets could only do so much.
Every day he hoped to hear of some new development, something that could spur him into action, but there was nothing. Ning Feiyun was not heard from again after that one appearance, and no other news came from Yinshan, good or bad. Song Minghan’s investigation was similarly fruitless, but neither were there any more incidents like that one during the festival. It seemed more and more like this was an isolated incident, meant to unsettle the people of Anfeng City and send a message of danger to the Song clan. In that, it had achieved its purpose— Song Mingzhen couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that hung over his head every moment, no matter how he tried. Even as the cultivation world’s anxiety faded, he still found himself unable to forget that somewhere, roaming free, there was a vindictive rogue cultivator who was capable of killing someone with a single blow.
Even though the incident was isolated, there was no way it would be a one-time event. The attack had been coordinated and well-thought out, starting and ending with such absolute efficiency that the entire cultivation world was left in the dark. Song Mingzhen knew it was only a matter of time before the mysterious adversaries would show themselves once more.
Still, there was nothing he could do until then but wait— and so, Song Mingzhen decided that he needed to embark on some new endeavor to keep himself occupied in the meantime.
He began to ponder over what to do during his daily wanderings. It was now midwinter, and there was an ever-present blanket of snow on the ground, crunching beneath his feet. The common people went to and fro through the city streets bundled up in coats and cloaks, while the cultivators walked among them in their ordinary dress, largely unbothered by the cold. The aromas of fresh, hot food filled the air, drifting from the vendors’ stalls to tempt passers-by with the promise of a warm meal to take away the chill. Song Mingzhen stopped by one of these stalls to get himself a snack, and continued down the street while munching on a warm, pork-filled baozi.
As he passed through the market square, he found himself pausing near the place where the fallen cultivator had lain on the night of the attack. Even now, this area still felt a little bit ominous, and he knew that he wasn’t the only person to feel that way— now, most of the townspeople took a slightly different route, avoiding the area just in front of the mural. Song Mingzhen looked at his own painted reflection for awhile. It was a bit uncanny, meeting his own eyes this way. This mural of his watched over the city, and yet Song Mingzhen himself was unable to bring the matter to a close.
He shut his eyes, taking a breath to calm himself.
Next time, he would be ready— whatever happened, he wouldn’t allow them to escape again.
The sound of young voices and knocking wood a short distance away caught Song Mingzhen’s attention, and he caught a glimpse of a group of youths with wooden swords in their hands. They appeared to be practicing swordplay, but from the looks of it they hadn’t had any sort of formal training and were only copying moves they had seen before. Song Mingzhen recognized what seemed to be a terrible rendition of one of the Song clan’s sword styles and couldn’t help but cringe.
Then, a sudden idea came to his mind.
This last time, the attackers hadn’t targeted the common people, but Song Mingzhen knew perfectly well that it wouldn’t always be that way. It would be far better if they could defend themselves at least a bit more adequately, in case Ruijian Pavilion’s cultivators didn’t arrive fast enough.
A few days later, Song Mingzhen opened up the gates of the old Ruijian Pavilion’s courtyard at the foot of the mountain, and invited the youths of Anfeng City inside to teach them some basic swordsmanship and martial arts. Hardly a few moments passed before he had to close the doors again, his registration book completely filled. Word had spread quickly, it seemed, and everyone in Anfeng City wanted the chance to have free sword lessons from Dayuan’s greatest hero of this era.
Every other morning for the duration of si-shi, the group gathered in the courtyard. Song Mingzhen wasn’t the best of teachers— though his social skills had improved since he first woke up, he also remembered nothing of his own studies. While his muscle memory was good enough for his own purpose, it was far more difficult to explain things in theory when one couldn’t remember what their own teachers had said to them. Still, he tried his best, often resorting to manually adjusting his students’ stances and posture, and relying quite heavily on demonstration. Once in awhile, he even brought in a few of Ruijian Pavilion’s disciples to help get his point across.
The students themselves were a varied group. Most of them were youths from merchant families, especially those who traveled. Others were farmers’ sons, and there were even a few young women… Song Mingzhen couldn’t help but wonder if their families sent them here in hopes he may take a fancy to one of them, because they tended to show up to the lessons as if dressed for a banquet at Jieyun Hall rather than sword training outside on the snow-covered ground.
Unfortunately for the girls’ families, Song Mingzhen had never yet met a woman who managed to catch his eye in that way.
He had little interest in marriage and romance at all. If he had his way, then he would likely remain Dayuan’s most eligible bachelor for some time yet. Still, and partially because of this complete lack of interest, he gladly accepted the young maidens as his students and taught them just the same as the others.
Most of the students were teenagers or had just recently come of age, but at the last moment before he closed the gates, two small children had come running up to him. “Xianshi-gege, please teach us swords!” the older one, a boy who looked to be about ten years old, pleaded. With him was a younger girl, who remained half-hidden behind him. Both children were quite small and thin, and wore ragged clothes that were messily stitched up here and there. Song Mingzhen remembered the two from the night of the attack— they had been some of the last to leave the market square. He’d seen them a few times in the city after that too, almost always side by side, with their fingers tightly interlocked as if they were afraid of losing one another.
By this time, the courtyard was almost full, but these two children were small and wouldn’t take up much space. Since they didn’t seem to have anyone looking out for them, Song Mingzhen thought that it would be good for them to at least learn how to better defend themselves, so he agreed to let them join the group. Each of the confirmed participants was given a token to allow them entry to future classes. When he placed those tokens into the childrens’ hands, their eyes lit up like stars.
Over the next month, he found himself more and more looking after the pair’s well-being.
He noticed them shivering during practice in the chilly morning, so he brought them coats and blankets and had new shoes made for them. After the second snow fell, he began to have a pot of congee and warm mantou prepared for the participants, and would always watch to make sure that the two children got a generous portion. Though he tried to make sure he gave each of his students the attention they needed, he ended up spending a little more time with these two, just to make sure they were caught up with the others.
It wasn’t that Song Mingzhen considered himself overly paternal— he did not, in fact, consider himself paternal at all— it was just that he could at least do this much, so why wouldn’t he?
This side project succeeded in its original purpose— to distract Song Mingzhen from worrying endlessly over his brother’s investigation and the future of the cultivation world— and also in its stated purpose. Over the month that followed, his students showed improvement in their skills. Song Mingzhen grew more pleased by the day as he wandered through the class to examine the students’ progress. There were some more gifted than others, of course, with some even beginning to engage in carefully-monitored sessions of free sparring, but all of them had learned at least a little, and most importantly, seemed more confident than before.
There was one matter, though, that was beginning to cause him some anxiety.
In order to hold these sword lessons in the old courtyard, Song Mingzhen had naturally obtained permission from his father. That permission had been easily granted, so long as he agreed to one important limitation: Song Mingzhen was not permitted to teach any form of spiritual cultivation to his commoner students. Of course, such a restriction was in accordance with the laws and regulations, so Song Mingzhen agreed. Besides that, while there was an overlap between teaching martial arts and teaching cultivation, it should be quite possible to teach one without the other.
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time— but then, he began to notice that a few of his students were showing signs of spiritual aptitude.
Song Mingzhen was already a peak Zhuji-stage cultivator, and his spiritual sense was keener than even many of those at his same level. The slight, day-by-day strengthening of the spiritual aura, the changes in movement pattern and the flow of spiritual energy being conducted through the students’ bodies— all of these things would go unnoticed by an ordinary cultivator. To Song Mingzhen, though, it was all quite apparent.
Still, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Natural aptitude was natural aptitude, after all. It wasn’t surprising that training the body would bring out innate spiritual talent as well. Besides that, none of the students had even come close to attaining spiritual awakening and perceiving the Dao, so there wasn’t too much cause for alarm. Without proper guidance or appropriate circumstance, it was unlikely that any of these students would progress much further than this, and that was for the best— whether they came from a good background or a poor one, none of them were from cultivation families, and so it was forbidden for them to practice. No amount of spiritual aptitude would make a difference. Song Mingzhen simply resolved to keep a closer eye on these particular students, to make sure that they wouldn’t find themselves in trouble with the cultivation world.
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Things went on that way for awhile. Only a few students seemed to have such aptitude for cultivation, so there weren’t too many to keep a watch on, and after the initial bit of growth, it seemed to taper off just as he had expected. It was a bit unfortunate, Song Mingzhen thought, that these youths wouldn’t be permitted to study cultivation even though they had the potential for it… but what was there to be done about that? Song Mingzhen couldn’t exactly stand up against the cultivation world, go back on his agreement with his father, and teach them in secret, now could he?
So, he never told any of them.
That is, until things changed quite abruptly one day.
Among those students who showed spiritual aptitude was one of the two small children that Song Mingzhen had unofficially taken under his wing— the girl, A-Ying. She was the youngest of all of his students, and had experienced the most growth from what he could tell— not only in terms of spiritual talent. She was also quite good with her wooden training sword, able to easily best Xiao-Lang when the two sparred together. Song Mingzhen had been a little concerned about her rapid progress at first, but just like the others, her spiritual development had hit a plateau, and so he’d stopped worrying.
What he hadn’t expected was that A-Ying was unlike the others.
Everyone had at least some limited capacity for cultivation, but most people would need extensive training and practice before they were even able to utilize their spiritual sense, let alone the circulation and storing up of qi that was required to progress beyond the most rudimentary levels. Martial training and spiritual training were rooted in the same foundation, and if one had spiritual aptitude, they would quickly gain martial skills and become strong, but that was as far as it would go. Unless one was made aware of their spiritual aptitude and received proper guidance, they usually wouldn’t know what to focus on in order to progress— many of the mortal world’s great heroes over the ages had likely fallen into this category.
Of course, there was always an exception.
A rare few individuals were born already possessing a spiritual sense, and others had an exceptional spiritual root which would allow them to jump to peak Ningqi stage almost immediately after gaining their spiritual sense, needing only to cultivate the Dao for a short while before crossing the Zhuji boundary. These prodigies, when they were born into cultivation clans, were identified very quickly and often given special treatment, allowing them to surpass boundaries at a much faster rate than many of their peers. However, these blessings were not endowed only upon the children of the great clans— but also on the children of the common people.
These individuals would be the ones who ran into the most trouble in the cultivation world.
Without instruction, it was incredibly difficult for one to perceive the Dao, but those with an innate spiritual sense could do so from birth. Without perceiving the Dao, it was nearly impossible to cultivate it, but those with an exceptional spiritual root would be able to do so almost without trying. In both of these cases, there was far less of a need for instruction— cultivation would ultimately come naturally to these people, at least up to a certain point. This was where the trouble began.
Cultivators were different from ordinary mortals. Aside from their abilities, they also had a certain aura about them. Even those without a spiritual sense could often tell there was something unusual— the force of their presence outweighed those around them. For some, it was a magnetic charm, for others it was intimidating or unnerving. A talented cultivator was able to conceal their own spiritual aura— something essential for those at higher levels, when interacting with the common people— but this was even more difficult than cultivation itself. Not to mention that someone whose cultivation was higher would be able to see through the disguise.
Aside from incidents where crimes were involved, this was usually how rogue cultivators were caught. While those who had just entered Ningqi stage may be able to avoid detection for awhile, as they continued to take in more spiritual qi from their surroundings and widen their meridians, the fact that they were cultivating would become obvious to those with a spiritual sense. Once they were noticed, then Ruijian Pavilion would monitor them closely, taking action as soon as they progressed past some uncertain, undefinable point known only to those responsible for enforcing the ban.
Rogue cultivators who struggled along with a group would often be warned about the potential dangers and taught how to avoid them. Those who possessed innate abilities, though, often wouldn’t even know that they were cultivating before it was too late. If they weren’t scouted by some group of heretics and snapped up, they would continue going about their daily activities, none the wiser, until they ended up arrested. They would have their cultivation sealed at best, or otherwise they may be locked up in some dungeon for the rest of their lives… or worse.
What would be a blessing for one born to a cultivation family would inevitably become a beggar child’s curse.
This was the dilemma that Song Mingzhen was currently facing with his young students. One day, he noticed that A-Ying’s spiritual aura had shifted once again. During the exercises, while adjusting her stance, he placed a hand on her pulse to feel her spiritual flow, and had to quickly draw back for fear that even sending an exploratory thread of spiritual qi through her meridians might be enough to push her over the boundary and cause her spiritual eyes to open.
In this moment, Song Mingzhen realized that the situation was considerably more difficult than he had expected. From the beginning, he had only been paying attention to how his students’ spiritual auras changed over time— but A-Ying was much further along than he’d expected, seeming to have nearly reached the end of the preparatory period overnight.
This wasn’t the case, though— the reality was just that she had already been further along than he’d thought.
A-Ying had an exceptional spiritual root.
When Song Mingzhen realized this, an uneasy knot twisted up in the pit of his stomach. Of course, he’d known of this sort of innate ability, but it was such a rare thing to occur that he hadn’t even considered it a possibility. Now, this little student of his was on the cusp of becoming a cultivator, and he hadn’t had any chance to prepare for it.
At the conclusion of the day’s lesson, Song Mingzhen had decided that he needed to do something about the situation before it progressed any further.
While the group of students made their way toward the gate, he made to instruct the two children to remain behind, but quickly realized that there was no need. Xiao-Lang was already lingering near the edge of the courtyard, holding A-Ying’s hand tightly as he watched Song Mingzhen with an expectant look on his face.
The knot of anxiety twisted even more tightly within Song Mingzhen’s gut.
The children knew something was going on— how? He had been careful to maintain his usual demeanor, so that no one would notice that anything strange had happened.
“You all can return to Jieyun Hall,” he instructed the attendants and guards who had accompanied him to the lesson. “I plan on spending some time out in the city.”
Once the others had cleared out, Song Mingzhen swept across the courtyard, the cold winter sun glancing off of his shimmering golden robes. “You two,” he said, “Let’s go out, Gege will get you anything you’d like to eat today. We can find a nice spot to sit and enjoy it— I’d like to discuss your progress.”
He gave Xiao-Lang a look just as pointed and intentional as the boy’s earlier expression. The two shared a look, and then they nodded their heads. “Alright, Xianshi-gege.”
Song Mingzhen took the pair out to the market, buying each of them an armload of treats before having them follow him to a spot near the riverbank that was somewhat out-of-the-way. He needed to find out what the children may or may not know about the situation before he could decide how best to resolve it— and it would be better to do that somewhere where they’d be less likely to be overheard.
“Now,” he said, once the two had eaten their fill, “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about?”
Xiao-Lang hesitated for awhile, while A-Ying stared down at her feet, poking about in the dirt with her fingertip. Song Mingzhen waited— it was only natural that they were a little bit nervous right now. As much as they might admire him, they’d been on their own for long enough to know better than to trust easily. Eventually, though, curiosity or concern won out over caution. Xiao-Lang took a shaky breath.
“Something is happening with A-Ying,” he said, “She’s different, ever since we started sword lessons. Especially since a few days ago.”
“Gege is just jealous that I can beat him,” A-Ying muttered, sticking out her lower lip in a bit of a pout.
“That isn’t true!” Xiao-Lang protested. “It’s good if you can, then you can escape from anyone who tries to take you!”
The pair bickered back and forth for a little while, and Song Mingzhen found himself growing more and more anxious. It wasn’t just A-Ying who showed signs of spiritual aptitude— Xiao-Lang was also a little unusual. With a new worry nagging at him, Song Mingzhen interrupted their little squabble. “You say that something is different about A-Ying… what exactly is different?”
Xiao-Lang fell silent, then scrunched up his face in thought. He turned to examine A-Ying, who was still scowling at him, then he shrugged his shoulders, looking back toward Song Mingzhen with a furrowed brow. “I… don’t know really,” he admitted, “It’s just… there’s something different now. Like something that was always hidden inside is starting to shine out.”
“Stop being silly!” A-Ying protested. “I’m not shiny!”
Ah, so that’s what it was…
What a situation!
Song Mingzhen didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was rare enough for someone to have innate spiritual talent, but among his students, there were two— one with an exceptional spiritual root, the other with an innate spiritual sense!
How had they come by such misfortune? Any day now, A-Ying’s spiritual eyes would open, and who knows how long would pass before she was branded as a “potential criminal” for the rest of her life. Xiao-Lang’s case was a little less worrying, as an innate spiritual sense was more difficult to detect without an interview, but he was so close to A-Ying, so he wouldn’t escape scrutiny either. Not to mention, those who possessed an innate spiritual sense were also more likely to find their way into the path of cultivation on their own as well.
These two were just children… they hadn’t done anything wrong, and they might end up in trouble for it.
Maybe even worse, they could end up snapped up by a group of rogue cultivators. Song Mingzhen already knew that there was one group out there, the ones who had attacked Anfeng City, and who knew how many others were lurking in the shadows. There was no way to know their plans, but their numbers would almost always be low— they would jump at the chance to snap up two talented youngsters and groom them into perfect weapons to aim at the cultivation world. For Xiao-Lang and A-Ying, who didn’t have any family to speak of, the offer of power and support would seem very appealing, and they might not realize it was a trap until it was too late.
On one side was the hypervigilant cultivation world, on the other side evildoers looking to take advantage of every possible opportunity…
And there was even that danger that came from within themselves— even an early Ningqi-stage cultivator was at risk of lapsing into qi deviation and getting themselves killed if they didn’t follow the proper cultivation methods.
It was too unfair. Song Mingzhen couldn’t just let that sort of thing happen to these two.
But what could he do?
Mengshan Temple was no more. The records stated that its residents had been dispersed and its gates had been closed after the war. There was no other place for children like these to go— no matter where they went, their spiritual talent would put them at risk as soon as it became apparent.
He took a shaky breath, mulling it over in his mind as he tried to quiet the swirling anxiety within him as much as possible. Then, he recalled Ning Feiyun’s case, and an idea came to him.
Even if it wasn’t possible to take the children to Mengshan Temple, it wasn’t Ning Feiyun’s origin that made him a legitimate cultivator, but his adoption into a cultivation clan. The name one wore made all the difference in this world— so, reasonably speaking, if Song Mingzhen were to take these two up to Ruijian Pavilion and bestow his surname upon them, then wouldn’t they also be treated similarly?
He was far from ready to raise children on his own, of course— he wasn’t even considering marriage yet!— but surely, acting as a benefactor wouldn’t be outside of his capabilities. At the very least, he could make arrangements for them to have a place to stay, and lessons with Ruijian Pavilion’s instructors. They would be safe and provided for, and then they would grow up to become assets to the Song clan. Both children seemed to have good potential, there was no good reason they shouldn’t be able to develop it.
With this plan in mind, Song Mingzhen took out a blank talisman. He drew his Chengxiao sword a few cun from its sheathe and made a small cut on his finger, then with a flourish, he used it to write down a certain spell. He did the same with another blank talisman, then handed one to each of the children. “Take these,” he said, “And keep them on your persons at all times. They will keep you safe for now— I will make arrangements for you.”
It was a fairly advanced skill to suppress one’s own spiritual aura, but with this talisman, anyone could accomplish that. Additionally, because Song Mingzhen had been the one to write them, anyone at or below his own level of cultivation would be unable to see past it— even if A-Ying’s spiritual eyes opened before Song Mingzhen could sort things out, no one would be able to tell, and they would be spared from both Ruijian Pavilion’s scrutiny and from the exploitative gaze of evil cultivators.
In theory, Song Mingzhen’s plan was sound. There was already a precedent for something like this, so it wasn’t as though he were presenting something entirely unheard of. However, as he climbed the steps to Jieyun Hall, he felt as though a serpent had wrapped itself around his chest and throat and was ever-so-slowly squeezing the life out of him. The throbbing pain behind his eyes had returned, as had the pounding of his heart. Since he first woke up a few months ago, these symptoms had slowly faded away, until they were quite rare. Now, he felt almost as unsettled as he had back then.
He had told his father that he would not teach spiritual cultivation— now, he was going to ask permission to take in a pair of children who had developed spiritual abilities.
Even though Song Mingzhen knew he had done nothing wrong, other than perhaps allowing the pair to attend sword lessons in the first place, he still felt terribly uneasy.
There was no real reason to think that Song Weicheng would refuse this request. If Song Mingzhen wished to take those two as his disciples, then what would be so wrong with that? Young masters of cultivation clans had done things like this before, creating exceptions to the rules as long as it had been in place— why should Song Mingzhen’s situation be any different?
Besides that, it would be too much of a shame to let this talent go by the wayside, or to allow them to be snatched up by those who wished to use their talents for nefarious purposes.
His father was a reasonable man. Surely, once this was explained, he would agree.
So why did Song Mingzhen feel so terrified?
Each step he took felt heavier and heavier, as though stones were being continuously piled onto his back. Though it was midday, the corners of his vision had begun to darken, and the scenery blurred together, in and out of focus. His breath rasped in and out of his lungs, his heart beating like a ceaseless drum, rattling around inside of his chest. By the time he reached the gates of Jieyun Hall, his limbs felt stiff and wooden, and he could barely even stay upright, his breath frozen in his lungs and not daring to pass his lips.
As the world spun around him, Song Mingzhen didn’t even notice his path diverging, suddenly-rejuvenated footsteps carrying him back into his own courtyard, past the little pool and through the doors of his house. Once he had gone inside and the door was shut, he stood in the center of the quiet dim room for awhile, swaying in place as his vision twisted and distorted, turning from single to double and then back again. His chest ached, the blood still rushing in his ear as he struggled to catch a breath.
What… what was happening to him right now?
The darkness creeping at the corners of his vision suddenly pressed inward, and he sank down to his knees. He caught a brief glimpse of his own pale face as he fell, reflected in a copper mirror that rested on a nearby table. In the moments before his consciousness faded away entirely, he realized something strange.
Why had his own reflection refused to meet his gaze?