The blue arch swallowed her without ceremony.
One step: the plaza noise vanished.
Next step: she stood in a circular chamber of pale marble, lit by floating orbs that drifted like lazy fireflies.
In the center: a single low table of black jade.
On the table: one blank scroll, one ink brush, one inkstone already wet and gleaming.
No proctor.
No other examinees.
Just the scroll and the silence that pressed against her eardrums like water.
Mei approached slowly.
The moment her fingers brushed the table edge, characters appeared on the scroll—sharp, silver, forming themselves out of nothing.
First Question: What is the root of all cultivation?
Mei exhaled.
Easy.
Or it should have been.
She dipped the brush, wrote the expected answer in careful strokes:
The Dao. The natural order. Harmony between heaven, earth, and self.
The ink sank into the paper.
The characters glowed once—faint approval—then faded.
The scroll rolled itself up, revealing a fresh sheet beneath.
Second Question: Define loyalty.
Mei hesitated.
Loyalty to sect?
To master?
To blood?
She wrote:
Unyielding devotion to what one has sworn to protect, even at the cost of self.
Again the glow.
Again the roll.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
Questions about formations, sword intent, qi circulation—things the hairpin could have answered in a heartbeat if it weren't cracked and sullen. Mei drew on fragments it had already given her, piecing together answers that felt half-remembered, half-invented.
The scroll kept unrolling.
Until the tenth question.
What is the price of returning from exile?
Mei's hand froze above the paper.
No textbook answer existed for that one.
She stared at the blank space.
The floating orbs dimmed slightly.
The hairpin gave a weak throb—almost a sigh.
Mei closed her eyes.
Then wrote:
Everything I once was. And everything I could have become without scars.
The ink sat on the page—black, unmoving.
No glow.
No roll.
Instead the scroll began to rewrite itself.
Her own characters lifted off the paper, twisted, reformed into new lines.
Wrong.
Mei's stomach dropped.
The scroll continued:
The price is truth. Speak it, or be consumed by the lie you carry.
The chamber darkened.
The orbs pulsed red.
Mei felt it then—the array waking.
A cold pressure wrapped around her meridians, probing, squeezing.
Her qi flickered like a candle in wind.
The hairpin cracked again—fifth fracture now.
Pain lanced through her skull so sharp she tasted blood.
A new line appeared on the scroll:
Rewrite your answer. One truth. One only.
Mei gripped the brush until her knuckles whitened.
She thought of the librarian who used to shelve books at 2 a.m. because the quiet felt safe.
Thought of waking up tasting blood instead of tea.
Thought of Sùyīn's hand on hers beside dying coals.
Thought of a silver braid swaying under lantern light.
She wrote—slow, deliberate:
The price is letting her see me break—and still choosing to stand afterward.
The ink bled into the paper.
This time the glow came—slow, reluctant, silver instead of gold.
The scroll rolled itself shut.
The pressure released.
The orbs returned to soft white.
A single line remained visible on the outer surface of the scroll:
Passed. Barely.
The blue arch reappeared behind her.
Mei stepped through on legs that felt made of glass.
She emerged onto a wide stone bridge suspended between two peaks.
Wind whipped her robes.
Below: clouds.
Above: the violet arch waiting at the far end—the final gate.
Sùyīn wasn't here; this part was inner-only.
But someone else was.
At the midpoint of the bridge stood Lán Xīuyīng.
No fox mask.
No ceremonial robes.
Just plain white training silks, silver hair tied high in a warrior knot, sword sheathed at her hip.
She faced Mei fully.
No expression.
But her eyes—those winter eyes—held something new.
Not frost.
Curiosity.
And perhaps—just perhaps—the tiniest flicker of recognition.
"You passed the mirror," Xīuyīng said. Voice quiet. Carrying perfectly over the wind.
Mei stopped five paces away.
"Yes."
"And the written exam."
"Yes."
Xīuyīng studied her—slow, deliberate.
"Your answers were… unconventional."
Mei managed a small, tired smile.
"I'm an unconventional person."
A long silence.
Then Xīuyīng spoke again—lower.
"Why come back?"
Mei met her gaze.
"Because you said my name once. In the ghost forest. And again in the mirror. I want to hear it when I'm standing right here. Not as exile. Not as memory. Just… here."
Xīuyīng's fingers flexed once—almost reaching for her sword hilt—then stilled.
"You may not survive the violet gate."
"I know."
"You may not survive me."
Mei stepped closer—one pace.
"I know that too."
Xīuyīng looked at the cracked jade hairpin still pinned in Mei's hair.
"It's dying."
"It's giving itself away. Piece by piece."
"To whom?"
Mei lifted her chin.
"To anyone I choose to protect. Or… to remember."
Xīuyīng's eyes narrowed.
"Then choose carefully."
She turned—braid swaying once—and walked toward the violet arch.
At the threshold she paused.
Without turning:
"Come when you're ready, Lin Mei."
Mei's heart slammed against her ribs.
She had said it.
Out loud.
No frost.
No judgment.
Just her name.
Mei followed.
The violet light swallowed them both.
One gate left.
One truth left.
And the hairpin—five cracks now—gave one final, faint pulse.
Almost there.