Chapter 10: Spiritual Fortification
"If the heavens made me this handsome, who am I to be humble?" — Wei Yehan
—
The Mirror Gate of Deep Reflection shimmered like moonlight frozen in time—an ethereal arch suspended between jade-carved pillars, its surface rippling like liquid glass. In its center, a spiral of drifting clouds twisted outward, opening into what looked like another world entirely—bluer skies, distant peaks, the faint glint of something… divine.
A hush fell across the mountaintop. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Disciples gathered before the gate like stars drawn to a black hole, tension and awe thick in the air.
Wei Yehan stood at the front of Group Seven, scarlet robes flickering in the breeze, gaze fixed on the portal that looked more like a dream than a door. His gaze locked on the swirling portal, lips parted in astonishment. For once, his mouth—famed for its sharp wit and unceasing chatter—had fallen utterly silent.
Feng Yusheng, standing beside him in his soft jade green robes, cast him a side glance. "You're quiet," he murmured, voice calm and unreadable, but with the faintest edge of curiosity.
Wei Yehan didn't respond at first. Then, with a long, theatrical sigh worthy of a stage actor watching the curtain rise, he murmured, "Forgive me, Young Master Feng. I was briefly struck dumb by the divine vision before me."
Feng Yusheng's gaze flicked back to the Mirror Gate. "The Gate is… impressive."
Wei Yehan turned to him with the kind of aghast expression usually reserved for a ruined outfit. "Gate?" he echoed, his eyes widened as realisation hit him.
It seems Feng Yusheng had misunderstood him.
"No. Not the gate." With all seriousness he explained. "Its me." He gestured toward the glassy surface of the Mirror Gate where his reflection shimmered like something painted by moonlight. "Look at that. Those high cheekbones, reflecting the golden light and that sharp jaw, sharp enough to cut iron. Ah! Its so difficult to become so handsome." As he started to praise himself, his narcissism knew no bounds.
Behind them, Jian Qingzhou gave a choking noise like someone trying not to snort in a sacred hall. "He is really shameless. Staring into a portal to the Spirit Realm, and admiring his useless face." shaking his head, he muttered under his breath. "Tsk. I wonder how Ling-gongzi and others from Longling pavilion stand him."
"I'm not sure whether to be offended on the Gate's behalf or impressed by his consistency," Yue Chenxiao who heard Jian Qingzhou's muttering, chuckled in frustration. "Twelve years of cultivation, and I have to cross the veil with a walking, talking mirror obsession."
Wei Yehan turned slowly to face them, expression untouched by shame. "Mirror obsession? Please. You act as though appreciating one's divine craftsmanship is a flaw."
He stepped to the side, tilting his face slightly toward the Gate, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "See the way the light hits the curve of my jaw? If the Spirit Realm crumbles when I walk through, it won't be from my aura—it'll be from sheer aesthetic overload."
Jian Qingzhou rolled his eyes and sneered I'm disbelief. "How many times you rehearsed this line in a day?"
"What is there to rehearse? Isn't it only normal for me to admire myself?" Wei Yehan countered as he continued self-righteously. "Self-love is a form of spiritual fortification. You wouldn't understand."
Jian Qingzhou and Yue ChenXiao were speechless from his shamelessness. Even Feng Yusheng's lips twitched at his last remark.
"Spiritual forti- fortification?" Jian Qingzhou stammered in disbelief.
Laughter rippled behind them, poorly muffled.
"Jian-gongzi, Wei-gongzi is telling the truth," Su Jin piped up from the Longling Pavilion disciples, raising a hand like a witness in court. "He spends more time with his mirror than I do in meditation."
"I can vouch for it." Meng Ke chimed in, not to be outdone, "he once told me—'The moon has blemish, but my face does not. My reflection is jade-carved by destiny.'" He tried to fully mimic Wei Yehan's voice as he quoted his lines.
Ever so thick skinned Wei Yehan, accepted the mockery like an emperor receiving tribute. He turned, chin lifted, eyes glinting with mischief. "Or else? Just look at my chiseled face. Can you see any blemish? Isn't it as flawless as a finely carved jade?"
His poise was impeccable—shoulders square, back straight, and his face the very portrait of smug elegance. There wasn't a flicker of offense, only the unshakable serenity of someone utterly and gloriously in love with himself.
Yue Chenxiao groaned, covering his face with one hand. "I trained half my life for this ceremony. Enlightenment, they said. Destiny. And here I am, standing next to a peacock with delusions of godhood."
"A 'celestial' peacock," Wei Yehan corrected sweetly. "You mustn't leave that part out."
Jian Qingzhou looked like he was about to combust. "If he struts through that Gate like this, I swear the spirits will send him back just out of spite."
"No, no," Meng Ke said with mock solemnity. "They'll send him back with a plaque: Most Photogenic Cultivator, Spirit Realm Cycle 401."
Su Jin snorted. "He'll hang it next to his mirror."
And still, Wei Yehan only smiled, utterly unbothered. "That sounds accurate. Shall I prepare my thank-you speech?"
Feng Yusheng, silent through the barrage, finally exhaled a quiet breath. He looked at Wei Yehan again—at the way the other boy stood so proudly amidst all the sarcasm, the quiet light in his eyes unshaken.
Something flickered in his eyes, faint as mountain mist yet sharp as morning frost. His gaze pausing at Wei Yehan's smug face.
Wei Yehan stood at the center of it all, utterly unbothered, head tilted toward the light like he was born for the stage.
A headache. A spectacle. A fool, most likely.
And yet, Feng Yusheng found his gaze lingering longer than necessary.
When Wei Yehan turned—eyes bright, smile lazy, utterly oblivious—Feng Yusheng looked away, as if the wind had shifted too suddenly.
The Mirror Gate pulsed again, casting reflections across the marble floor.
Feng Yusheng's own face stared back at him for a breath before vanishing.
He exhaled, soft and slow.
What a troublesome person.
And with that thought, he stepped forward—toward the gate, and whatever lay beyond.