Light enveloped Felix as he stepped through the glowing doorway where Jim had vanished. It was soft and golden, warm like a gentle sunrise. There was no pain. No noise. Just peace.
The world around him shifted once more.
The cold chamber faded, and he found himself standing in a new room—round, quiet, and smaller than the last. The floor was smooth, its jade-colored stone polished like glass. The air was still and calm, as if holding its breath.
At the center of the room stood a pedestal.
Felix walked toward it slowly, still holding the memory of Jim close to his chest. His hands were empty, but his heart was full.
The pedestal was made of dark stone, and upon it lay several objects. Not scattered, but arranged with care—as if waiting for someone worthy.
There were three things.
The first was a ring.The second—a small, palm-sized statue.And the third—a book bound in faded black leather, covered in ancient symbols.
Felix stopped just before the pedestal. For a moment, he couldn't move. His gaze lingered on the ring first.
A spatial ring.
His breath caught.
It wasn't large or flashy. Just a smooth band of silvery metal, dull in color but rippling faintly with hidden power. Spatial rings were legendary—treasures only held by ancient sects, powerful clans, or cultivators at the highest realm.
To have one here… offered so freely…
His fingers trembled as he reached for it—but he stopped.
A feeling stirred in him. The ring needed more than just touch.
Felix pricked his thumb on the edge of his belt buckle. A bead of blood welled up. He let it drop onto the ring.
At once, the ring pulsed with light.
It lifted into the air on its own and spun slowly. Lines of silver qi danced across its surface. Then, gently, it fell into his open palm, still warm from the light.
He felt it open to him.
Not physically, but mentally—a space, vast and deep, opened in his awareness. His thoughts brushed against a world inside the ring. It was like standing at the edge of a quiet lake. He reached in with his will and felt what was within.
There was something already stored.
He reached deeper—and pulled it out.
It was a statue.
His eyes widened.
Small. Stone. About the size of a doll. And yet…
It looked exactly like Jim—or at least, the way Jim had appeared in the final moments of the trial. But as Felix held it, something strange began to happen.
The puppet pulsed faintly in his palm, as if sensing his presence.
A soft ripple of qi moved through his fingers, and without warning, the puppet began to shift. Its stone body shimmered, its surface blurring like mist.
Then, slowly—inch by inch—it began to grow.
Felix's eyes widened as the puppet reshaped itself, its limbs lengthening, features reforming. Hair turned darker, straighter. The face narrowed. The clothes changed shape. In moments, he was staring at a miniature version of himself.
Same messy hair. Same eyes. Same scar beneath the collarbone.
Even the slight tilt in his shoulder—it was all there.
The puppet stopped growing once it reached the height of his. Fully-formed. Perfectly balanced. Alive with silent energy.
Felix was in front of it, stunned.
"…You copied me," he breathed.
The puppet moved in response. It tilted its head the way Felix often did when curious. Then it stepped forward—its posture, its gait, even the way it breathed all reflected Felix's own subtle habits. It was like watching his own reflection walk.
He raised his right hand.
The puppet did the same.
He touched two fingers to his chest, drawing a symbol from a basic talisman sequence.
The puppet followed, not just copying the movement but tracing the exact rhythm, even forming a faint spark of qi at its fingertips. Its control wasn't perfect—it flickered once, then steadied—but it was learning.
Felix felt a strange mix of wonder and disbelief.
This… thing… wasn't just imitating his body. It was understanding.
He stepped backward.
So did the puppet.
He spun quickly.
The puppet followed, matching him turn for turn.
Then, curious, he shifted his qi slightly and formed a beginner's talisman gesture mid-air.
The puppet paused—then copied it with startling precision.
It was slower, unsure in some areas, but Felix could feel the link between them. This puppet was not a hollow shell. It was a mimic—alive in some arcane way, bound to him through the ring, shaped by his qi.
He reached down and placed a hand on its shoulder.
"I don't know who made it," he murmured, "but you're not just a stone."
The puppet blinked once. Not with true life, but in recognition. Then, as if proud of itself, it straightened and gave him a perfect, awkward version of his own confident grin.
Felix laughed softly.
His eyes turned to the last item.
The book.
It looked ancient.
The cover was cracked and faded, its dark leather worn smooth with age. There was no title. No name. Just a strange circular mark pressed into the center—worn and incomplete, like it had been touched by too many hands across too many centuries.
Felix reached out slowly.
The moment his fingers brushed the surface, the air around him changed.
The chamber fell still.
The book was heavy—not just in weight, but in something deeper. A pressure, a presence. It hummed faintly beneath his palm, as if it were alive and uncertain whether to accept him.
Then, almost reluctantly, it settled. The hum faded. The resistance eased.
It had allowed him to touch it.
He opened the cover, careful not to tear the brittle edge.
The pages inside were filled with symbols—lines that twisted, curved, broke, and rejoined. Not letters. Not runes. Nothing he had ever seen.
Some shapes reminded him vaguely of talisman strokes, but only distantly—like echoes of a language so old it had been forgotten by time itself.
Each mark pulsed faintly as he stared at it, and though he couldn't read a single word, something in him stirred.
He flipped through the pages slowly.
Page after page of unknown writing. Strange diagrams. Swirling constellations drawn between harsh lines. Shapes that made his head hurt the longer he looked at them, as if they weren't meant to be seen, only felt.
The words didn't speak to him.
But something else did.
An instinct. A tug beneath his skin, like the sensation of waking from a dream he couldn't quite remember. The book didn't explain—it called. Whispered in a language older than memory.
He didn't understand it.
But it felt… important.
He closed the book, hands trembling slightly.
He didn't know what this book was. Who made it? What it wanted to teach.
But he knew this:
It was meant for someone like him, a creator.
And though he couldn't read a single word now, he would.
Someday.
Even if it took years, even if it drove him mad, even if no one else could help him.