The mist closed over Joshua like a second skin. One breath, it was cold stone beneath his feet; the next, it was gone. The air grew heavy, pressing, until voices broke the silence.
"Useless."
"Why are you even here?"
"Three years, and still trash."
Joshua's eyes narrowed.
The mist shifted, and suddenly he was standing in the training courtyard of Cloud Peak. Dozens of disciples ringed him in a circle, faces twisted with laughter and contempt. Their clothes were familiar outer sect robes, shoulders hunched with arrogance, but their eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction.
In the centre of the circle stood… himself. Or rather, the original Mo Xuanyu. The boy's shoulders were hunched, eyes downcast, hands trembling around a wooden sword too heavy for his thin frame. Every time he raised it, it slipped, clattering to the stones.
"Can't even hold it straight," one disciple sneered. "Maybe he should carry water buckets for the rest of his life."
Another shoved the boy's shoulder, sending him stumbling. "What a waste of resources."
The circle roared with laughter.
Joshua watched in silence. His reflection, the boy who once lived in this vessel, looked pitiful. Small. Weak. Eyes full of apology, begging silently for someone to spare him.
A whisper coiled through the air, the voice of the mountain itself.
[This is who you are.]
Joshua's lashes lowered. "…No."
The whisper pressed harder, filling the air, sharp and insistent.
[Trash. Forgotten. Always.]
The crowd closed in. Hands shoved his reflection down again. Feet kicked. The wooden sword snapped under a boot.
Joshua stepped forward. The laughter rose, shrill, suffocating. But the cold in his eyes only sharpened.
His reflection looked up at him, eyes wide, begging.
"Help me," the boy whispered.
Joshua's gaze lingered on him. The frail shoulders, the fear, the desperate clinging to a hope that never came.
"…Pathetic," Joshua said softly. His voice was calm, flat, cutting through the illusion like steel.
The crowd faltered. The laughter stuttered. The illusion shivered.
Joshua raised his blade, not to defend, not to comfort, but to strike. With one clean arc, he cut through the mist-figure of Mo Xuanyu. The boy's form dissolved into dust, scattering with the laughter.
The crowd shrieked once, then broke apart into smoke. Silence fell.
The mountain trembled faintly.
[Ding!]
[Illusion cleared: Fear of Failure.]
[Reward: +15 points.]
Joshua stood alone again, breath steady, eyes unreadable.
"…Fear of trash." His gaze lingered on the empty ground. "Not mine."
The mist swirled, darker now. Something else stirred within it, heavier, sharper, carrying the scent of blood and fire.
Joshua's chest tightened. The ache pulsed again, sharper than before, dragging his breath for the first time since stepping into the mountain.
"…Fragments."
The fog thickened, reshaping the world around him once more.