Mirror Dream Tree

Sato glances left and right before slipping into the narrow alley ahead.

He stays close to the wall, lingering at its edge as he listens for any signs of pursuit.

After a few tense minutes, he leans his head out to scan the street one last time.

Seeing nobody, he steps deeper into the alley and stops halfway in front of a sewer cover.

He kneels, produces a small pouch of powder, and scatters it across the lid.

A grey array glimmers into view as his mana seeps into the diagram.

With a soft click, the pattern rotates like a lock unlocking, leaving a ring around the sewer cover as it pops up slightly.

He lifts the cover, revealing a set of stairs descending into darkness.

After one last wary look over his shoulder, Sato slips inside and pulls the cover shut above him.

In the gloom, his eyes shift into a more bestial shape as he begins his careful descent.

As he steps down into the depths, his thoughts circle back to the events of a few hours ago, when the Dragon Master may have ruined his plan.

Yet the Dragon Master's transformation technique also showed him a new path.

Sato had advanced to the True Core Realm through the artistic conception of illusion, knowing full well that the Illusion Master's Rule would forever block him from creating his own Rule of Illusion.

But if he could adapt the Dragon Master's method, crafting an illusion art performed purely through his eyes, he might bypass those limits.

And if he could realise a fourth-level illusion technique driven by his gaze alone, then the path to becoming a Spirit Master would finally lie within his reach.

But first, he must transform his eyes.

The illusions he envisions cannot be performed unless his eyes evolve, carrying a power so unique that it could one day become a family lineage.

That would ensure his bloodline's strength for generations, long after his own life fades, allowing his descendants to survive and thrive in this world.

Sato jumps down the last few steps and lands soundlessly on the damp sewer floor.

The tunnels around him are spacious enough to stand upright in, with a narrow path alongside the flowing channel of water.

He begins navigating the maze of intersections with practised ease, moving steadily from one passage to the next.

Every so often, he passes others in the tunnels, shadowy figures moving silently about their business.

No one acknowledges him, and he returns the favour — in these underground halls, anonymity is a kind of safety.

Eventually, a distant sound of rushing water reaches his ears.

He follows the noise until the walls widen into a broad outlet where the purified sewage empties into a lake just outside the city.

Hundreds of lakes dot this region — more than a thousand by some counts — all connected by deep subterranean channels and vast empty reservoirs.

When heavy rain swells the lakes too full, underground gates release into these reservoirs so the water can drain safely away.

This was a clever design by the city's architects centuries ago, ensuring none of the lakes would ever overflow into the streets.

And here, at the edge of this network, Sato could plan his next move in secret, closer to the water and far from prying eyes.

This place had been an uninhabitable swamp only two years ago, but now it had become a livable region — all thanks to the power of spiritualists like him.

If he'd had the affinity for earth or water back then, he would have gladly taken part in transforming the swamp; at least, now he possessed those abilities too.

And it was all thanks to the Dragon Master, who two years ago had created the method to derive mana so that anyone could practice a spell if they learned it properly.

That innovation had changed everything.

He hears a light knock from above the tunnel's mouth, and at that instant, Sato steps onto the lake shore.

He walks along the water's edge, musing over the Hundred Lakes State — how countless swathes of marshland like this one had been turned into thriving places under the hands of spiritualists.

In his mind, it perfectly revealed the difference between half-yao and spiritualists.

Half-yao had often left their lands untouched, preserving resources in a natural state without extracting their full value.

Spiritualists, on the other hand, wasted nothing; they shaped and consumed every resource they could control — even people if they had to.

And Sato thought it was precisely this inefficiency that had doomed the half-yao.

He reaches a small dock and spots a wooden dock house.

Sato approaches the window of the dock house and tosses a silver coin inside.

A slitted opening reveals a mask.

He takes it, slips it over his face, and just as he finishes adjusting it, a bell chimes within the house.

Moments later, a wooden boat glides toward the dock, guided by an old oarsman who offers neither greeting nor glance.

Sato boards the vessel in silence, and the old man immediately begins to row, the boat cutting gently across the dark surface of the lake as they vanish into the mist.

Sato says nothing the entire way.

Suddenly, a dense circle of mist blooms ahead, and the boat glides into it.

The murky surroundings melt into brightness as, before him, houseboats stretch into view — one after another, all linked together by wooden bridges and piers.

Some of these houseboats stand only a single storey high, while others tower up four or five storeys like floating fortresses.

The oarsman guides him to a dock, where Sato steps onto the pier after tossing him another silver coin.

He's immediately met by the hum of haggling voices: merchants hawking pills, elixirs, magic weapons, poisons, and even slaves.

This is the largest black market in the Eastern Region, born just one year ago.

He passes one houseboat after the next, stepping across bridges as vendors shout for customers' attention.

As he rounds a corner, he slows to a halt before a three-storey houseboat with an open deck.

There, displayed prominently on the platform, is a stunning half-yao woman with sleek black hair, matching fox ears perched gracefully atop her head, and a shimmering black tail that sways with every nervous breath.

Her beauty is hypnotic, stirring a sharp hunger in him to buy her, to possess her, to see her submit to him entirely.

Yet as the bid for her climbs past a hundred purple-gold coins — and still rising — Sato reins in his desire with a bitter shake of his head.

He reminds himself of the treasures hidden in the Cui family's inner vaults; his ambitions lie far beyond a mere slave girl.

Turning away, he strides onward across one bridge after another, never once entering the countless houseboats he passes.

Finally, his path brings him to a houseboat glowing with an eerie red light.

He pays a silver coin to the burly guard and steps inside.

The narrow corridor is alive with vice: naked men and women, intoxicated by wine and powder, dance and tumble across the polished floor to the rhythm of a soft, sultry melody.

Some are too far gone, writhing together openly as they lose themselves in lust.

But Sato pays them no mind.

He ignores the chaos and turns down a quieter path in the corridor, one that leads toward the bathroom area.

He slips into the men's room and enters the third closed stall.

With a practised motion, he presses his palm against the wooden tiles on the wall and channels his mana into them.

The tiles glow faintly, then slide aside, revealing a hidden passage.

Sato steps into the dark corridor beyond and, as the wall seals shut behind him, walks forward without hesitation.

After a short while, he reaches a plain door and enters a small, dimly lit chamber.

Four people already wait for him at a round table.

The far wall is fitted with a visual formation divided into dozens of screens, each showing live footage of the dance floor or one of the hundred private rooms scattered across the houseboat.

This houseboat is run by Sato and his group. To earn some money and to gather intelligence.

The main task is to gather intelligence.

Sato takes an empty chair, and as he settles in, Toru leans forward and asks, "Sato, what did your teacher say?"

Sato leans back into the chair and replies, "What could he say?"

Megumi, who witnessed the brief exchange between the Dragon Master and the Decay Master, knows better than most that it wasn't truly a fight — they had been testing each other, feeling out each other's rules.

He folds his arms and speaks with quiet certainty, "No spirit master will make an enemy of the Dragon Master if their foundation isn't at stake. The Decay Master will not take our side."

Sato simply nods.

"Yes," he agrees.

Haruki leans in, his voice sharp. "Toru, many Cui family members escaped from Red Iron Mountain. Have you found them yet?"

Toru's face darkens.

"They're in hiding," he replies tersely. "I haven't been able to trace them."

Haruki's expression twists into a scowl.

"Damn it, Toru. We pay you hundreds of gold coins each month to run your spy network. It's been a whole month, and you still can't produce a lead?"

Toru glares back at him, his hands twitching toward the table as tension bristles between them.

Before the argument can explode, Megumi places a calming hand on Haruki's arm and coaxes him back into his seat.

"Think clearly," Megumi says. "They've survived here for a hundred years. We only arrived two years ago. It's not surprising Toru hasn't uncovered them yet."

Haruki huffs but stays seated, his arms crossed.

Megumi looks to Toru, his voice gentler but firm.

"Still, we're spending gold without seeing results," he says. "That would make anyone frustrated. Please do your best to produce some progress soon."

Toru's face stiffens, and after a tense moment, he grudgingly nods.

A heavy silence settles over the room.

Finally, Haruki breaks it, his brow furrowed. "Are we going to change targets again?"

No one answers at first.

They had already gone after two different families, and both times they failed — because of the same person.

The mere thought of the Dragon Master made Haruki's stomach twist with resentment.

He had learned too much about him by now.

Born with the mental strength of a Spirit Master, Kanoru had seemed only mildly talented for his first fourteen years — until he opened his spiritual acupoint.

Then his progress had soared.

In just four years, he'd leapt from the Spiritual Core realm to the Spirit Master realm.

And that wasn't all — during those years, he created a seamless technique allowing samurai to practice spiritual cultivation, solved its weaknesses, derived a new method for generating mana, and invented transformative techniques.

Haruki couldn't help feeling jealous of someone so brilliant, so effortless.

Yet as much as that jealousy burned, he knew better than to resent Kanoru.

If anything, he owed him — after all, he himself cultivated with one of Kanoru's mana-deriving methods.

While he was thinking about which family they ought to target next, the back door swung open.