Tianmu: Eyes of Illusion

The envelope arrived without postage.

Just a folded square of black paper, slipped under his door while he slept. Lucas hadn't heard a knock. No footsteps. No shadow. Just the faint smell of sandalwood smoke lingering in the air.

He opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside was a card, thick as bark, embossed in silver ink.

To the Bearer of the Eye,

We have seen your awakening.

Do not let others find you first.

Come before the second moon.

(Location follows in silence.)

The back held no map. Only a sigil—a circle within a triangle, ringed with flowing script. The moment Lucas touched it, a sharp sting pierced his temple.

And suddenly, he knew the place.

Not an address. An impression.

Beneath the river.

Inside the old tunnels.

Behind the third red light.

He almost didn't go.

The memory of the man in the coat—of being slammed into a bookshelf, of illusion nearly tearing his mind apart—still sat fresh in his chest like an ice pick.

But curiosity, and something deeper—some buried instinct in his blood—dragged him out of his apartment that night.

He followed no map, only flashes of symbols that glowed briefly on lampposts and traffic signs. A crescent etched in rust on an alley wall. A serpent's fang drawn in condensation on a subway window.

They led him to the riverwalk. To a gate half-eaten by vines and graffiti.

To a tunnel marked with a third red light.

The door was open.

Beyond it, steps led downward—into a forgotten stretch of the city's underground. The old utility tunnels, long since abandoned. Pipes wheezed and groaned like something was breathing behind them.

Lucas walked for what felt like an hour.

Finally, a faint blue glow bathed the tunnel ahead. Candles flickered without flame. Symbols danced across the walls in slow spirals. The air smelled like old paper and burnt cinnamon.

He stepped into a cavernous chamber lit with lanterns, carved straight into the stone.

And there they stood.

Masked figures. A dozen or more.

Some in formal robes. Some in ragged coats. All silent.

Their masks were of every style—fox, crane, demon, blank porcelain, half-mirrors—each one hiding the person beneath. Only one face looked familiar.

A girl in a white fox mask. The one from the library.

She stepped forward.

"You shouldn't be alive," she said simply.

Lucas blinked. "That's… a hell of a greeting."

"You used Xingjue. Raw. Untethered. It should've burned out your mind."

"It almost did," Lucas said. "What the hell is Xingjue?"

Another figure answered—tall, in a bird-skull mask. Voice smooth, British-tinged.

"幻觉之术," he said in Mandarin, then switched to English. "The art of sight beyond sight. Illusion not of light, but of will. What the West would call sorcery—but far older."

Lucas hesitated. "And you're… what? A cult?"

The group chuckled. Not kindly.

"We are the remnants," the bird-mask said. "Of what remains when truth is outlawed. We are not a cult."

The fox-masked girl added, "We're what's left after the Magisters purged the gifted."

Lucas's pulse spiked.

"You mean that guy in the black coat—he was one of them?"

"Hunter," she said. "There are dozens. Most can't see what you see. They follow patterns, rituals. But when they sense a flare…"

"They kill it before it spreads," the bird-mask finished. "Like snuffing out fire. You're lucky you ran."

Lucas looked around. "So… what is this place?"

The girl stepped aside.

Behind her, a wall shifted—revealing a massive bronze mirror mounted vertically. Older than anything Lucas had ever seen. Covered in etched rings and trigrams. Dozens of eye symbols, spiraling inward toward a center that was cracked—splintered like something had broken out.

"You're standing in the Mouth of the Gate," the bird-mask said. "One of seven."

Lucas stared.

And the mirror blinked.

"We're not here to worship you," another voice said—gravelly, male, somewhere in the dark. "We're here to warn you."

A figure in a red oni mask stepped forward. Broad shoulders. No sleeves. His arms were covered in scar tattoos—each one a different sigil.

"You opened something. Something that was meant to stay sealed."

"I didn't mean to—" Lucas began.

"It doesn't matter," Oni-mask cut him off. "Your intention is irrelevant. What matters is that now they'll come. All of them. The Magisters. The Watchers. And worse."

Lucas frowned. "Worse than demon-hunters?"

Oni-mask leaned closer. "Worse than demons."

Bird-mask interrupted. "We can offer you protection. Training. Maybe even truth."

Lucas heard the pause.

"Maybe?" he repeated.

"The Eye shows you what's real. But also what isn't. Some lose themselves. Some go mad."

Fox-mask looked at him closely. "And some… become something else entirely."

"Why help me?" Lucas asked. "You don't even know me."

"You bear the Eye," the bird-mask said. "You inherited something old. Something stolen."

"Stolen from who?"

A longer pause.

"We don't say its name here," Oni-mask muttered. "We don't look directly at the Gate too long, either."

Lucas glanced at the cracked mirror again. For a moment, he saw movement inside it. A figure walking toward the glass—except not with feet. With thought.

He stepped back.

Bird-mask reached into his sleeve and handed Lucas a paper seal—white, blank.

"This will hide your aura for three days. Use it well."

"And then?"

"Then you choose," the fox-mask said. "Stay hidden. Or step into the deeper path."

Lucas took the seal.

In the corner of the chamber, the mirror cracked again.

Just slightly.

But they all heard it.

Something was waking.

Next chapter preview:

Chapter 6 – Mind Games Begin

Lucas attempts a high-risk illusion to protect a friend—but the effort spins out of control, warping the minds of innocent bystanders. The resulting psychic feedback catches the attention of more than just Hunters… and forces Lucas to confront his own limits.