The Shaklon Monks—if their name was translated into English—were never simply warriors. They were a people of doctrine and balance, disciples of the twin gods Shallain and Maubin, devoted to martial discipline, Life Ryun, and the unseen cost of every ripple left behind by action. To outsiders they appeared austere, even severe, yet their philosophy was rooted in acceptance: the understanding that every life moved toward an ending, and that peace came not from avoiding death but from shaping the path that led there.

  The Mirrorless Monk or Taikuon Laoic in their language—stood among them as both anomaly and pillar. He was not the abbot of the monastery, yet none denied that his strength rivaled the head monk’s own. Where others sought harmony through meditation, Taikuon embodied it through motion—every strike, every breath a measured answer to the world’s chaos.

  When the Fortune Holder descended upon Curtenail, the Shaklon Monks did not panic. They gathered their families, sending away every child, every disciple younger than twenty-five. Those who remained chose their fate with clear eyes. They would stay behind and pay amends to the land, believing their deaths—if they came—would be another form of balance returned to the world.

  They did not fear Outlanders. They did not fear contestants. Even with their gods’ connection severed, the monastery endured, its fighters holding their ground through discipline alone.

  What they had not expected… was this kind of beast.

  An intrusion not of rage, but of transformation.

  She moved through their halls like a being shedding skin. An Outlander, yet no longer fully human—something beautiful and broken, sculpted by sin and experimentation. The infusion of Malefic Essence had altered her foundation. Sryun pulsed through her in unstable currents, threading together fragments of glitching reality and the remnants of a soul that had once defined her.

  The monks heard her voice first.

  Soft.

  Inviting.

  It wrapped around them like silk chains, dissolving resistance before they realized they had lowered their guard. One by one, disciples who had trained for decades or longer, found themselves drawn closer—not by force, but by fascination and lust.

  She stood in the center of a chamber as if it were a stage, trying on garments pulled from somewhere in the monastery’s walls. Each movement seemed rehearsed by instinct alone, a dance between allure and danger. A handful of monks watched silently, their composure cracking as her presence rewrote their focus.

  Talen bowed before her without hesitation.

  Others soon mirrored him.

  They did not speak of betrayal. They spoke of opportunity, of devotion reshaped into something new. Screens flickered into existence only individuals could fully see, and with each subtle gesture, more names appeared beneath her growing influence.

  They joined her Onlyfans without understanding what it meant—only that her allure promised power, purpose, and a strange, intoxicating belonging.

  Ria studied her reflection in the wavering sheet of watery Ryun, fingers brushing along her jaw as if she were evaluating a brand instead of a face. Back on Earth, nothing she did had ever been random. People thought the twerks and playful streams were simple, but every post had a schedule, every angle had purpose, every laugh was curated just enough to keep viewers wanting more without ever touching the parts of her that were truly hers.

  She ran polls, timed drops, rotated aesthetics. Cosplay one week, streetwear the next. Collabs boosted reach; sponsors paid for visibility. Energy drink labels, indie fashion brands, even a makeup company that sent her crates of shimmering gloss just to be seen in her hands. She had built an empire off attention—and attention, she realized, worked the same way here.

  Her aura shifted, silk-dark coils tightening as she paced. The monks’ praise blurred into background noise while she mentally rearranged everything like a dashboard. Numbers meant power now. Subscriptions meant strength. But the principle was identical: keep the audience engaged. She exhaled slowly. She needed structure again.

  She stared at the mirror of watery Ryun, studying her reflection as if it were a stranger trying to wear her skin.

  Behind her, monks continued to whisper praise—

  She lifted a hand.

  “Quiet.”

  The word dripped from her lips like honey. Every voice died instantly.

  Something wasn’t right.

  The woman staring back at her looked perfect—too perfect. Purple-and-black hair rolling over bare shoulders, yellow slit eyes shimmering with algorithmic light, aura coiling around her like velvet chains that breathed with each heartbeat. She tilted her head, watching how her body subtly adjusted itself, how curves sharpened, posture refined, expression curated.

  It was automatic.

  And she loved how natural it felt.

  “I need more clothing,” she said calmly.

  “Of course,” Talen answered at once, bowing. He turned to the others. “Bring the finest robes. Immediately.”

  They moved like a tide pulled by her gravity.

  Ria exhaled slowly once they were gone. For a moment the room felt empty, though dozens still knelt nearby. Her gaze softened—not with pity, but calculation.

  Cawren had been right.

  Annoyingly right.

  She wasn’t herself.

  Not because she missed who she used to be—no. That version of her had died long ago. Once she slept with that fat fuck. No, she simply lacked structure.

  Direction.

  One by one, she dismissed unnecessary screens, reorganizing the glowing tabs that floated around her like obedient spirits. Old habits resurfaced—the businesswoman behind the persona, the girl who negotiated contracts while smiling at the camera. If she was going to survive this world, she wouldn’t just be temptation or rage. She’d be a brand with teeth.

  Anger alone wasn’t a business plan.

  Monks returned with bundles of robes—silks in white, silver, violet, crimson. They laid them out reverently like offerings to a shrine.

  She stepped forward, lifting one, then another, trying them on with detached curiosity while screens flickered through her eyes. Thirty monks now lived within her awareness—thirty sets of techniques, breathing styles, philosophies layered over her thoughts. Their discipline fascinated her. Their devotion… less so.

  One robe finally caught her attention.

  Purple and white.

  She slipped it over her shoulders, watching how the fabric shifted with her aura until it fit like it had always belonged there.

  “This is the one,” she said.

  Talen’s eyes lit up. “It suits you perfectly.”

  “Of course it does.” She turned from the mirror. “Take me to the important people now.”

  Talen hesitated only a heartbeat before bowing again. “Yes, Lady Ria.”

  As they began walking, monks falling into line behind her, she let her thoughts drift.

  Thirty followers gained in minutes.

  Power acquired through subscription, essence flowing into her like currency converted into flesh. Yet it wasn’t flawless. Cawren resisted. Jamal had slipped free. That rainbow-haired girl hadn’t even flinched.

  It had weaknesses but another way to see that was—

  Variables.

  Questions.

  She smiled faintly.

  Her aura rolled outward, brushing against the minds around her like a hand testing the temperature of water. Their teachings folded into her instincts, shaping her stance, adjusting how she moved. Martial discipline layered over influencer charisma.

  Yeah, this was the answer.

  Not rage.

  Brand identity.

  “Spring cleaning,” she murmured to herself.

  “What was that?” Talen asked gently.

  “Nothing,” she replied, voice smooth. “Just reorganizing my priorities.”

  They reached the doorway leading deeper into the monastery’s inner halls. Hidden passages opened at her approach, monks stepping aside with worshipful expressions.

  Ria paused at the threshold, glancing once more at her reflection in a shard of glass.

  Perfect posture.

  Perfect smile.

  Yes.

  This felt closer to who she wanted to be.

  “Let’s go,” she said softly. “I’ve got a few things I want to try.”

  And with that, the Malefic Temptress walked forward—followers at her back, ambition humming beneath her skin like a rising subscription count—ready to see just how far this new version of herself could go.

  ———

  Taikuon Laoic, the Mirrorless Monk in English translation, stood unmoving at the center of the chamber, bare feet planted upon polished stone that reflected nothing at all. The air around him rippled with quiet Ryun currents, smooth and disciplined, like a breath held for decades.

  He watched the intruder charge.

  He did not raise his guard.

  He did not step back.

  The reflections would handle him. They always did.

  Each carried his posture. His flame. His weight. Imperfect mirrors, yet dangerously close to truth.

  Taikuon’s gaze shifted briefly toward Reis.

  The monk sat near the edge of the hall, posture straight, eyes calm—too calm. No alarm. No duty-bound urgency. Just… stillness.

  A faint crease touched Taikuon’s brow.

  There was a stain in Reis’s aura. Something soft. It did not carry the heat of the intruder, nor the clarity of a monk’s Ryun.

  He would deal with that later.

  First, the demon before him.

  The four reflections struck at once.

  Cawren’s grin flashed—then soured instantly.

  The first two copies came fast, blades of flame slashing downward. He blocked them cleanly, forearms crossing, Ryun flaring in defense.

  The third slipped low.

  The fourth moved high.

  Pain exploded across his side and shoulder as both landed solid blows before he could reset his stance.

  “—Tch.”

  He slid back, boots scraping stone, flames licking higher around his body. For a moment he adjusted, measuring their rhythm, then snapped a Ryun shield into existence around himself.

  The barrier shimmered—One reflection drove its fist forward.

  The shield burst like glass.

  Shock rippled through Cawren’s ribs as the impact launched him backward. His body slammed into the monastery wall with a thunderous crack of displaced air. The stone did not break—but the shockwave rolled outward.

  He coughed, breath scraping through his chest.

  Fighting himself—yet incomplete.

  And multiplied.

  Four versions of his stance approached again, flames curling with eerie familiarity. Every feint mirrored his own instincts. Every motion anticipated the way he would counter.

  Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, eyes narrowing behind the demonic mask.

  “Alright…” he muttered, voice low with heat.

  “Guess… I’ll see first hand if I’m worth the hype.”

  Across the hall, Taikuon Laoic watched without expression, hands folded calmly at his back.

  Cawren stared at the copies.

  Each one wore a life he had already shed.

  The first stood in the worn attire from the day he entered Requiem—raw, unrefined, still carrying the hesitation of someone who had not yet learned what this world demanded.

  The second bore the armor he had worn when he first became a Ranker, posture straighter, aura sharper, eyes carrying the arrogance of early victories.

  The third carried the Fortune Holder mantle draped across his shoulders like a crown earned through blood and gamble.

  And the fourth…

  The fourth unsettled him.

  It wore a skin he didn’t recognize. Its stance was too calm. The flames around it burned with a steadiness he had not yet mastered—as if it represented a version of himself that existed further down a path he hadn’t walked.

  All four moved at once.

  Their motions mirrored his instincts, countering him before he fully committed. One stepped into his guard as another struck low; a third twisted space with a familiar Ryun flare while the fourth simply watched, waiting for the precise moment to break his rhythm.

  Cawren slid back, boots scraping across the smooth stone.

  “So that’s the game,” he muttered.

  The Mirrorless Monk still hadn’t moved.

  Taikuon Laoic decided to sit, posture relaxed, hands resting lightly on his knees as though the battle unfolding before him was nothing more than a passing breeze. His gaze stayed steady—not on the reflections, but on Cawren himself.

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  That alone told him something important.

  This was a technique. A layered defense meant to read him, dissect him, and break him before the true fight even began.

  His eyes flicked to Reis.

  The monk sat quietly to the side, unmoving. No hostility. No panic. Just stillness.

  That bothered him more than the reflections.

  The coral witch echoed in his mind—never assume a passive presence is harmless.

  Ria’s influence clung to Reis like a faint perfume, a subtle distortion woven into his aura. So he was at least on his side. Temporarily, if anything.

  Cawren’s flames flared, licking along the runes carved into his skin.

  “So you’re gonna make me fight myself four times over?” he said, voice low. “That’s boring.”

  The copies shifted, tightening their circle.

  He exhaled slowly, letting the heat in his lungs settle.

  First rule—test the reflections.

  Not overwhelm them.

  Not yet.

  He stepped forward, feinting toward the Ranker version of himself, only to twist mid-motion and drive a flame-laced strike toward the unfamiliar fourth reflection.

  It reacted instantly—

  A perfect counter.

  Their fists collided, heat cracking the air between them.

  Cawren’s eyes narrowed.

  “Yeah… you’re the dangerous one,” he whispered.

  Behind him, the other three advanced, blades of living script igniting along their arms.

  He shifted his stance, shoulders loosening, flames bending inward as if drawn by gravity.

  One thought lingered beneath the noise:

  Was the Mirrorless Monk truly waiting because of the technique…

  Or was he studying something deeper?

  And if Reis moved—if even a flicker of Ria’s influence slipped—

  He would end him without hesitation.

  Cawren inhaled slowly.

  Fine.

  He shifted his stance, flames tightening close to his body instead of roaring outward. The first reflection lunged, swinging a blazing fist toward his ribs.

  He pivoted.

  Caught the wrist.

  Twisted.

  The clone dissolved into embers for a fraction of a second before reforming behind him.

  Annoying.

  The Ranker-reflection darted in low, blade flashing toward his knee. Cawren slammed his heel down, a wave of infernal script rippling outward to deflect the strike, but the King’s Mantle reflection followed instantly — shoulder checking him with crushing force that sent him skidding back.

  Before he could recover, the fourth reflection appeared above him, palm outstretched.

  A pulse of warped Ryun slammed into his chest.

  He crashed into the ground. He rose slowly, shaking blood from his hands.

  “Alright,” he muttered. “So I’m not too shabby.”

  The clones circled him.

  He let his flames dim — not extinguished, just contained — forcing his aura inward.

  Then he moved.

  Not forward.

  Sideways.

  He slid between two reflections, ducking under a blade and spinning into a rising kick that shattered one copy’s jaw. The body fractured like glass, but before it could reform he surged through the gap, blasting toward the Mirrorless Monk.

  Taikuon Laoic still hadn’t moved.

  Good.

  Cawren’s flames ignited fully, runes burning across his skin as he lunged.

  Almost there—

  The air rippled.

  An invisible wall slammed into him.

  The impact cracked like thunder, sending him rebounding backward mid-flight. Energy folded around him, compressing space itself, and the clones seized the opening.

  One grabbed his arm.

  Another drove a knee into his back.

  The King’s Mantle reflection slammed a palm into his sternum, detonating a shockwave that blasted him across the chamber.

  He hit the ground hard, sliding to a stop.

  “…Tch.”

  The Mirrorless Monk finally spoke, voice calm as still water.

  “You seek to strike the source,” Taikuon said. “But you have yet to defeat yourself.”

  Cawren pushed himself upright, flames flickering unevenly as he stared at the barrier between them. He had no idea what that man was saying. His word sounded like a garbage disposal and blender had a one night stand.

  But, he was right in his hypothesis.

  The monk wasn’t attacking due to the technique.

  The reflections weren’t just defense — they were a gate.

  And until he broke them…

  He wasn’t getting anywhere near the real target.

  The four versions of himself stepped forward again, surrounding him as their auras merged into a tightening ring.

  Cawren rolled his shoulders, grin returning beneath the demon mask.

  “Alright then,” he murmured, heat rising.

  Taikuon Laoic did not move.

  His robes hung loose, untouched by dust or flame despite the battle unfolding before him. He followed every motion with quiet certainty — not the hunger of a warrior seeking victory, but the patience of a teacher watching a lesson unfold exactly as intended.

  His Ryun whispered outward in slow, measured waves.

  And the mirrors obeyed.

  Cawren slammed into the invisible barrier again, heat bursting from his body in a violent flare. The impact rippled across the unseen wall like water struck by a thrown stone, sending concentric circles of distorted light racing outward before fading into nothing.

  Behind him—

  A fist.

  Then another.

  The reflections closed in.

  Cawren twisted, flames erupting along his arm as he caught one clone mid-strike and hurled it through another. The two collided in a burst of red sparks — only for the remaining reflections to shift instantly, adapting, tightening their formation.

  They knew exactly where he would move next.

  A kick landed against his ribs — another slammed into his shoulder — and a third drove him backward across the polished stone floor. Heat burst from his skin, infernal script blazing brighter as he forced himself upright, breath heavy behind the demon mask.

  Taikuon watched with calm approval.

  His technique was simple.

  That was its beauty.

  The moment his gaze had touched the Outlander, his Ryun had begun its work — reading the soul like a text written in motion. Every memory, every battle, every fragment of identity distilled into reflection. The mirrors were not illusions or constructs of light.

  They were truths.

  Each one represented a chapter of the intruder’s existence — past selves forged into opponents that could not lie, could not hesitate.

  And the fourth…

  The monk tilted his head slightly.

  The fourth was not who the man had been.

  It was who he could become.

  Most challengers never reached that realization. They exhausted themselves trying to break through brute force, only to be dismantled by versions of their own strength turned against them. Some begged. Many raged and simply died.

  Taikuon rarely needed to raise a hand.

  Cawren lunged again, flames carving a streak through the air as he attempted to break toward the monk — and again the invisible wall surged, rebuffing him with a violent pulse that sent him skidding back.

  The reflections surged in unison.

  Four strikes.

  Four eras of himself crashing down at once.

  The chamber trembled beneath the impact.

  Taikuon folded his hands on his lap, his featureless face watching the fiery outsider struggle against his own legacy.

  Most fell to themselves.

  And this one proved no different…

  Cawren’s breath came out slow and controlled, heat rippling off his shoulders as he shifted his stance. The four reflections circled him like wolves.

  He slid back as a fist cut through the air where his jaw had been a second ago. He twisted, elbow snapping into the ribs of the first reflection, but the second drove a knee into his side before he could follow through.

  Pain flared.

  His health ticked down in the corner of his vision.

  67%.

  “Tch.”

  He formed a Ryun shield instinctively, heat spiraling outward in a molten ring—but one of the copies mirrored the motion perfectly. The shield shattered with a concussive crack, and he was sent skidding backward across polished stone.

  The wall caught him hard enough to rattle his teeth.

  Cawren pushed off the wall and lunged, feinting left before vanishing into a streak of flame. He slipped past the first reflection, then the second—closing distance toward the fourth clone.

  Almost there.

  A ripple formed in the air.

  A force slammed into him like a tidal wave.

  The impact burst a shockwave across the chamber. The rest of the clones arrived in an instant.

  A boot crashed into his spine.

  Another drove into his ribs.

  Flame burst from his shoulders as he twisted midair, blocking one strike while the third reflection mirrored his own signature slash, forcing him to parry himself.

  He landed hard, sliding on one knee.

  “Annoying,” he muttered, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.

  The reflections didn’t speak.

  They only adapted.

  He tested them—quick jabs, low feints, short bursts of Ryun—but every escalation was met with equal force. When he pushed harder, they grew sharper, faster, more precise.

  His instincts screamed at him not to unleash anything too large.

  They escalate when I do…

  He exhaled slowly, letting the fire dim to a steady glow instead of a roaring inferno. The clones slowed slightly in response, their movements losing that explosive edge.

  So that’s it.

  You want me measured.

  Behind him, Reis still sat quietly against the wall, eyes unfocused, aura tinged with something… off. Good. Ria still had a hold on him. And that also meant she was ok.

  The first reflection lunged again, reckless and savage. Cawren sidestepped, letting it overextend, then drove a precise elbow into its throat. It staggered—but didn’t vanish.

  The second and third came in tandem, mirroring a combo he had invented years ago. He blocked the first strike, rolled under the second, then planted his foot and sent a burst of flame through the floor to create distance.

  His chest rose and fell.

  58%… slipping lower.

  Taikuon’s voice finally drifted through the chamber, calm and detached.

  “You fight yourself well, outsider.”

  Cawren didn’t answer. He still had no idea what he was saying.

  Besides.

  He was too busy surviving.

  The fourth reflection moved.

  It stepped forward with a calm that felt heavier than any blade, forcing him back a single pace without even striking.

  “…Yeah,” Cawren muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.

  He flexed his fingers, heat coiling around his wrists as they closed in again.

  Another absurd task.

  Another impossible wall.

  He smiled anyway.

  “Alright then,” he said, rolling his shoulders as flame licked up his arms. “Let’s see which version of me deserves to exist.”

  Every time he escalated, the reflections escalated with him — sharper, faster, more precise. He slid under a flaming arc from the Ranker-clone, twisting his body sideways as the Fortune Holder version slammed a knee toward his ribs. He blocked, sparks spraying outward, but the fourth reflection — struck from behind with a cold efficiency that rattled his bones.

  Cawren flew back, smashing into the wall again.

  The chamber trembled. The Mirrorless Monk hadn’t moved.

  Reis still sat there.

  Watching.

  Cawren exhaled slowly, wiping blood from his sides. His eyes flicked from one clone to the next.

  First attire. The terrified Outlander who thought this was a game.

  Ranker mantle. The version who learned power came with consequence.

  Fortune Holder mantle. The man who believed himself untouchable.

  And the last one…

  The version he should become.

  His jaw tightened.

  The name echoed in his head.

  Mirrorless Monk.

  Mirrorless.

  Not a monk who used mirrors — a monk who removed them.

  “You’re not testing my strength…” he muttered under his breath as another clone lunged. “You’re testing what I see when I look at myself.”

  He parried a strike from the earliest version of himself, forcing it back with a burst of flame that didn’t expand beyond what was necessary. No excess power.

  Just control.

  For the first time since entering Requiem, he stopped thinking like the protagonist of someone else’s story.

  No flashy finishers.

  No main-character theatrics.

  Just survival.

  Because that was the truth he kept running from.

  He wasn’t the center of the world.

  He never had been.

  The reflections pressed forward, but now he watched them differently — not as enemies, but as checkpoints.

  The Outlander version swung wildly, raw and desperate. Cawren slipped past it, disarming the attack with minimal force, almost dismissive.

  “I remember you,” he muttered.

  The Ranker came next, measured and proud. He met that one head-on, not overpowering it, but redirecting its momentum — a fighter who had learned discipline but still chased validation.

  Then the Fortune Holder.

  The king mantle fluttered as that clone charged with overwhelming presence, flames roaring louder than the others. That one hit harder. That one hurt more.

  Because that version still believed he was invincible.

  Cawren staggered back, breath heavy.

  “That’s the one that almost killed me,” he said quietly.

  Across the chamber, the Mirrorless Monk’s senses narrowed slightly — the first hint of interest.

  Cawren rolled his shoulders, centering himself.

  The fourth reflection watched him.

  Not attacking.

  Waiting.

  A version of him stripped of arrogance.

  Not a hero.

  Not a tyrant.

  A survivor.

  “That’s the one you want me to reach,” Cawren said under his breath.

  The clones moved again, but this time he didn’t rush. He fought economically, breaking patterns instead of overpowering them. Every movement was deliberate — less fire, more intent.

  His arc wasn’t about becoming stronger.

  It was about becoming honest.

  For the first time, the monk shifted his stance.

  Across the chamber, Cawren straightened, flames settling into a controlled burn around his body.

  No longer the untouchable main character.

  Not a pawn either.

  Just a man who had finally stopped trying to outrun his own reflection.

  Heat hissed from his skin, infernal script flickering like a dying constellation, but he didn’t rush forward again.

  He breathed.

  Slow and heavy.

  His health ticked down, the edges of his vision dimming red. 48%.

  He didn’t care.

  That wacko in white with the blindfold voice echoed faintly in memory. Potential isn’t about becoming a better version. It’s about becoming the most honest version.

  Another strike grazed his shoulder, but Cawren barely reacted. His gaze drifted past the reflections, settling on Taikuon Laoic.

  Back home, he’d always imagined himself the protagonist. The man destined for greatness, misunderstood by a world too slow to keep up. When his life fell apart — when she cheated, when he spiraled into bitterness and numb routines — he told himself it was just the opening act. That a better story was waiting.

  Then Requiem happened.

  And he thought it proved him right.

  A glitch. A summoning. A new world revolving around him.

  Except it never did.

  The Blood Prince existed. Supremes existed. Kings existed. Entire wars and legacies moved without caring whether he lived or died. Even killing millions at the start of the event hadn’t made him the center. It only made him louder noise in someone else’s narrative.

  Another punch landed.

  He staggered — then laughed.

  Soft at first.

  Then louder.

  The reflections hesitated.

  Cawren reached up and gripped his demonic mask. For a moment his fingers lingered against it, remembering the persona it gave him — the illusion of inevitability, of being untouchable.

  He pulled it free.

  The mask dissolved into embers before it hit the ground.

  Bronze skin slick with blood and sweat. Hair wild. Crimson eyes sharp — not blazing with delusion, but alive with clarity.

  The Mirrorless Monk’s expression shifted, just slightly.

  Confusion.

  Cawren rolled his shoulders, ignoring the ache.

  “So that’s it,” he muttered, voice rough but steady. “You’re not showing me enemies. You’re showing me lies.”

  The first reflection lunged.

  He didn’t block with overwhelming force. He stepped aside and let it pass. The movement wasn’t fueled by arrogance anymore. It was deliberate.

  Measured.

  He watched the fourth reflection again.

  His grin widened, no longer cruel — just dangerous.

  Flames curled along his arms, not raging — focused.

  Cawren laughed — a low, unrestrained sound that echoed.

  The clones shifted, their auras sharpening as if they sensed the change. The first one — the na?ve arrival, wide-eyed and hungry — lunged forward with reckless speed. The second followed, movements cleaner, practiced, carrying the pride of a new Ranker. The third moved with calculated brutality, the king’s mantle phantom flickering behind its shoulders.

  And the fourth…

  The fourth only watched.

  Cawren rolled his shoulders, blood running warm down his cheek. His health hovered low, the dull ache in his ribs warning him that one more mistake would cost him everything.

  Good.

  He didn’t want safety.

  He didn’t want redemption.

  “I understand it now,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

  The first clone struck.

  Cawren met it head-on, fist against fist, Ryun crackling like wildfire. He didn’t dodge. Didn’t rely on the shortcuts or abilities he’d learned to lean on. He let the hit land, let the pain remind him he was still here.

  Alive.

  The second clone slid behind him, mirroring a technique he’d perfected months ago. Cawren twisted at the last moment, taking the blow across his shoulder instead of his spine. He grabbed the arm mid-strike and slammed the reflection into the ground, the impact sending ripples through the polished floor.

  The third clone came next — kicking through his guard and sending him skidding across the chamber.

  Cawren laughed again as he rose.

  “This isn’t about becoming better!” he breathed. “I’ve decided to just be everyone’s problem!”

  His aura flared — not brighter, not larger — but heavier. Denser. Honest.

  He wasn’t the protagonist.

  He wasn’t the survivor learning lessons.

  He was the antagonist.

  And he loved it.

  The clones advanced together.

  Cawren ducked under the first swing, elbowed forward into the second, then pivoted, using the third’s momentum to sling it into the others. No elaborate skills. No divine techniques. Just raw instinct and sharpened violence.

  Across the room, Taikuon Laoic watched in silence.

  Something had shifted.

  The reflections hesitated — not from weakness, but confusion. Their opponent was no longer trying to become them… nor surpass them.

  He was abandoning them.

  The fourth clone stepped forward at last, aura calm, steady — the image of potential realized.

  Cawren stared at it.

  “That could never be me,” he said softly. “You’re what somebody else thinks I should be.”

  The clone attacked.

  Its movements were flawless — no wasted motion, no hesitation. Every strike forced him back, driving him toward the rippling barrier that sealed the Monk away.

  Cawren’s health dropped again. 30%. Then lower.

  He didn’t heal.

  He just fought.

  Bruised fists. Burning lungs. Teeth bared in a grin that felt dangerously close to joy.

  He thought of Ria — reckless and terrifying, though honest in her hunger. He thought of how she embraced what she was becoming without apology.

  Maybe that was the difference.

  She wasn’t pretending to be better.

  And now neither was he.

  The fourth clone’s strike cracked across his jaw, sending him to one knee.

  Blood dripped onto the floor.

  Cawren wiped it away slowly and laughed under his breath.

  “Yeah… this is fun.”

  He surged forward again, aura flaring wild and untamed, ready to carve his own path through every version of himself that dared to stand in his way.

  The first clone lunged, wearing the skin of the man he used to be — reckless, confident, blind. Its blade carved down with perfect imitation. Cawren slipped under it, shoulders rolling, fingers snapping outward. Chains of burning script tore from his wrists, coiling like living serpents.

  They wrapped the clone’s arms.

  Yanked.

  The reflection split apart at the spine, flame devouring it before it could scream.

  The second and third came together — Ranker and Fortune Holder — their strikes precise as they went for the kill. Ryun blasts cracked the air, shockwaves hammering the chamber. Cawren ducked, slid, twisted through the barrage, his feet barely touching the ground as he wove between his own history.

  One fist slammed into his ribs.

  Another clipped his jaw.

  Blood sprayed.

  He laughed.

  “Yeah… that’s me.”

  Chains lashed outward again — not straight, but curved and unpredictable. One wrapped a leg, the other a throat. He pivoted, dragging them into each other, then drove his elbow through the second clone’s face. The chain tightened.

  Rip.

  The Ranker self tore apart like paper in a furnace.

  The Fortune Holder clone roared, aura flaring — but Cawren stepped into it instead of away. Forehead to forehead. Smile wide.

  “Burn away.”

  He snapped his wrist.

  Infernal symbols ignited along the chain, and the clone detonated in a burst of crimson heat.

  Silence fell.

  Only one remained.

  The fourth.

  It stepped forward calmly, aura sharpened to a razor’s edge — not who he was, not who he had been… but who he should become.

  It attacked without hesitation.

  Their fists collided. Shockwaves rippled through the chamber, cracking stone. The clone moved like inevitability — perfect counters, perfect timing. Each strike pushed him back, carving lines into the walls behind him.

  Cawren staggered.

  Bled.

  Grinned wider.

  “I told you.” His eyes blazed. “I understand it now.”

  The clone drove a knee into his chest. He skidded across the floor. Heat rose from his skin, runes flaring brighter, chains rattling like distant thunder.

  “I’m not a survivor.”

  The clone charged again.

  Cawren lifted both hands.

  Flame gathered —

  Symbols burned brighter, spinning into a triangle between his palms. Reality bent inward, folding like paper forced into a blade’s edge.

  “I’m a conqueror.”

  The triangle collapsed.

  The blast didn’t travel.

  It simply was.

  For a heartbeat the chamber turned white — a shaft of annihilation tearing through the fourth clone’s chest. The reflection froze, eyes wide, then dissolved into ash that vanished before it could fall.

  Cawren exhaled slowly.

  Then moved again.

  Chains shot into the cavern walls, hooks embedding deep into stone. He spun, body turning into a living sling, momentum building with every rotation. Heat bled from him, melting the air itself — runes screaming, symbols spiraling like a burning crown.

  Reis sat nearby, unmoving.

  Cawren didn’t look at Reis when the heat took him. He’d already decided that his life was a footnote.

  Reis didn’t even scream. He just smiled, devotion frozen on his face.

  His form fractured, disintegrating into glowing dust that scattered across the chamber.

  The Mirrorless Monk rose at last.

  Cawren released the chains.

  He became a comet of fire, smashing into the invisible barrier. The first impact rippled across it like glass struck by a hammer.

  Second impact — cracks.

  Third —

  The barrier shattered.

  A wave of infernal heat flooded inward, devouring reflections, burning away illusion. Stone warped. Air screamed. The monk stood still, hands folded, watching the outsider hurtle toward him with no fear.

  Only wonder.

  “Beauty,” Taikuon whispered as Cawren crossed the distance between them, blazing like a falling star.