The moment Elior stepped through the mirror, his breath left him.
Not from fear. Not from pain.
From pressure.
Like the world dropped onto his shoulders all at once.
He stumbled forward, knees buckling.
Then steadied.
A vast sky stretched above him—cloudless, pitch-black, but glittering with billions of slow-moving stars. Below: nothing but a flat surface of mirrored stone stretching into infinity. No horizon. No walls. Just endless reflection.
His boots clicked softly with each step. The echo trailed behind him like whispers.
Seraphis appeared behind with a flicker of light, landing hard on his feet. His body sparked—still damaged from before. But his eyes were sharp again.
"This place," he muttered. "It's not meant for flesh."
Elior didn't reply. His eyes scanned the space.
Something shimmered ahead.
A figure.
Far off, walking calmly toward them. No footsteps. No sound. Just movement.
Elior squinted. It looked like—
Him.
But older.
Not twisted like before. Just… worn. Scarred. Wiser.
And behind that version of him—rising from the ground—came shapes.
Dozens.
No.
Hundreds.
Each one different. Each one him. Younger, older, broken, angry, silent.
Every version of himself that could have been. Every choice he never took.
They stopped fifty paces away, forming a wall.
The lead one stepped forward.
His voice was Elior's.
But hollow.
"You made it this far," he said. "But the truth is—"
He lifted a hand.
Energy surged.
A blast of pure kinetic force ripped across the mirror ground.
Elior raised the staff just in time. A layered shield snapped into place—hexagonal plates locking in front of him.
The blast hit.
He slid back two meters. Boots grinding. Teeth clenched.
The shield cracked.
Then shattered.
Seraphis vanished in a blink—reappeared mid-air, claws coated in plasma-white flame, diving at the enemy Elior.
But another version of Elior—a younger one—stepped in the way, palm glowing. A spear of void-light extended from his wrist like a lance.
They clashed in mid-air.
The blow sent Seraphis spiraling.
Elior moved.
Fast.
He sprinted forward, staff trailing arcs of raw memory energy—lines of burning white that twisted behind him like ribbons of time.
Three enemies came.
One burned with fire.
One wielded a blade shaped from regret.
One crackled with time-stopping pulses.
Elior ducked the blade, slid low under the time-pulse, and brought his staff up in a spinning strike that hit the fire-wielder dead center.
But instead of breaking, the version exploded into flames—becoming smoke—and reformed behind him.
Elior spun—too late.
The copy stabbed him through the side.
Pain bloomed sharp and sudden.
He staggered.
The wound burned cold. Not real fire. Soulfire. The kind that lingered.
Elior gritted his teeth and drove his elbow back—cracking the clone's face.
The illusion flickered.
He turned—parried another blow from the regret blade—then pivoted, flung the staff high, and whispered a word.
The sky bent.
The staff split mid-air into a circle of orbiting points—each one glowing with pieces of Elior's life. His mother's hands. The river. The mountain. Arien's name.
The fragments shot outward like comets—targeting his copies.
Each impact shattered one version.
But for every two he destroyed, four more stepped forward.
"They're infinite," Seraphis growled, appearing beside him, blood in his teeth. "Every path you never walked."
"Then I'll burn the paths," Elior muttered.
He slammed the staff down.
The mirror cracked.
A pulse spread outward—a massive wave of memory-energy, refracting through every reflective surface.
All the copies shimmered—some fell apart, some screamed, some just stood still.
And one… smiled.
The lead version—the wise, older one—walked forward again.
"No rage?" Elior asked, breathing hard. "No speech?"
The man shrugged.
"We're not enemies, Elior. Just echoes."
Then he blurred.
No sound.
No warning.
He was in front of Elior in an instant, palm forward.
Impact.
Elior flew back.
Slammed into the ground.
Skipped twice.
Stopped.
Vision doubled.
Ribs cracked.
Staff gone.
The older version of himself walked slowly toward him. Calm. No emotion.
"You're strong," he said. "But that's not enough."
Seraphis leapt again—claws wide.
This time, the elder Elior didn't dodge.
He took the hit full in the chest.
But instead of bleeding—he split.
Three versions of him stepped out of the impact, all armed, all moving.
Seraphis was overwhelmed in seconds.
Thrown back again.
Elior crawled forward, gasping, one hand out.
The staff answered.
It lifted off the ground—spun—and returned to his hand.
His vision cleared.
He stood.
Every muscle screamed.
But he stood.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's finish this."
He held the staff high.
The mirror beneath him rippled—then rose.
Dozens of reflections floated upward, surrounding him.
Each one showed a different him.
Happy.
Broken.
Dead.
Victorious.
He drew them in.
Not with power.
With memory.
His real self. The one that lived and hurt and lost and still kept walking.
The staff reacted.
It began to hum—not loud, not bright.
Just real.
Elior spun it once—and every memory in the air followed, forming a storm around him.
Then he charged.
The older version came to meet him—his own staff in hand.
They clashed.
Steel on memory.
Light against shadow.
Each strike burst with pressure, rippling through the endless mirrored plain.
Seraphis joined—dodging one clone, blasting another with a pulse of soulflame from his mouth. His body flickered with damage, but he didn't stop.
Elior twisted mid-air—brought his knee up into the copy's chin, then flipped over him, landing behind.
He slashed the staff low—catching both legs.
The clone fell.
But the elder version kept coming.
No anger.
Just focus.
Blow after blow.
Strike after strike.
Until Elior caught a glimpse—just one—of something behind the man's eyes.
Pain.
Guilt.
Regret.
He hesitated.
And the blow came.
Straight to the chest.
A shockwave threw Elior upward—high into the black sky.
He fell.
Hard.
The mirror cracked again beneath him.
He didn't rise.
The elder walked toward him slowly.
Then stopped.
"You saw it," he said quietly. "Didn't you."
Elior coughed blood. Sat up.
"Yeah," he rasped. "You're not my enemy."
"I'm who you become," the man said. "If you keep burying everything."
He knelt beside him.
"You want to win? Then remember."
Elior looked up.
"I already did."
The staff in his hand ignited.
But not with fire.
With names.
Moments.
People.
Everything he'd lost.
Everything he'd loved.
It burned gold.
Not to destroy.
To anchor.
He swung.
The blow didn't land on the elder's body.
It struck his memory.
The truth behind his eyes.
And shattered it.
The older Elior vanished into light.
So did the copies.
The sky cracked.
The mirror broke.
And beneath them—a gate of obsidian light waited.
Seraphis dropped beside him, coughing.
"Is it over?"
Elior wiped the blood from his mouth.
"No."
He stepped toward the gate.
Behind him—no enemies.
Just reflections.
One lingered.
Arien.
She smiled.
Then vanished.
Elior and Seraphis passed through the obsidian.
And into fire.