The dull thud of the side hall’s stone door closing behind him had yet to fade.
Ian’s steps halted at a fork in the passage.
The three paths before him were different from any of the previous forks.
There were no carvings, no markings—only an almost eerie "cleanliness."
Here, the faint, dark blue glow on the passage walls had become unnaturally uniform.
So uniform... they were like polished mirrors.
Gaga, perched on Ian’s shoulder, unconsciously ruffled its feathers.
"Ian..."
The black Raven’s voice was hushed. Its mismatched eyes were fixed ahead, a faint light flickering deep within its pupils.
"Something... isn’t right here."
"What’s not right?"
"They’re mimicking me..."
Gaga’s small talons tightened on the fabric of the Wizard Robe.
"I move, and the Shadow on the wall moves too. But its movements... are half a beat slower than what I remember doing."
Ian’s gaze sharpened.
He slowly raised his right hand, splayed his five fingers, and made a simple fist.
His eyes were locked on the wall.
The Shadow cast by the dim blue light also raised its "hand" and splayed its fingers.
Then, half a second after Ian closed his own fist, it slowly closed its.
’This isn’t a normal reflection.’
’It’s more like... some kind of delayed "copy."’
"Back."
Ian didn’t hesitate, starting to shuffle backward.
But it was too late.
The ground beneath his feet softened without a sound, as if he’d stepped into a viscous gel.
On the surrounding walls, the uniform, dark blue glow suddenly brightened.
It peeled away from the wall’s surface, suspending itself in the air and transforming into countless shattered mirror fragments of varying sizes.
They floated in mid-air, slowly rotating.
Ian’s gaze was drawn to the nearest mirror.
In the mirror.
Was himself.
He was wearing a cheap cotton T-shirt, faded from countless washes, its collar frayed and its cuffs stained with grease.
His greasy hair was plastered to his forehead, and a bluish stubble dotted his chin. His eyes were as vacant as a dead man’s.
The image slammed into his consciousness...
Ian’s vision blurred, and he found himself sitting in a creaky old chair.
Before him was a wooden desk with peeling paint, piled high with instant noodle cups: Braised Beef, Old Altar Pickled Cabbage, Spicy Pork Ribs...
A mixture of cheap seasoning powders assaulted his nostrils, a cloying sweetness of artificial flavors and the sharp smell of preservatives.
To his right lay an open graduate school entrance exam practice test, its pages covered in a dense rash of red X’s, like wounds.
His fingers touched the edge of the book—the coarse texture of cheap, recycled paper. The tips of his fingers were stained with black ink.
Outside the window, the drone of an old air conditioning unit buzzed like a saw dragging back and forth inside his head.
Hot air, mixed with the greasy smoke from the barbecue stand downstairs, seeped through the cracks in the window. It clung to his skin like a film of oil that couldn’t be washed away.
Ian felt his back. His T-shirt was soaked in sweat, sticking clammily to his skin.
An ache from sitting too long spread from his tailbone all the way to his shoulder blades.
Such a real, yet distant memory, assaulted his mind...
Graduate school exams, a job, a mortgage, marriage, kids... an assembly line with a visible end.
Then, seeing the three words "early-stage cancer" on some medical report, and waiting to die in a cheap, rented room.
Perhaps even his body wouldn’t be discovered until the landlord found it.
Suffocating.
It was like being held down at the bottom of a murky pool, able to see the light on the surface but never able to float up to it.
The "Ian" in the mirror slowly raised his head.
His gaze pierced through the mirror’s surface, meeting Ian’s.
His lips moved without a sound.
"This is the real you..."
The voice didn’t enter through his ears; it resounded directly in the depths of his consciousness.
Weak, mediocre, and destined to be forgotten.
Ian’s heart gave a heavy throb.
The sense of suffocation brought on by that mediocrity was like a cold tide washing over his head.
But in the next instant, he bit down hard on the tip of his tongue.
The taste of rust filled his mouth, and the sharp pain brought a moment of clarity to his mind.
"Wrong."
He muttered to himself, his voice startlingly clear in the deathly silent hall of mirrors.
"When I transmigrated... there was an explosion, there were roaring flames, not this kind of slow death."
The moment the words left his mouth,
all the mirrors around him began to tremble simultaneously.
...
Ian suddenly found himself nailed to an altar.
Seven dark-red Bone Blades pierced his body from different angles.
Through both shoulders, both knees, and both wrists. The last one was driven in through his tailbone, Piercing up along his spine, its sharp tip emerging at his cervical vertebrae.
"Urgh...!"
Pain!
Indescribable agony continuously pierced his consciousness.
He could clearly feel the cold of the Bone Blades spreading through his body. Each one precisely avoided vital points, yet maximized the pain.
Blood flowed from the wounds—warm and viscous—dripping onto the Curse Runes carved all over the altar’s surface.
The Runes lit up with a dark-red glow, like living worms slithering beneath his skin.
Bazaar’s figure appeared at the edge of his vision.
He grinned, revealing teeth stained red with blood.
Rough fingers pinched his chin, forcing his head up.
"Take a good look."
In his other hand, Bazaar held a dark-red ceremonial dagger, its blade covered in fine barbs.
"This is how you will die."
The dagger pressed against his chest.
The sensation of the tip piercing his skin was so clear it was as if he were dissecting himself.
Slice by slice... the serrated edge sawed slowly through his flesh.
Fascia tore, ribs were scraped, the blade grated against bone...
Warm blood flowed down his chest and dripped onto the Runes, each drop making them glow a little brighter.
"Your blood is special."
Bazaar licked his lips, his eyes full of greed.
"The Abyss enjoys resilient Souls. We’ll keep you alive—for ten years, twenty years...
Until you’ve bled dry and your Soul is extracted, refined into a Vengeful Spirit that will wail for eternity."
Ian wanted to scream, but the Bone Blade in his throat blocked him, allowing only hoarse, rasping sounds to escape.