The moment De-Reece steps past the twentieth mark, the mist changes.
It does not twist into ruin or death. It does not weigh on his shoulders like the chains that bound his brothers in the last vision.
Instead—
It welcomes him.
The screen flickers, bright and vibrant. A rush of nostalgic music fills the air, the opening sequence of Dragon Ball Z: Sparking Zero playing in crisp, high-definition.
The glow of the television casts a faint blue hue over the couch, where Conan sits cross-legged, controller in hand, brows furrowed in concentration.
Beside him, Thadeus leans forward, half-standing, hands gripping his own controller like his life depends on it. "Bro, you're cheating—there's no way you dodged that!"
Conan smirks. "Skill, little man. Try getting good."
A sharp laugh escapes De-Reece before he can stop it.
He knows this. He knows this moment.
And yet…
Yet to him nothing feels wrong.
"Im playing winner he declares before jumping into his space on the couch.".
The scent of freshly delivered pizza lingers in the air, mingling with the faint musk of an opened can of Coke sitting dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table.
De-Reece leans back, controller in hand, feeling the worn leather of the couch press into his back. The weight of the room feels real.
So real, he almost forgets.
Almost.
Time skips forward.
The glow of the television changes, now flashing with the gunfire and chaos of Black Ops 6 Ranked play.
The couch is the same. The laughter is the same.
But something is off.
The game shifts again.
Now, the menu of Baldur's Gate hovers on the screen. Thadeus argues over which class to pick, Conan critiques the build, and De-Reece?
De-Reece just sits there, staring at the screen.
The moment does not feel real anymore.
The sounds continue. The warmth of home presses against him, inviting, familiar, a siren's call back to a place he can never return to.
And for a moment, he wants to stay.
The weight of battle, the scent of blood, the endless struggle of survival—they do not exist here.
He could live here.
Laugh with his brothers.
Forget everything.
But then, something clicks.
Time is skipping.
The moments are out of order, looping.
And his brothers never look at him.
Not once.
His hands tighten around the controller.
This isn't real.
The warmth disappears.
The light of the screen distorts, flickering between static and colour.
His brothers' laughter fades into hollow echoes, stretching unnaturally, like a broken record refusing to stop.
This world is not real.
He remembers who he is.
He remembers where he is.
He closes his eyes.
"If I stay here I can never find you guys for real, I'm sorry I'm leaving you again but I will find you guys again I promise"
And that alone is enough to shatter the illusion.
The room disintegrates.
The couch collapses into nothingness.
The glow of the television dims into the all-consuming white of the fog.
And when De-Reece opens his eyes, he is standing on the twenty-fifth step.
The illusion is broken.
But the trial is not over.
The air shifts.
The fog around De-Reece no longer coils unpredictably—it tightens, compressing, shaping itself into something solid.
Something familiar.
Himself.
A perfect reflection stands before him, its form identical in every way. The same stature, the same cold precision in its posture, the same sharp gaze that measured, calculated, and dissected everything in its path.
Yet, something is off.
The reflection does not move like him. It does not breathe.
And its eyes—**his eyes—**hold a depth that is too dark, too knowing, too absolute.
Then, the reflection speaks.
"Was it worth it?"
The voice is his own. But the weight behind it is not.
It is not spoken as a question.
It is spoken as a certainty.
De-Reece does not answer immediately.
Instead, he studies the figure before him.
This is not like the previous illusions. There is no false past to reject, no overwhelming despair to escape.
This is different.
This is a battle of wits.
"You're going to have to be more specific." His tone remains level, controlled.
The reflection tilts its head slightly, a subtle movement that mirrors how De-Reece often measured opponents.
"You know exactly what I mean."
It takes a step forward.
"The path you've chosen. The blood on your hands. The sacrifices you've made—both the ones forced upon you and the ones you welcomed."
Its gaze sharpens.
"You left everything behind, for what?"
The words do not strike like blades, but like cold, undeniable logic.
The reflection is not attacking his emotions.
It is attacking his reasoning.
"What have you gained that is worth the cost?"
A test.
That's what this is.
An interrogation. A dissection of his beliefs, his choices, his very existence.
If he falters, if he shows hesitation—this illusion will devour him.
So he answers, not with anger, not with blind conviction—but with clarity.
"Survival is always worth the cost."
The reflection exhales a quiet breath, as if amused.
"Is that all? Survival? That's your justification for all of this?"
It steps forward again.
"What about identity, then? If you survive by cutting away every part of who you were, what remains? Are you still De-Reece, or are you just what this world has made of you?"
Mr Cheon Ma Sin Dee
The words hit deeper than the first attack.
Because this—this is a real question.
Since arriving in this world, since fighting, since killing, he has adapted. He has changed. He has become something else.
But has he lost himself?
Or is he simply evolving into who he was meant to be?
The reflection does not let him answer immediately.
"You were not born into this world. Your brothers, your past, your name—none of it belongs here."**
It tilts its head.
"Then tell me, what part of you is real? What part of you still belongs to where you came from? And if nothing does… does that not make you just as much an illusion as I am?"
This is what the illusion wants.
It wants him to falter. It wants him to hesitate, to second-guess his place in this world.
But De-Reece does not hesitate.
"You're asking the wrong question."
The reflection stills.
"The question isn't whether I'm real—it's whether I matter."
He steps forward now.
"My past may not exist here. My name may hold no weight. But what I build from this point forward—that is real."
The reflection does not step back.
But the air shifts.
For the first time, it pauses.
Then, its lips curve into something too sharp, too knowing.
"Ah, so you do believe in something. Fascinating."
The illusion does not press on the subject of identity.
"So Kalia, do you care for her or are you using her like you always do don't you always use others to your own benefit?
He doesn't think before replying.
"Everyone chooses their own path, if they fail that's were they were destined to fall I can help bring those along beside me but I cant always carry them"
Then continues.
"Kalia knows better than anyone what kind of person I am, I don't shackle her or mollycoddle her were both using each other to get stronger"
" You truly believe yourself don't you".
Dropping this idea which holds steadfast to his beliefs.
Instead, it pivots.
Because this battle is not about winning a single point.
It is about wearing him down.
"And what about power?"
The voice is softer now, almost curious.
"Do you deserve the power you've gained? Or are you just another arrogant fool, mistaking luck for destiny?"
It tilts its head again.
"Tell me, De-Reece. Why should you be stronger than anyone else? Why should you survive while others fall? What makes you worthy?"
De-Reece does not let the question rattle him.
This is not an enemy. This is not a predator hunting weakness.
This is a reflection.
And so, he answers it as he would answer himself.
"I don't need to be worthy."
The reflection's smirk fades slightly.
De-Reece steps forward again.
"Power isn't given to those who deserve it. It's taken by those strong enough to wield it."
The illusion watches him closely, its dark eyes narrowing.
"And do you think that makes you different from the men you despise? The ones who take power and crush the weak beneath them?"
De-Reece stops right in front of his reflection.
"No."
His voice is cold, firm, resolute.
"The difference isn't in how you take power—it's in what you do with it."
"And I will never be the kind of man who lets others decide my path."
The silence stretches.
Then, slowly, the reflection laughs.
It is a quiet sound, lacking in mockery, lacking in cruelty.
And as the laughter fades—
So does the illusion.
The final step is clear before him.
De-Reece takes it.
And the trial ends.