He phased through the knight who had ended his life.
At once, Reflection responded.
Flashes tore through his vision — memories not his own, yet all-consuming. He saw rigorous drills beneath a burning sun, blades cutting air with merciless precision, orders barked in an unfamiliar tongue. Cold, calculated brutality shaped this man. But something was wrong.
Why am I only seeing his training… and the present?
Reflection was never selective. It showed everything. A full lifetime—birth to death—memories playing like an unskippable film reel. But here, something was different. Something was missing.
Then it clicked.
These weren't lives... they were products.
How in the name of Signo did Velmira create this army?
It wasn't a figure of speech anymore. These weren't resurrected soldiers, or cursed souls. They were forged—built like weapons from birth. Human monsters crafted from the ground up, shaped by hands that knew neither compassion nor restraint.
