The room was silent save for the occasional echo of combat below. One by one, names were called, and contestants descended into the crimson-lit arena to face their mirrored selves. At first, the fights were primitive—raw and clumsy. Fists against flesh. The clash of nerves. The terror of fighting oneself.
Weapons were allowed, but they only seemed to hasten defeat. The truth was brutal: these reflections were not just copies. They learned. Every second, every swing, every hesitation—they adapted.
The longer you fought, the more likely you were to lose.
The silence broke as a name was called.
"Elias Hart."
Rachel turned to Naemor. "Do you know what he does?"
Naemor's eyes stayed fixed on the arena. "Judging by the crest on his cloak, he's from the Hart Family. They're known for their affinity with nature. Farming, mostly—but don't let that fool you."
Terra raised an eyebrow. "So… he's weak?"
Naemor almost laughed. "On the contrary. The creatures they tame are violent, primal, and far stronger than most low-tier cultivators. Farming in that context is a survival skill. Every seed planted is a pact with a hungry forest."
Down below, Elias stepped onto the arena floor.
He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a crescent-bladed axe. The air around him trembled slightly, as if nature itself held its breath.
From the shadows on the opposite side, his mirror stepped forward, identical in posture, expression… and weapon.
The bell rang.
They clashed like mirrored storms. Steel screamed against steel. Sparks burst into the air as each strike grew sharper, more calculated. Every time Elias adjusted his grip or changed footing, the clone responded in kind—like a twisted dance partner that knew his every step.
Realizing this stalemate couldn't last, Elias dropped back and flicked a cluster of seeds from his pouch onto the ground.
A heartbeat passed.
The seeds burst into a wall of thick, thorned vines, growing wildly upward and weaving into a barrier of living roots.
The clone hacked through it with ease—but Elias was gone.
Rachel blinked. "Where'd he go?"
Naemor's voice was calm. "He sank into the ground—escaped through the roots. Most likely trying to ambush from below."
The clone seemed to know this too. It mimicked Elias's tactic, throwing down seeds of its own. Green tendrils erupted from the floor—shorter, denser, forming a layer of grass that spread across the arena like a mat.
Then the clone stood still. It closed its eyes.
Suddenly—its axe spun through the air, aimed at nothing.
A flash of movement.
Elias burst from the ground just as the axe passed his head, narrowly deflecting it with his own. The clone had used the feedback from the roots in the ground to feel vibrations—it had hunted him blind.
"Damn…" Terra murmured, eyes wide.
Elias wasted no time. Slamming both hands into the grassy arena, he summoned every vine, blade of grass, and seed he had thrown. They responded like faithful hounds, compressing into a single, spear-like shape that hovered beside him.
He hurled it with unnatural speed. The spear tore through the air like a lightning bolt, exploding against the arena floor with a shockwave that left a crater where the clone once stood.
The dust cleared.
The clone stood, breathing heavily, arm bleeding from a graze. But it was smiling.
The battle intensified.
Nature bent around them as they tore the arena into a jungle warzone—trees sprang from nowhere, root traps emerged from the ground, poisonous flowers bloomed and hissed.
Elias's foot slipped.
The clone lunged—too fast.
But Elias was already chanting.
The roots twisted violently, wrapping around the clone like chains, drawing energy from every vine, petal, and seed Elias had planted since the fight began.
The air warped.
A green prism formed around the clone—crystalline and humming with wild energy.
It thrashed. It cracked.
But Elias slammed his palms together.
The prism imploded. The clone was crushed into nothingness.
Elias collapsed to one knee, sweat dripping down his brow, breath ragged. He stood slowly, shoulders heavy, and returned to his corner.
The guide, her voice flat and emotionless, jotted something down.
"Pass. Next contestant."
Another few contestants followed. Most were average—some held their ground, others lost quickly. Then the next name was whispered from the shadows.
A girl stepped forward, her entire face concealed beneath a black veil. A long cloak, stitched with crimson thread, dragged behind her like a shadow. She moved with silence—fluid and deliberate.
Rachel leaned toward Naemor. "Who is she?"
He blinked. "She's... she's from the Alrhune branch of the Nihelson family."
Terra snapped her gaze toward him. "I thought the Nihelsons were banned from competing."
Naemor nodded. "The main house, yes. Branch families aren't prohibited—though they're rarely seen. Most don't bother because of internal politics. But if she's here... she's likely a black sheep."
"Sounds like nepotism to me," Rachel muttered.
"Hardly," Naemor said. "In our families, if you're weak or don't meet expectations, they abandon you. If she's here, it's to prove something."
"What does the Alrhune branch do?"
"Blood," he said grimly.
"BLOOD?" Rachel and Terra exclaimed.
Naemor held up his hands. "Not... like vampires. They control blood as an element. One of the most violent branches of cultivation. But don't worry—they only use it in battle, and only against enemies."
The veiled girl stepped onto the arena.
And stood still.
So did her clone.
No movement. No words.
Then—faint red patterns began to glow on her arms, spiraling like ancient runes. The same marks appeared on the clone. A second later, they vanished from view.
Crack.
They reappeared in the center, fists colliding in midair. Then again. And again. Each flash of movement came with bone-jarring strikes. They moved like blurs—beyond the average eye's ability to track.
But the girl was smiling.
Excited.
The red markings on her arms flowed like ink, coalescing into a blood-forged spear. She crouched low, spear in hand, and exhaled slowly.
The clone summoned a short sword, choosing speed and flexibility. It lifted its hand, beckoning her forward.
She advanced—not with brute force but with refined, careful technique. Each strike was calculated. Surgical. The clone matched her at first—but gradually, it fell behind. Its parries turned into dodges. Its strikes grew sloppy.
Rachel frowned. "Why is her clone losing? They should be perfectly matched."
Naemor's brow furrowed. "It's not just about power. The clone mirrors what she knows, not what she plans. It doesn't read her mind—it doesn't know what's coming next."
"But why use a sword?" Terra asked. "If the original has a spear...?"
"Exactly," Naemor said. "It misjudged. That's the danger of mimicking knowledge without instinct."
The battle reached its climax.
The girl channeled energy through the runes. Her spear gleamed. She lunged—directly toward the clone's head.
It struck.
The clone's head exploded in a burst of blood and smoke.
Silence.
She turned and walked off stage.
The guide squinted at her results but made no remark. "Pass. Next."
Everyone stared.
No one dared approach the veiled girl. She leaned against the wall, alone, her eyes closed behind the veil. At peace. Unbothered.
Rachel hesitated. Then stepped forward.
Terra grabbed her arm. "What are you doing? She just exploded her own clone."
Rachel didn't stop. "And if she knows how to make it easier... isn't it worth asking?"
Terra held Rachel's arm tightly, reluctant to let her walk toward what looked like certain danger.
"I don't like this," she muttered. "She just vaporized her clone like it was nothing."
Rachel glanced toward the cloaked girl, who stood off to the side like a blade leaning against the wall—still, sharp, and out of place.
"I know," she said, "but if she found a way to beat her mirror without a drawn-out fight… then maybe I can too."
She turned to Naemor, eyes steady despite her nerves. "Is she allowed to hurt me? Here, during the test?"
Naemor nodded reluctantly. "Technically… yes. The guide never said anything about contestant-on-contestant violence. But given how low your tier is, she'll likely ignore you. You're beneath her notice."
Rachel breathed in deep, slow and shaky. "That's enough," she said, pulling her arm free from Terra's grasp and stepping forward.
The room tensed.
Every contestant's eyes followed her like they were watching a sacrificial lamb walk willingly into the wolf's maw. Naemor and Terra stood frozen behind her, unable to do anything.
Ten steps away.
That was when the cloaked girl opened her eyes.
Crimson irises flashed like twin eclipses, and her voice—dry, hoarse, and inhuman—escaped from between bandages like smoke from a cracked furnace."Do not come any closer. State your purpose, mortal."
Rachel's knees buckled beneath her. The weight of her presence was suffocating, like gravity had suddenly chosen her body as a target. A dense iron scent filled the air, sharp and ancient. Her chest burned as she forced herself to speak.
"I want to know… how you tricked your clone into being weaker."
The girl scoffed. "And what do you have to offer in exchange for such knowledge?" she asked. "Who's to say I even possess what you seek?"
Rachel took another step forward.
Rachel clenched her jaw, her limbs trembling under the weight of pressure that felt like the judgment of the gods themselves. Blood seeped between her teeth as she forced her gaze upward.
"I… I know your young master."
That was when the air turned hostile.
The pressure doubled, crushing her into the ground. A ringing filled her ears. The taste of iron thickened as her body convulsed against the force. The cloaked girl's voice no longer sounded human—it was metallic, ancient, forged from wrath itself.
"Do not mention the Young Master so casually."
Rachel's eyes widened.
"You do not speak his name. You do not speak of him. A weak mortal such as yourself does not deserve such privilege."
Around them, a metallic scent bloomed in the air—copper and rust, blood and judgment. Her voice shifted again, low and dangerous.
"If not for the possibility that you speak truth, I'd crush your throat where you kneel."
Rachel coughed, her arms shaking beneath her as she spoke through grit teeth, "Then test me… if you think I'm lying."
Silence followed.
And then… laughter.
It was short, dry, joyless.
The cloaked figure straightened up. Her bandaged face tilted ever so slightly. "Brave," she murmured. "Stupid, but brave. Maybe the Young Master sees something in you. Let's find out."
Rachel's voice quivered. "I know Naemor…"
The air crackled.
The girl stepped forward, crouched beside her, and her voice twisted into something playful—unsettlingly soft.
"Well then… Since you're supposedly connected, I'll give you a chance. You're Tier 0, right? Your battle will likely be drawn out and unremarkable. So let's make it... interesting."
She stood and extended a pale hand. "Take two seals from me. They'll help you. But you'll suffer while they're active—excruciatingly. Do you accept?"
Across the room, Naemor's eyes widened in horror. "Don't accept! Rachel, DON'T—"
The girl lifted her other hand and waved her fingers lazily. A blood-colored barrier shimmered into existence between them, cutting off his voice completely.
Her smile returned, sharper now.
"You could accept… or I could kill you. You don't really have a choice, do you?"
Rachel was still on all fours, her breath ragged, the weight of invisible chains pressing down on her.
She clenched her teeth, swallowed the blood in her mouth, and met the girl's eyes.
"I accept."
The pressure vanished.
Rachel gasped, collapsing onto her side, lungs finally free to expand again.
The girl held out her hand once more. "We must complete the exchange. Touch my hand."
With trembling fingers, Rachel reached out and made contact.
The moment their skin touched, a golden chain formed around their wrists, wrapping like a living rune. It shimmered, pulsed once with power, then crumbled into glowing dust and scattered into the air.
"May the Creator's rules be ever binding," the girl whispered, her voice ceremonial now.
Rachel stared at her hand. "So… when do I get the seals?"
The answer came not in words—but in pain.
Her arms ignited in agony. It wasn't fire, but something deeper—like her blood had turned to lava. Red sigils burned into her skin in elegant patterns, twisting and coiling up to her shoulders.
She screamed. Her legs buckled again as the pain overtook her.
"Right now," the girl said, watching with cold fascination.
Rachel bit her lip, tears pooling in her eyes. "What do they do?!"
"I can't tell you," the girl answered casually, turning her back.
"What?!" Rachel shouted, her voice rising with panic.
"You wanted to know how I won, didn't you?" she said. "I've already told you enough. You'll just have to figure the rest out yourself."
She walked away, dismissing the blood barrier with a flick of her hand. The metallic scent faded, but the tension remained.
Terra and Naemor rushed to Rachel's side, catching her just before she collapsed completely.
Naemor grabbed her arms and inspected the burning sigils. "Damn it. She really did it. Rachel, what exactly did she say to you?"
Rachel told them everything, between winces of pain.
Naemor looked stricken. "You signed a verbal pact. That's celestial law. I can't break these seals without violating the terms—doing so might kill you. You're bound until they fulfill their function."
Terra looked at Rachel's face, now soaked in sweat and flushed with pain. "There has to be something we can do," she pleaded.
Naemor shook his head slowly. "Nothing without risking her life."
Meanwhile, the guide—unbothered by the drama playing out behind her—continued writing in her notebook, her eyes occasionally flicking up to the next duel beginning in the arena. The roar of combat echoed in the background. Dust. Steel. Screams.
And amid it all, three figures sat huddled, surrounded by magic, pain, and secrets none of them fully understood.