Dex soared through the air, his body supported only by the currents of wind he controlled. Below, the rooftops of the academy buildings shrank like miniatures on a game board.
The rush of wind in his ears carried the lingering metallic scent of the battlefield, mixed with the smell of rain hanging in the air. The wound on his leg felt as if fine needles were piercing him with every movement.
From the beginning, Dex was not inherently strong—he was just skilled at utilizing his opponents' attacks. His experience in the Tower far exceeded anyone else's at the academy. Though he had emerged victorious, his mana core had cracked from the strain. The excessive forced mana usage and the precise control of wind magic had heavily burdened his core.
'How exhilarating,' Dex smiled as if nothing had happened. His dream during his time in the Tower had finally been realized. Of course, Dex hadn't done it purely for pleasure—he desperately needed the artifact he now carried.
As he continued forward, Dex sensed something unusual. The noisy world fell silent, and the rain ceased to fall.
The clouds above stopped moving. Even raindrops that had just escaped the sky hung suspended in the air, trembling softly as if trapped in thin glass.
Dex slowly lowered his feet to the ground—or at least, something that felt like ground.
When he blinked, he found himself in a room of cracked mirrors. Every crack reflected him, and the room was filled with glass except for a dark corridor ahead.
A light footsteps echoed from the dark corridor. Each step seemed calculated to create an eerie atmosphere.
From the darkness of the corridor, a figure in a long robe emerged. Their body was proportionate and elegant, exuding confidence, while the mask hiding their face added an air of mystery.
Their robe was dark, yet as they moved, its surface rippled like water reflecting starlight from no known sky. On their chest, a small tarot card-shaped badge swayed with each step.
"You are quite interesting," they said. Their voice was neither heavy nor light, yet each word seemed wrapped in layers of echo, coming from different directions.
Dex narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
The figure smiled faintly, but it wasn't a human smile meant to be friendly—it was the expression of someone who had found something they had long suspected existed.
"You may call me The Hermit."
Dex frowned. The Hermit was one of the Tarot cards—something not unfamiliar to him. Since childhood, he had always read stories about those who wielded the power of Tarot.
The figure snapped their fingers. Around them, Dex's reflections in the cracked mirrors began to move on their own, each displaying different fragments of possible lives:
A Dex who died on the battlefield.
A Dex sitting on a throne, a crown tilted on his head.
A Dex bound to an interrogation chair, blood dripping from the corner of his lips.
A Dex sitting among thousands of corpses.
A Dex surrounded by thousands of people.
A Dex killing a woman who felt strangely familiar.
Dex swallowed hard. His instincts told him to remain calm. He didn't understand what was happening, but he forced himself to appear composed, as if he knew everything. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't impossible either.
The Hermit raised a finger, and one of the cracked mirrors floated toward Dex. From the crack, it showed a thief surrounded by seven demon-like figures. The image was blurry, but Dex could tell the thief resembled his current appearance—perhaps a possible future.
The Hermit stepped closer, and with each step, the cracks in the mirrors spread further, as if they were walking not on ground, but on the fabric of reality itself. "Something is trapped behind it all. Something even people like Liliana Lopes or Sean Kingston cannot comprehend. But you—"
They stopped an arm's length away. "You possess a freedom they do not."
Dex understood what they meant. The great heroes, the academy officials, even kings—all were bound by predetermined roles. But him? He had no vows. No home. No burdens except those he chose to carry.
"I have no interest in being anyone's pawn," Dex replied softly.
The Hermit let out a short chuckle. "You think you are not part of the game? Even refusing an invitation is a move on the chessboard."
Then they extended a hand—not forcing, not threatening, only inviting. On their palm, a card appeared. Its color was dark, adorned only with thin golden lines forming the number XII above it, and the image of a figure hanging upside down—The Hanged Man.
"Take this, and you will understand the world in ways you never imagined. Refuse, and you will remain a thief running through storms."
Dex stared at the card for a long time. The air around him grew heavier, not from gravity, but from something far more terrifying. With every second he delayed his decision, his reflections in the mirrors grew wilder—some smiling, some screaming, some pleading.
"What is the price?" he finally asked.
The Hermit's smile widened slightly, but their eyes remained cold. "The price is always different for each person. Sometimes your life, sometimes your memories, sometimes something you never even knew you possessed."
Dex weighed those words. He knew a trap when he saw one, but he also recognized an opportunity when he sensed it. This world was full of locked doors, and not all could be opened with ordinary keys.
Finally... Dex released the wind magic in his hand and attacked the figure. Unfortunately, the body was nothing but mist.
Before the mist completely vanished, the figure spoke. "Haha, you will regret this one day."
As the mist disappeared, the cracked mirrors seemed on the verge of shattering. From every crack, various reactions emerged as Dex refused the offer: a version of himself laughing hysterically, another screaming, one weeping, and yet another standing silent and unresponsive.
The mirrors vanished as if they had never existed. Dex returned to where he had been before.
The food he had eaten earlier that evening rushed back up, expelled from his mouth. The events of the night had left him nauseated from fear, worry, and confusion.
He changed into his academy uniform and walked toward the dormitory in a state of exhaustion. This time, he was truly drained—unable to use his wind magic any further.