Krain's strikes were sharp, precise, and powerful. Yet each blow passed through as if striking only air, leaving no effect. Doubt stirred in his heart. But every strike from the dark copy that landed upon him sent searing pain deep into his body.
Krain's lips trembled as he gripped his sword tightly and shouted:
— What are you? My copy, or a creation of the Darkness?!
From the copy's eyes, flames of darkness flared, as though smiling.
— What am I? I am you. You are me. I am your fear, your joy, your suffering, your happiness… all of it woven into your true face.
Krain's attacks remained flawless, strong, relentless — yet ineffective. His blows passed through without harm, while each strike of the dark copy drenched him in unbearable pain.
With trembling voice, his heart whispered:
— What are you really? My reflection… or the spawn of Darkness?
The copy's voice echoed, deep and unyielding:
— What am I? I am you. You are me. I am the sum of your fears, your delights, your sorrows, your pleasures.
Krain growled, anger flaring, and spat back:
— My true face, you say? Then if I defeat you, I myself will become the true face!
Thus he fought desperately, clashing with his own shadow. Meanwhile, far to the east, Nevan began his journey.
Nevan set out toward the Eastern Continent. Leaving through the northern gate of the fortress nestled in the heart of the mountain called "Darkness Light," he ascended the stone steps into the night until he reached a hidden gate.
Upon pressing his finger against the ancient Garden script engraved with the number "13," the door groaned softly open.
Outside, the sky was overcast, snowflakes drifting like sorrow's veil. Moonlight mingled with the falling snow, and from afar the land appeared bathed in a crimson glow — as though drenched in blood.
Before Nevan stretched an endless battlefield, vast and desolate. He breathed in the cold wind, gazing at the bleak heavens, and murmured to himself:
— Why do humans hate their own kind? And why do they hate what is not their own, wishing to destroy it?
Shouldering his leather satchel, Nevan circled around the mountain's western face and moved eastward. For many days he pressed on until at last he crossed the towering peaks of Eld Barnert.
Descending along the mighty Herwinst River, he finally reached the outskirts of Galt Berg.
Galt Berg was the cradle of the mages of the western continent. The city had first risen at the foot of the majestic Mount Galt. From its summit poured a colossal waterfall, giving the city its name.
The mana carried in the waters infused the air, shaping an environment where magical talent was born naturally among its people. Beneath the cliffs by the falls stood a great academy where arcane knowledge was passed down, and around it rose rows of houses. At the city's heart, a monument to the first mage stood proud.
Nevan spent a night in an inn at Galt Berg. The next morning, he boarded a horse-drawn carriage to continue his journey toward the Eastern Continent.
Inside the carriage, a young boy tugged at his father's sleeve:
— Father, look! That man is so big, he whispered.
His father chuckled warmly.
— Yes, my son. If you eat well and obey your parents, one day you too will grow strong like him, he said, laughing heartily.
Nevan smiled quietly at their exchange, and from his satchel pulled out a piece of candy, handing it to the boy. The child held out both hands eagerly.
— Thank you, mister! he exclaimed with delight.
Nevan patted the boy's head, then asked his father:
— And where are you heading?
The man smiled back.
— We're returning to Nivoria village. If you wish, you may spend the night there as well.
When the carriage reached Nivoria, Nevan stepped down and walked through the calm evening breeze. The village lay hushed, shadows stretching long under the fading starlight. The air was still, heavy with the quiet of night.
Within the stone houses, faint lanterns glowed. Voices were subdued, as though even whispers carried weight. Nevan checked his satchel, reflecting briefly on the long road ahead to the East.
On the village's edge stood a familiar inn, marked by a small wooden sign. He entered, greeted by the gray-haired innkeeper. She served him warmth and tea as he stated plainly:
— One night's stay. Two meals, one lamp. Tomorrow, I leave at dawn.
Nodding, she busied herself. The crackle of the fire filled the room. Villagers huddled quietly, sipping tea, their faces drawn in thought. Nevan wondered what made this village so heavy with silence — whether it was hardship or simply the long road pressing on everyone.
A few asked him questions: "What's happening out there?" He answered briefly: "The road is long. Much has happened. I travel to gather knowledge." One young herdsman, eyes glistening with unshed tears, warned: "If you go East, beware. Soldiers have been prowling these parts lately."
That night, Nevan ate, pondered, then retired. As he lay beneath white sheets, the strains of a haunting piano melody returned to his mind — sorrow and forgiveness twined together.
Before sleep claimed him, he glimpsed a fleeting shadow outside the window — like a wolf-shaped figure cast by the trees. Not frightening, only strange.
At dawn, Nevan rose, checked his gear, and clasped the innkeeper's hand in thanks. With words, provisions, and quiet memories gathered, he set out.
The sun rose, its light spilling over the village walls. Nevan glanced back once, seeing lanterns dimming, villagers at rest, sorrows set aside. He whispered:
— The music I heard, the voices I met, the faces of this village… these will be my strength.
And thus, leaving Nivoria, Nevan began his long road eastward. Each step promised new knowledge, new companions — some offering aid, others warnings. Yet one truth had settled in his heart: this journey was not only across lands, but also through the hidden paths of his own soul