He didn't move like a copy.
He didn't look like a villain.
He looked like Ren.
Exactly Ren.
Same clothes. Same eyes. Same voice.
But when he smiled—
it was the smile Ren used to wear before he learned how to be gentle.
Before guilt.
Before love.
Before the Mirror's Rebellion.
Before her.
The First Ren stood barefoot on the fractured cathedral floor, each step silent, yet louder than thunder. His presence dragged the air around him into stillness—like even time held its breath.
"You remember me now?" he said, stopping just feet away.
Ren tightened his grip on his sword.
"You're not me."
The First Ren tilted his head, almost amused.
"No. I'm who you were before you started clinging to your feelings like they made you strong."
"I'm the Ren that survived. That won. The one who didn't break when everything turned to ash."
Behind him, the shattered mirror shimmered with memories:
—Ren stealing food to survive
—Ren fighting in alleys, teeth bloodied
—Ren walking away from people who begged him to stay
This version hadn't just been hidden.
He'd been sealed away.
The Mirror's Rebellion stepped forward. "He's a distortion. A fracture from a timeline that should've never happened."
"No," whispered the silver-haired girl, her voice trembling. "He's... the core. The first imprint the Pane made of him. The template it used to build every other echo."
The First Ren looked to her.
And he bowed.
"You remember me too. I was the one who found you first, didn't I?"
Her fists clenched, glowing softly with silver.
"I remember you... abandoning me."
"Correction." His eyes narrowed. "I released you."
Ren couldn't take it anymore. "What do you want?"
The First Ren's grin vanished.
"To reclaim what was stolen."
He pointed a finger—not at the sword. Not at the Pane.
At Ren's heart.
"You gave in to love. To hope. To guilt. You gave her a name. You gave them a chance. And look where that got you—"
He gestured at the battlefield around them. Broken mirrors. Dead echoes. A bleeding sky.
"Weak. Scattered. Afraid."
Ren stepped forward, defiant. "I chose to feel."
"And I chose to survive."
The clash didn't start with a war cry.
It began with a breath.
They moved at the same time—two versions of one soul colliding in a blur of instinct. Swords sparked. Fists collided. Powers bent space between them. The cathedral screamed under the force of their duel.
And through it all, a question lingered:
If the strongest version of you was the one who stopped caring…
…what does that make the one who still does?
Steel met steel.
But this wasn't just a battle of blades.
It was self against self, soul against origin.
Ren slashed, ducked, and twisted—each motion refined by pain, purpose, and memory.
The First Ren countered effortlessly. No wasted steps. No emotion. He was perfect in his cruelty.
"You hesitate," he said, parrying a strike with the flat of his blade. "Still thinking about consequences. About people. Pathetic."
Ren snarled. "That's what separates me from you."
"Exactly." The First Ren smiled darkly. "I win. You feel. That's your curse."
He lunged, a feint—then kicked Ren through a stained-glass shard.
The scene shattered around him: a memory of Kaito, of Airi, of the rooftop where Ren once made a promise he couldn't keep.
"I carry all your failures," the First Ren whispered, stepping through the glass. "And I never mourned a single one."
Ren wiped blood from his mouth, rising slowly. "Then you're nothing but a husk."
Behind them, the Mirror's Rebellion watched—her eyes shimmering with panic and hope.
"If he wins," she whispered to herself, "the Ren I chose… will disappear."
But she couldn't interfere.
This wasn't a fight of strength.
It was a fight of identity.
Each blow they exchanged wasn't just a test of combat—it was a memory played in reverse.
—Ren helping a crying child escape the mirror's pull
—Ren standing in front of the Rebellion when the Shard-Keeper tried to erase her
—Ren choosing mercy, when it would've been easier to hate
The First Ren mocked every one.
"You've become soft. You let people change you."
"That's the point," Ren grunted, striking back hard, sending the First staggering. "I let them in. That's why I keep fighting."
The First Ren didn't fall.
He smiled.
"Then let's see what happens when I show you the one thing you've never had the strength to face."
He snapped his fingers.
And from the shadows—
she emerged.
Silver hair. Pale skin. Barefoot, with soft steps like snow.
But her eyes were hollow.
The first version of the silver-haired girl.
The one Ren couldn't save.
She didn't speak. She only looked at him with wide, glassy sorrow… and slowly raised a blade made of her own reflection.
Ren froze.
"No…" he whispered. "You… I let you die."
The First Ren's laughter echoed through the Pane.
"Exactly. I didn't."
She stepped forward, her hands trembling. But the blade didn't falter.
Ren looked to the Rebellion. Her lips were parted, trembling. "That's not… me. That's the shard I buried to survive."
And Ren… finally understood.
This wasn't just about his darker self.
This was about every fragment of guilt he'd refused to face.
If he wanted to win—
He couldn't just fight.
He had to forgive himself.
The silver-haired girl stood inches away, her reflection-blade shimmering like liquid sorrow.
She didn't speak.
Didn't plead.
Didn't cry.
She simply existed—as a wound given shape.
The girl Ren couldn't save… because he didn't try hard enough.
His mirror double—The First Ren—circled behind her like a shadow that never left.
"This is what your compassion costs," he said softly. "A thousand regrets that rot beneath your skin. You think you're growing stronger—but you've only buried the truth."
Ren stared into the girl's empty eyes… and they pierced him deeper than any blade.
Suddenly, all noise faded.
Even the Mirror's Rebellion's voice was gone.
The world became a whisper.
"Why did you stop?"
"Why didn't you pull me through?"
"Why did you choose someone else… not me?"
Her voice came not from her lips—but from his own soul.
Ren dropped to one knee, trembling.
The blade she held touched his chest—but it didn't cut.
It was waiting.
Waiting for him.
And Ren finally spoke—not with defiance, but with truth.
"Because I was afraid… that if I tried to save everyone, I'd lose myself."
"I chose the path I could survive. And I hated myself for it."
The girl blinked slowly.
"Then why now?" she whispered. "Why fight this mirror… when it's already broken you?"
Ren looked up—his eyes wet, but clear.
"Because… I want to live with my broken pieces. Not run from them."
He reached up—
—and placed his hand on the blade she held to his heart.
Blood welled instantly.
But he didn't flinch.
Instead, his other hand reached for hers.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't forget you. I never will."
The girl's hand trembled.
For a heartbeat—everything stilled.
Then—
She dropped the blade.
And as it shattered into silver petals, so did her form… fading into light that poured into Ren's chest.
The First Ren screamed.
"NO—NO! You can't—she was MINE to keep you weak!"
He lunged.
But this time—Ren caught his blade.
Steel met steel.
Emotion met emptiness.
And Ren pushed back—harder than ever before.
"You're not my truth," Ren growled. "You're the version of me that gave up."
They clashed, and the mirror between them cracked, again and again—
Until finally—
Ren drove his blade through the First Ren's heart.
But there was no blood.
Only… reflection.
The First Ren blinked. For the first time, he looked lost.
"So… that's it?" he whispered. "You'd rather carry pain… than become me?"
Ren nodded. "Every time."
The First Ren gave a crooked, almost human smile…
And dissolved into a thousand shards of light.
The Mirror's Rebellion stepped forward, quiet tears sliding down her cheeks.
"You didn't just fight him," she said. "You faced him."
Ren turned, exhausted—but free.
"I think I'm finally ready… to move forward."
But even as peace settled…
The Pane rippled.
And the silver-haired girl—the one from the waking world mirror—watched silently from a distance. Her eyes sharp. Her purpose unknown.
"You remembered her," she whispered. "Good. Now it's my turn."
Her reflection behind her smiled—but it wasn't hers.
It was something else.
Someone… waiting.