Millet's vision was blurry — a haze of blood, breath, and winter.
But the light was still there.
That faint glint. Just a shimmer, no bigger than a coin, half-buried in the snow to his right.
He blinked. Once.
Then again.
Tried to focus.
And then — something shifted in the air.
A whisper. A weight. A presence.
A flash of light cut across his vision.
Not from the sun.
Not from the mountain.
But from within.
A screen appeared before his eyes — floating mid-air. It was barely visible, like a ripple across water. Strange runes — sharp, jagged, glowing in silver and faint blue — etched themselves across the screen in rows.
Millet's breath caught in his throat.
His body froze.
The world around him — the snow, the cold, even the pain — faded into the background.
The runes pulsed once.
Then words — words he had never seen before… yet understood perfectly — appeared.
[NAME: MILLET / ???]
[ATTRIBUTE: MIRRORSPAWN / ???]
[AFFINITY: MIRROR / TIME]
[RANK: AWAKENED (BLACK CORE)]
"What the hell… is this?"
His voice cracked.
The screen didn't respond.
It just hovered, glowing, as if waiting.
Millet / ???.
Mirrorspawn.
Mirror. Time.
He didn't understand any of it.
He'd never seen these symbols. Never heard of this kind of thing. But somehow, his brain knew what it meant. Understood it like a memory he couldn't recall. Like something buried so deep it had bypassed language itself.
His name.
His attribute.
His affinities.
And rank — Awakened? Black core?
It didn't make sense.
None of it made sense.
And yet…
It felt real.
Like a veil had been lifted.
Like the world had been showing him only a fraction of itself — and now it was peeling away.
Millet stared at the screen, frozen.
Then—
Crunch.
A sound.
Snow, compacted under enormous weight.
Millet's head snapped up.
The screen vanished in an instant.
The creature was there — no more than five meters away now.
Close enough for him to feel the heat of its breath curling through the icy air.
Its white eyes were still blind.
But its head was tilted.
It knows I'm here.
Millet's heart pounded.
He was running out of time.
Then he noticed it — what he hadn't seen before.
On the creature's thick, matted fur — near its chest — a long, jagged tear. Green liquid was slowly oozing from it, dripping onto the snow like oil.
It wasn't just fur.
It wasn't decoration.
It was blood.
The green patches.
It's hurt.
His eyes widened.
Not just at the wound.
But at the pattern.
He began to connect the dots.
The way it had moved.
The way it hadn't seen him.
The boulder it had thrown — not at him, but where it expected him to be.
The way it had waited.
Millet's breath caught.
It's blind.
That's why it was tracking sound.
That's why it hadn't leapt right away.
It wasn't charging mindlessly.
It was listening.
Thinking.
Anticipating.
And that meant…
"It was sleeping," Millet whispered, eyes widening. "It heard me wake up…"
The timing matched.
He hadn't made much noise — but in a place like this, a single word could echo for miles.
That's why it came.
That's how it found me.
The creature wasn't just big.
It was smart.
Smart enough to predict.
Fast enough to kill.
But it's bleeding.
That meant one thing.
It can be hurt.
Millet scanned his surroundings — fast, desperate.
Snow.
Stone.
Blood.
And—
There.
Near his side.
A broken rock.
Part of the boulder that had hit him earlier — cracked into pieces from impact.
This one was small. About the size of his head. Covered in snow. But solid.
Usable.
A weapon.
Or bait.
Millet's fingers inched toward it.
His arms ached.
His body screamed.
But he didn't stop.
Didn't move too fast.
Didn't breathe too loud.
The creature's head twitched — not toward him, but slightly to the left, as if tracking the sound of snow shifting.
Millet froze.
Waited.
Waited longer.
Then, with slow precision, he wrapped his fingers around the cold surface of the rock.
It was heavier than it looked.
And cold — colder than anything he'd ever held.
But it was real.
Solid.
Sharp on one side.
He looked at the creature.
Still approaching.
Step by step.
Its breaths were growing louder.
Deeper.
It was waiting for something — a sound, a movement, a cue to lunge.
Millet's fingers tightened around the rock.
He could feel his pulse pounding in his skull.
No more running.
No more panic.
Just one shot.
One chance.
He crouched low, letting the snow hide him, just enough. His legs were trembling, but his stance was steady.
He held the rock like a knife — ready to swing, or throw.
Waited.
Watched.
The creature moved.
Slow.
Deliberate.
One step.
Two.
Millet didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't breathe.
The moment stretched.
Everything around him went still.
And then—
The wind shifted.
The creature tilted its head again, ears twitching.
Now.
Millet pulled his arm back.
And waited.
Waited for it to take one more step.
Just one.
It did.
Millet moved.