Level Eleven: The Crucible of Mirrors - Entry
Step.
Yoo's boot touched ground that shouldn't exist—solid, yet simultaneously liquid, the surface rippling outward from his footfall—splash-shimmer-solidify—creating concentric waves that froze mid-motion before melting back into fluidity.
The air here tasted sharp. Not metallic like the Threshold. Sharp like broken glass suspended in honey—sweet and cutting simultaneously, coating his tongue with sensations that made his teeth ache. Ache-throb-pulse. Each breath carried flavors that had no names: colors that existed as taste, sounds that registered as smell.
His doubled pupils spun wildly—spin-spin-SPIN—trying to process the space they'd entered.
This isn't a room.
This is... something else.
The "walls" were mirrors. Thousands of them. Millions. Extending infinitely in every direction, each one reflecting not what was, but what could be. Yoo saw himself in a hundred thousand variations:
