Kim-Do's revelation fell into the convent's silence like a stone in dead water. For a long time, no one seemed to be breathing. Only the sizzling of the screens broke the calm, accompanied by the muffled hum of repressed fear.
Lyra was the first to react, her analytical mind going into immediate evaluation mode. Defined. Consciousness preserved in data storage? An isolated cognitive loop?"
Kim-Do shook his head, unable to formulate the horror in technical terms. "It was... him. Not a memory. Not an echo. A presence. Terrified. Locked up. He said 'Help'."
Joon, still kneeling behind him, slowly removed his hands from his shoulders. "The erasure protocol... we always thought it was a complete deconstruction, a formatting."
"What if it was another lie?" murmured Cassiopeia, her soft voice imbued with a new coldness. Imprisoning... allows data to be recovered. To study. To reuse, perhaps."
The idea was monstrous. The system did not just kill divergent consciences; it kept them as specimens, in perpetual suffering. For what? Research? A form of punishment? A reserve of psychic energy?
Orion punched a metal crate, startling everyone. "It doesn't matter why! If that's true, it's an abomination. And an opportunity."
All eyes turned to the veteran.
"An opportunity?" Sirius repeated, incredulously. "To go and get us trapped in a mental prison?"
"No," said Orion, his hard eyes sweeping the assembly. "An opportunity to find an ally. Imagine: the real Kim-Do, one of the strongest and most determined subjects ever recorded. If we can release it, not only are we doing the right thing, but we are adding tremendous strength to our rebellion. Her knowledge of the system, of its flaws... she is unique."
The argument was logical, coldly strategic. But Kim-Do felt a knot forming in his stomach. Unleash the real Kim-Do. The man whose life, body, identity he had stolen. What would happen then? Would it disappear, erased in its turn? Or would they live together? The idea was absurd and terrifying.
"What about me?" he asked, his voice weaker than he would have liked.
Lyra looked at him, and for the first time, he perceived a nuance of uncertainty in his steely gaze. You are a stable replacement, but aware of your condition. You developed your own signature. The system sees you as both Kim-Do and an anomaly. The reintegration of the original... it's uncharted territory."
"There could be a conflict," added Joon, pragmatically. "Two consciousnesses for a single neural anchor. One or both could be damaged."
It was a deadly risk. But the call still resonated in Kim-Do's mind. A call of pure distress, devoid of the rage or ambition he associated with the character. The fear of a lost man.
"You have to try," he finally said. It was not courage, but an obligation. He owed that debt. He was living proof that the other person's prison was real.
Lyra nodded slowly. "Okay. But we cannot act blindly. We must first locate precisely this prison. The coordinate you perceived is a beginning, but it's volatile, like a weak signal. It must be triangulated."
The plan that emerged was bold and discouragingly complex. They had to send Kim-Do on reconnaissance several times, at different points in the network, to "listen" to the real Kim-Do's distress signal from different angles. Like probing the depths with sonar, but in a multidimensional information space.
"Every dive will be a risk," warned Cassiopeia, who was responsible for mapping the safest access points. "The system is now hypersensitive to any abnormal activity. We'll have to use Echoes as coverage in an even more sophisticated way, and move our emission point every time."
The following days were a grueling marathon of mental training and technical preparation. Kim-Do had to learn to recognize the specific "texture" of the prisoner's call, to distinguish it from the background noise of Echoes and potential traps of the system. Joon refined his anchoring techniques, developing a kind of more resilient psychic thread. Lyra and her team prepared a series of temporary "nests," ephemeral digital hiding places from which to operate.
The first dive took place from a disused telecommunications node on the outskirts of the city. The experiment was brief and brutal. The signal was tenuous, distant. Kim-Do perceived it as a barely audible groan in the middle of a storm. But that was enough to get a first reference point.
The second dive, from a pirate server that Vega had managed to infiltrate, was more accurate. The groan turned into a clearer call, always filled with fear, but with a hint of... consciousness? As if the prisoner perceived that he was being sought.
It was after the third, riskiest dive, conducted from a relayman hidden in the basement of Ganguk High itself, that the truth came out.
Kim-Do returned from the trance, trembling, his face flooded with cold sweat, but his eyes wide open with amazement.
"It's not a prison like any other," he gasped, grabbing Joon's arm to stabilize himself. "It's... it's a mirror."
Lyra froze. "A Cognitive Mirror? It's just a theory. An extreme safeguarding protocol for consciences deemed too valuable or too dangerous to be erased."
"That's it," Kim-Do confirmed, the chaotic images organizing in his mind. "He's in a loop. A simulation. But that's not his life. It's... mine. He sees what I see. He saw what I saw, but on the other side of the glass. He witnesses everything I do in his name."
The horror of revelation left them all speechless. The real Kim-Do was imprisoned in a copy of the reality that the imposter lived. He saw Yu-Ra, Min-Ji, the fighting, the choices. He was witnessing, helplessly, the diversion of his existence. This refined psychological torture went beyond mere annihilation in cruelty.
"That's why he's afraid," Sirius whispered horrified. "He's not afraid of forgetting. He's afraid of us. Of what we do. What you're doing, Kim-Do."
The weight of this responsibility crushed Kim-Do. Every misstep, every compromise, every moment of cowardice or violence was watched by the man whose place he had taken. And the cry for help... was it a plea for release, or a cry of horror at what he was becoming?
"We must get him out of there," Orion insisted, more determined than ever. "No longer as a strategic asset, but out of duty. Nobody deserves that."
The location was now clearer. The Cognitive Mirror was not stored in a physical location, but its entry point, its "reflection," was anchored to a very specific location: Kim-Do's quest system. The same one who had guided, tested and punished the imposter from the beginning. The loop was perversely closed. The imposter's control tool was also the prison window of the original.
"To free it, you have to break the Mirror from the inside," Lyra said, analyzing the implications. "It means entering the quest system at the core level, just when it generates the interface for Kim-Do. And introduce not a virus, but a break code. A kind of... grace."
"Do it during a quest?" asked Joon, skeptical. "That's when Kim-Do is most vulnerable, and the most attentive system."
"The data flow is at its maximum, the bandwidth between reality and the mirror is wide open. This is the only fault enough to pass something other than a simple observation. It is also the moment when the real Kim-Do is most present, most connected through reflection."
The plan was terrifying. Kim-Do is expected to trigger a major quest, fully commit to it, and at the height of the action, Joon and Lyra would attempt to inject the break code into the stream, creating a temporary breach in the Mirror. Kim-Do would then have to mentally grab the prisoner's outstretched hand and pull him to the other side.
If he fails, he could find himself sucked into the Mirror in his place. Or the two consciousnesses could merge catastrophically. Or the system, detecting the intrusion, would erase both of them.
There was no good option. Only a choice between nightmares.
Kim-Do spent the night staring at the ceiling of the Convent, the call of the prisoner echoing in the silence of his mind. He thought of the image of the sunset. That was what he had stolen. Not just a life, but the possibility of that peace.
In the early morning, his decision was made. He was no longer the imposter who survived. He had become the guardian of a prisoner conscience. And a guard had homework.
"I'll do it," he announced to the assembly of regulators. "I'm going to start the quest. Find me the biggest, most dangerous one. The one that will attract the most attention from the system."
A strange, almost admiring smile touched Cassiopeia's lips. "I think we have just what you need."
She displayed a system alert window that she had intercepted.
"'
[FUNDAMENTAL QUEST: LEVELERSHIP CRISIS]
Background: Kim-Do's faction and Park Jin-Ho's faction are on the brink of open warfare.
Objective: To resolve the conflict definitively. To eliminate or subdue the rival faction.
• Failure: Total loss of status. Public exhibition.
Reward: Unified control of Ganguk High. Access to Level 5 privileges.
"'
It was perfect. Bloody, risky, and of paramount importance in the life simulation that the system maintained. The attention would be maximum.
"Let us prepare," said Lyra, a glimmer of defiance in her gray eyes. "We shall have but one chance."
Kim-Do opined, his stomach knotted, but his resolve was firm. He was going to face Park Jin-Ho one last time. But this time, it wasn't for his survival. It was to honor a debt. And, perhaps, to offer a man lost in a reflection the chance to see a real sunset again.
This chapter introduces a profound existential dilemma. Kim-Do is no longer just trying to survive; he must decide what form his redemption will take. Saving the man he replaced is an act of immense morality, but he risks everything: his existence, rebellion, and perhaps the psychic balance of the two individuals.