The transition from the lush, verdant foyer of the manor to the second floor was like stepping from a dream into a fever. The scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine was instantly devoured by a dry, metallic chill that tasted of silver polish and old blood. Kael Light stood at the threshold of the Architect's Labyrinth, the heavy mahogany doors behind him having vanished as if they were never there, replaced by a wall of seamless, polished obsidian.
In every direction, there were mirrors.
They were not merely glass. They were tall, narrow panes of "Spirit-Silver," framed in dark, twisted wood that seemed to pulse with a slow, parasitic heartbeat. The floor was a polished checkerboard of obsidian and ivory, so reflective that Kael felt as if he were walking on a thin sheet of ice over an infinite, starless sky.
Kael adjusted his grip on his cloak, his hand trembling. The 'Reforged Sun' on his finger was no longer glowing white; it was a bruised purple, the Star-Core straining against the overwhelming psychic pressure of the floor. This was the "Architect's" masterpiece—a space where geometry was a weapon and light was a lie.
LOOK AT US, KAEL, the God's voice whispered, sounding more intimate than a lover's breath. THEY ARE ALL WATCHING. A THOUSAND EYES FOR A THOUSAND FAILURES.
Kael took a step forward, and a thousand Kaels moved with him. But as he looked into the nearest pane, the reflection didn't mimic his movement.
The Kael in the glass was not wearing the grey cloak of the Blood Weeper. He was still wearing the shredded, salt-stained remains of the diving suit from Aethelgard. His skin was blue-grey, his eyes clouded with the milky film of the drowned. He was pinned beneath a jagged slab of obsidian, his mouth open in a silent, watery scream.
"It's not real," Kael whispered, his voice sounding small in the vast, echoing hall. "It's just an illusion. Sam's magic."
He moved past the first mirror, but the next one was worse. In this one, Kael saw himself as a young boy back in the Emerald Jungle, sitting on the porch with Elara. But in the reflection, Elara's face was a rotting skull, and the "White Sun" he was conjuring for her was a ball of black, squirming maggots.
Is it an illusion? the Shadow-Kael in the glass spoke, its voice a gurgling, wet sound. Or is this the version of you that Sam left behind? The boy who loved. The boy who trusted. He died in the dark, Kael. You're just the rot that grew out of his corpse.
Kael's heart hammered against his ribs—crack-snap. A rib splintered. The pain was sharp and cold, a reminder of the full moon's proximity. He clutched his side, his breath hitching. The blood began to weep from his eyes, the crimson trails standing out vividly against his pale, sweating face.
"I am alive," Kael growled, his golden-violet mana beginning to flare in defiance. "I am the one who survived."
He began to run. He needed to find the exit, the stairs to the third floor, anything to escape the judgmental gaze of his own history. But the Labyrinth was a masterpiece of disorientation. Every time he turned a corner, he found himself back in a hall that looked identical to the last. The mirrors were everywhere, and in each one, a different tragedy played out.
He saw Martha being executed by the Royal Guard because of his interference. He saw Pip, the boy he healed, being turned into a clockwork slave by the Guild. The Labyrinth didn't just show his past; it showed his fears, magnifying his guilt until the air felt like liquid lead.
WHY DO YOU FIGHT IT? the God purred. YOU ARE THE BLOOD WEEPER. YOU ARE THE AGONY. EMBRACE THE SHADOW IN THE GLASS. LET US STOP PRETENDING WE ARE A HEALER.
Kael stopped in front of a massive, floor-to-ceiling mirror at the center of a circular chamber. This pane didn't show a memory or a fear.
It showed the "Shadow."
The figure in the glass was Kael, but he was clad in armor made of solidified blood. His hair was long and white as bone, and his eyes were absolute voids. Behind him, the four golden rings were gone, replaced by a single, massive black halo that seemed to drink the light from the room.
The Shadow stepped forward, and its hand pressed against the surface of the glass from the other side.
"You think you're better than Sam," the Shadow said. Its voice was a perfect, chilling replica of Kael's own. "But you're the same. He traded your soul for gold. You're trading your soul for blood. Both are just currencies of the ego."
"I am doing this for justice," Kael shouted, his mana erupting. He raised his hand, the Stasis Ring screaming. "Primordial Art: The White Sun's Wrath!"
A pillar of golden fire shot from his palm, striking the mirror.
But the glass didn't shatter. The Shadow in the mirror simply raised its own hand and caught the fire. The golden flame turned black in its grip, curling around its fingers like a loyal pet.
"Justice is a lie told by the weak to justify their envy," the Shadow sneered.
Suddenly, the Shadow stepped out of the mirror.
The glass didn't break; it rippled like a dark pond as the entity crossed into the material world. The air in the chamber plummeted in temperature. Kael's breath misted in front of his face. This wasn't a simple illusion; it was a "Soul-Reflex," a high-level Academy defense that used the intruder's own mana to create a physical guardian.
The Shadow lunged.
It was faster than Kael. It moved with a fluid, supernatural grace that bypassed his defenses. A blade of black mana formed in the Shadow's hand, slashing across Kael's chest. The cut didn't just bleed; it felt as if a piece of his soul had been shorn away.
Kael fell back, his boots sliding on the ivory floor. He tried to cast a healing spell, but the Shadow was already on top of him, its hand gripping his throat.
"You don't want to kill Sam," the Shadow whispered, its face inches from Kael's mask of blood. "You want to be him. You want the power. You want the world to fear you just as they feared the Witch of the Canopy."
"No..." Kael gasped, his vision darkening.
HE IS RIGHT, KAEL, the God laughed. LOOK AT THE RINGS. LOOK AT THE BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS. WE ARE ALMOST THERE. JUST GIVE UP. LET THE SHADOW TAKE THE LEAD.
Kael felt his strength failing. The "Stable Agony" was no longer stable; it was an inferno. His bones were cracking in a rapid-fire sequence, the curse accelerating as his will crumbled. He looked into the Shadow's void-eyes and saw nothing but the truth of his own hatred.
But then, he remembered the smell of star-mint.
He remembered Elara's hand on his cheek—not the rotting skull of the mirror, but the warm, fading woman who had loved him. He remembered the look on Martha's face when the boy's fever broke.
He wasn't just a Blood Weeper. He was a son. He was a healer.
"The mirrors... are only glass," Kael whispered.
He didn't fight the Shadow. He didn't try to overpower it with mana. He did something the "Architect" had never intended.
Kael reached out and healed the Shadow.
He didn't channel destructive fire. He channeled the purest, most gentle "White Sun" energy he had left—the mana of a boy who just wanted to see a leaf fall. He pressed his palm against the Shadow's chest, where a heart should have been.
"Primordial Art: The Mother's Mercy."
The Shadow froze. The black mana blade evaporated. The void-eyes widened, flickering with a sudden, painful golden light.
The "Soul-Reflex" was designed to fight hatred. It was designed to reflect aggression. It had no defense against genuine, selfless compassion. The mana Kael poured into the Shadow was a poison to its existence.
The Shadow began to dissolve. It didn't scream; it sighed. For a heartbeat, the terrifying wraith turned back into the young boy from the Emerald Jungle. It looked at Kael with eyes that were clear and bright.
"Don't let the dark win, Kael," the boy whispered.
Then, he vanished into a cloud of golden dust.
The massive center mirror shattered. Not from a spell, but because the logic holding it together had been unraveled. The shards fell to the ivory floor with a sound like rain on a tin roof.
Kael stood alone in the chamber. The other mirrors remained, but they were silent now. The reflections were just reflections. The horror had been stripped away, leaving only a tired young man in a blood-stained cloak.
Kael fell to his knees, his body shaking. He coughed, a thick glob of violet blood hitting the ivory tile. The 'Reforged Sun' on his finger was dim, the Star-Core pulsing weakly.
He had survived the Trial of the Soul, but he was physically spent. His ribs were a mess, and the "Full Moon" was now only thirty hours away.
THAT WAS... UNEXPECTED, the God muttered, its voice sounding genuinely frustrated. A DANGEROUS SENTIMENT, KAEL. COMPASSION IS A HEAVY ANCHOR IN A STORM.
"It's the only anchor I have," Kael replied, wiping the blood from his eyes.
He stood up, using a shard of the broken mirror as a crutch. He looked through the gap where the center mirror had been. There was a doorway now—a simple, stone arch that led to a dark, narrow corridor.
The air coming from the corridor smelled of ozone and decay.
The Labyrinth was over. But the "Forbidden Floor" was waiting. Kael stepped through the arch, his footsteps heavy, his shadow following him like a silent, broken vow.