Reflection outside the mirror.

“When facing your own reflection, one either lies—or burns in the truth.”

---

"This place... really is awful," Illya muttered under her breath.

She stood alone in a narrow corridor, cloaked in oppressive darkness. The cold walls seemed to breathe with silent malice, as if the labyrinth itself watched her every step.

Behind her—only a dead end. The only option was forward.

Drawing her sword slightly from its sheath, Illya took a breath and advanced. Time dissolved in the stillness. Five minutes? Ten? In the maze, even seconds stretched like hours.

At last, a faint glow appeared in the distance.

"A way out, finally... I was about to die of claustrophobia," she said with sarcastic relief.

Yet as she reached the exit, it wasn't freedom that awaited her—but choice. Three new paths opened before her: left, right, and straight.

“If I choose wrong, I fall behind... and I can’t afford to lose. I have to win this trial.”

A sudden sound echoed—footsteps.

Startled, Illya instinctively stepped back and readied her blade. But in her haste, her foot activated a glowing sigil on the ground.

"Damn it—!"

A burst of light. And from the magic circle emerged... herself.

An exact replica. Another Illya.

Behind the doppelgänger, a second figure materialized—one that eerily resembled Alric.

“Alric…? No, he’s not here. That must be part of the illusion too.”

The fake Illya stepped forward, a twisted smile on her lips.

“Well, well. Hello… little coward.”

Illya narrowed her eyes. “Who’re you calling a coward, you second-rate fake?”

“Oh, I’m no fake. I’m you. And I know everything about you.”

Illya clenched her teeth. She understood the danger. This wasn’t just physical combat—it was psychological warfare. Her enemy knew every scar, every fracture, every buried regret.

"I get it. You're a mirror, a copy of me. That means you know every weakness I try to hide."

"Exactly. And you know what? You're a real piece of work."

The illusion's tone was playful—cruelly so.

Illya raised her sword. “Enough talking. Fight me, or shut up.”

Their blades clashed, sparks dancing in the darkness.

“You still remember her, don’t you…?”

Illya’s heart skipped.

Her. That person.

The one she tried so hard to forget.

“Shut up!” she yelled, trembling.

“‘Promise me we’ll be friends forever’—was that what she said? Pathetic.”

“No! Shut up shut up SHUT UP!”

She struck wildly, her tears burning down her cheeks. But the illusion laughed, easily parrying every blow.

"You don’t even want to win. You just want to erase your guilt."

Illya couldn’t argue. The words pierced deeper than any sword.

A brutal kick to her gut sent her flying back into the original corridor. Behind her—a dead end. No escape.

From the shadows, laughter.

> “Illya, promise me… promise we’ll always be friends…”

> “I promise.”

> “You always break your promises…”

“I… I’m sorry…”

Her body shook as the memories flooded back. The pain, the shame, the loneliness.

“Go on… end it. Kill me already,” she whispered.

She had no strength left to stand. No desire to fight. Only an ache in her soul too old for her years.

“Oh, that face… hopeless, hollow. You’re delicious,” the illusion purred.

“Just do it... but use my strongest technique. Let me die by the thing I was most proud of.”

“How poetic. Fine. I’ll humor you.”

The fake Illya raised her sword.

—“Severing Flash.”

A piercing beam of light shot forward—a move of devastating power, but one major flaw: a narrow, linear path.

The strike missed.

"What…?"

“Wind Blade!”

Illya's own voice rang out as her hidden spell erupted from the side. The illusion didn’t see it coming.

Too late.

The doppelgänger was sliced clean through.

Silence returned.

Illya stood, breathless but resolute.

“Thanks,” she said quietly to the fading illusion, “for reminding me what kind of monster I really was.”

The broken wall behind the illusion revealed a path.

A

 way forward.

She walked toward it, step by step.

> “I’m still alive. And as long as I live… I have a chance to make things right.”