The Mirror Realm was not made of glass. It was made of empty memories, taking reality and copying it, just like a mirror, but without the living in it.
Every reflection shimmered not with light, but with regret.
Each step Asmodeus took sent ripples through the mirrored ground, waves of his own failures reflecting back at him — his rise, his triumphs, his endless hunger for power — all turned hollow.
He was lying on a fractured obsidian plain, his body torn open by the Guide's law, the command still echoing through his essence like a divine curse.
{Die}.
The word had not merely struck his body; it had branded itself upon his soul.
The air tasted of iron and smoke. Black ichor dripped from his wounds, hissing as it met the mirrored floor, burning his reflection away only for it to return seconds later.
The realm itself rejected his suffering — it would not let him hide from it.
He had been called the Strongest Demon King.
