---
> "A mirror doesn't lie. It simply reflects the lies you told yourself."
---
The stairwell narrowed as he climbed.
The walls pressed in—not physically, but with pressure.
Like grief.
Like memory.
The Tower wasn't just observing him anymore.
It was responding.
> Reacting to the marks on his skin.
Testing the way his soul burned brighter.
Threatened by how much he now remembered.
By the time he reached the next floor, his footsteps were quieter.
Not because he wanted to be silent.
But because the Tower wanted him to hear something else.
---
There were no doors.
Just a corridor made of polished metal—clean, clinical, dead.
It reflected light like glass but revealed no image.
He looked to the wall on his left.
No reflection.
The wall on his right.
Still nothing.
Not even his shadow followed him here.
---
He stepped forward into the corridor.
His breathing was the only sound.
Each footfall echoed back twice—once in real time, once with a delay.
It was like the Tower wasn't just reflecting space… but rewinding it.
He moved slower.
More aware.
More awake.
Then, a voice:
> "You came back."
It wasn't the Tower.
It wasn't Remi.
It was him.
---
At the end of the corridor stood a lone mirror.
Framed in gold.
Perfectly centered against the wall.
It shouldn't have reflected anything.
And yet—
He saw himself.
But not as he was.
As he once was.
Or worse… as he could've been.
---
Clean white robes.
Gentle eyes.
Unscarred.
Whole.
A version of himself untouched by guilt.
Unaffected by war.
Still capable of kindness without condition.
Still capable of love.
He stared into the glass for a long time.
Then the reflection moved on its own.
It stepped away from the mirror.
And smiled.
---
> "You still carry the lies well," the reflection said.
Its voice was smooth. Gentle. Disarming.
> "The Tower gave you pain. You turned it into purpose."
> "But you were never meant to end anything."
> "You were meant to heal."
He clenched his fists.
The spiral on his arm began to glow.
> "I know what you are."
The figure tilted its head.
> "Do you?"
> "You're not the real me. You're the version I abandoned."
> "No," the reflection said, stepping closer. "I'm the part you buried."
> "I'm what you killed to become what you are now."
---
The air thickened.
His chest tightened.
This wasn't just illusion.
This was truth wrapped in deception.
The Tower had created no enemy this time.
He was his own enemy.
The reflection raised its hand—
And from its palm formed a blade of light.
Not forged.
Remembered.
A blade he hadn't held in centuries.
---
The duel began.
There was no clash of swords.
No thunderous combat.
This was war of intent.
He charged forward—each movement accompanied by visions:
His failure to save Remi.
The betrayal of the Forgotten Saints.
The time he turned away from a burning city to save only himself.
The reflection fought without mercy.
Without pain.
Because it had none.
---
It didn't bleed.
It didn't tire.
It only existed to shame him.
> "You think you're better because you carry the scars?"
> "You think the Tower fears you because you remember pain?"
The reflection struck again—this time through the ribs.
He stumbled.
Blood spilled.
He knelt.
But he didn't fall.
He looked up.
Eyes wild.
Alive.
---
> "You're wrong."
> "I'm not stronger because of my pain…"
He stood.
> "I'm stronger because I chose to live with it."
---
With his bare hand, he grabbed the blade lodged in his ribs.
Pulled it free.
And drove it into the reflection's heart.
The light shattered.
The mirror screamed.
And his twin dissolved into glass and ash.
---
The silence that followed wasn't peaceful.
It was funeral silence.
The kind that comes after burying a part of yourself.
He stood in the ruins of the mirror.
And from the ashes—
Another symbol formed on his skin:
> A thread-wrapped blade.
A sign of regret mastered.
A mistake accepted.
A scar healed—but not forgotten.
---
A new door opened behind him.
Wooden.
Carved.
And at the top was a phrase in ancient tongue.
But he could read it now.
The Tower had taught him.
> "Next: The Room That Remembers You."
---
He stepped forward.
He was no longer fighting for redemption.
He wasn't seeking salvation.
He wasn't looking for forgiveness.
He only walked now because the truth had to be found—
Even if it was the last thing he ever saw.
---
(To be continued in Chapter 11: The Room That Remembers You...)
---