Rael's boots crunched softly on the bridge of ash and ember. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and metal—remnants of a battlefield that never happened, yet somehow had. Beneath his feet, the bridge flickered with visions: comrades fallen, orders given, regrets unspoken.
At the end stood his other self—a warlord clad in silver and crimson, his armor glistening with blood-coded reflections. His eyes burned coldly.
"You hesitated," the Warlord said, voice like iron. "That's why they died."
Rael clenched his jaw. "They died because I trusted the wrong fight. I see that now."
The Warlord drew a massive saber etched with code glyphs. "Mercy weakens command. If you'd been me—if you'd taken control—you could have saved them all."
"I don't need to be you to do better."
The Anchor floated between them, pulsing. Rael drew his blade and charged.
Their swords clashed with a thunderous crack. The bridge lit up with fragments of battles past—alternate realities where Rael had become a tyrant, a hero, or something in between.
The Warlord was faster. Sharper. Ruthless. But Rael fought with purpose, his strikes fueled not by rage, but memory.
"You fight like someone who still believes in people," the Warlord sneered.
"I do," Rael growled, locking blades. "Because they believed in me."
With a final surge, he disarmed his reflection and shattered the Anchor.
> Anchor Code [2/3] Acquired.
The bridge behind him dissolved into mist.
In the far void, Oroth's path remained untouched. But something stirred in the dark—his trial would not be a mirror.