The world beyond the loop was wrong.
Qin and Lyra stood on a rocky ridge overlooking what could only be described as a wound in the land—a hollow, gray valley strewn with petrified trees, their bark twisted like tortured bones. The sky was not night, nor day. It hovered in a strange, colorless dusk, where no sun moved and shadows bent the wrong way.
"Where are we?" Lyra muttered, squinting into the distance.
"Somewhere between the Vale and whatever was left after the loop broke," Qin replied, voice low. He adjusted the grip on his staff, still pulsing faintly from the magic he'd poured into it. "A memory of a place, maybe. Or a place that was never meant to exist."
A gust of wind stirred dust from the dead ground. It carried no scent.
They walked in silence for a while, following the vague pull of the ring on Qin's hand. It was glowing again—not bright, but steady. Like it was... watching.
They stopped near what might once have been a watchtower. It was half-collapsed, stones worn smooth by time or something worse. A broken staircase spiraled into nothing.
Lyra sniffed the air again, this time her body tensing.
"What is it?"
"Something's here. Not close, but near enough. It smells like death. Like old magic and rot."
Qin nodded, his heartbeat quickening. They moved with caution, descending into the valley. As they approached the base of the ruins, the air turned colder.
Then they heard it.
A voice.
Familiar.
"You should have stayed in the Tower, Qin. You were never ready."
Qin froze.
Narin.
But Narin was dead.
He turned slowly.
From the shadow of a cracked archway stepped a figure. Its face was Narin's—the same lined eyes, the same silver hair tied back, the same worn robes. But its eyes were hollow. Its smile too wide.
Lyra growled. "That thing is wrong."
Qin took a step back. "It's not him. It's a mimic."
The creature laughed, voice shifting into a chorus of tones. From Narin to Lyra to something unrecognizable.
"Not mimic," it said. "Echo. Splinter. Piece of a god who eats time."
The air turned to ice.
The creature shed its skin. Narin's image flaked away like ash. What remained was a mass of shadow and bone, tendrils writhing, a jaw that opened too wide and never shut.
It lunged.
Qin cast a shield rune instinctively, but it shattered on impact. Lyra moved fast, claws flashing as she leapt onto the thing's back. It screamed—not in pain, but in amusement.
"This thing is laughing!" she snarled.
Qin tried a fire ward. The creature absorbed it. Turned it into smoke. Threw it back.
The blast hit him square in the chest and sent him flying into the rubble.
Lyra landed hard beside him, breathing heavy. Her shoulder bled. Deep.
"That's not even the real thing," she panted.
Qin coughed, blood on his lips. "It's a splinter. Just a fragment of Umbhrax."
The realization hit like ice water.
If this was a piece—just a sliver of that entity—and it was doing this to them?
They weren't even close to ready.
The creature slithered forward, forming a shape that resembled a man again, wearing a crown made of smoke.
"Run," Qin whispered.
Lyra didn't argue.
He cast one last spell—a pulse of chaotic displacement magic. A tear in space opened behind them, linked to the upper ruins. It wouldn't hold long.
They dived through it.
Behind them, the creature screamed with rage. Not wounded. Just denied.
They landed hard in the tower ruin above, coughing and bruised. Qin's ribs felt cracked. Lyra dragged herself into cover.
Qin collapsed against the cold stone wall, breath ragged, his staff cracked along the middle. Lyra dropped beside him, bleeding from a gash along her arm. Neither of them spoke for a long time—just the sound of the wind howling through fractured stone and the slow drip of blood.
Lyra was the first to speak. "That wasn't even the real thing."
Her voice was low, distant.
Qin didn't answer. He couldn't.
"It was… broken," she continued, as if needing to say it aloud would make it less terrifying. "A mimic. A cursed echo, maybe. And it still almost killed us."
He looked down at his hands. Burnt fingers. Shaking wrists. The runes he cast had fizzled before they finished forming. The creature had mocked him using Narin's voice, and he'd hesitated. That moment had nearly cost Lyra her life.
"I thought I was ready," Qin said quietly.
Lyra scoffed, not unkindly. "You're seventeen."
"I thought I could be enough."
Her eyes finally met his. "You're not."
Silence stretched again.
Then, softer: "But maybe you can be."
Qin stared out a shattered window, watching the fog roll through the trees. He didn't know what was waiting beyond this ruined place. But for the first time, he understood that raw willpower and wizardry alone wouldn't be enough. He'd need strength. Control. And something deeper—something still locked inside him.
He didn't feel powerful anymore.
But maybe that was a start.
His fingers trembled. His magic had barely worked. His defenses had shattered like paper.
He wasn't strong enough.
He wasn't close.
The path ahead suddenly seemed longer than any spellbook could cover.
"We're surviving," he said at last. "That's all we can do. For now."
Lyra nodded, eyes distant. "We need allies. And you need training. Real training. Not just theory."
Qin nodded. He looked toward the horizon—a crack in the gray sky revealed a sliver of moonlight.
It looked like an eye.
Watching.
And waiting.