The battle showed no sign of ending.
The air of the Fourth Layer shuddered with the clash of steel and the endless cries of countless selves. Yan Zhi's shadow twisted into blades, tearing through the reflections that kept spilling from shattered glass.
But for every one he struck down, two more emerged.
Blood—or something like it—evaporated into the air, forming a suffocating black fog.
From within that haze, the voices crawled:
"I am the hatred you never confessed."
"I am the envy you felt when they looked down on you."
"I am the smile you wore before driving a knife into their back."
Yan Zhi clenched his teeth.
"Lies… all of it!"
He leapt, cleaving through three reflections at once. But as their bodies fell, pain lanced through his own chest—every strike felt like carving into himself.
His knees nearly buckled. "At this rate… I'll die before they do."
Then—footsteps. Not the shallow echoes of reflections. Heavier. Real.
From the fog stepped a single figure. Another Yan Zhi. Yet unlike the others, this one bore no weapon, no smile, no words. His eyes were calm, his face expressionless, and not a single shadow clung to his form. He was flawless.
The other reflections froze in place, bowing as if in submission.
Yan Zhi's blood ran cold. "…Who are you?"
The figure's mouth moved, and the voice was his own—deeper, steadier:
"I am you without doubt. Without guilt. Without mercy. I am the you… you were meant to be."
The very air cracked, as if reality could not endure the presence of two true Yan Zhis at once.
"If you want to leave this place," the figure said, gaze unflinching, "there's only one path. Kill me. Or be erased."
The sword in Yan Zhi's hand quivered. His breath came hard and shallow. He understood—this was no longer a fight against reflections. This was the core trial of the Fourth Layer: only one Yan Zhi will walk out alive.
And for the first time, he wondered—if he survived, would the one who walked out… still be him?
---