Shortness of breath. A young man, dressed in gray rags that barely passed for a cloak, pressed himself against the wall. He was in an alley. His eyes darted from corner to corner, scanning his surroundings. He tried to steady his breathing to listen to the chaos roaring in the streets. Beneath the tattered fabric, a belt concealed several pouches filled with the local currency.
'Looks like I lost them...'
The young man exhaled, letting his guard down for a moment.
"There you are, you piece of trash."
A deep, hostile voice rang out. Before he could turn, a strike to the side of his head sent him to the ground. He barely had time to react before more blows rained down, hitting every part of his body.
"We trusted you, you bastard!"
"The son of a bitch tried to run!"
The crowd pressed in around him, ripping his clothes apart, revealing his face. Brownish hair spilled out, along with plain, unremarkable features.
'Is this the end for me?'
The beating stopped, and in the next instant, someone grabbed him by the hair, lifting him off the ground. Forcing him to meet their gaze. A bearded man, middle-aged, stood before him.
"Listen, you scum. Where were you planning to go with all that money?"
The young man clenched his jaw, unwilling to answer. The hand gripping his hair slammed his head against the wall.
"Still don't want to talk?"
His eyes flicked from face to face. Not knowing where else to look, he focused on a spot beyond the man's head. Seeing this, the bearded man drove his knee into his face, knocking out teeth and breaking his nose. Blood dripped from his mouth and nostrils.
"If you don't confess, you're not leaving this alley."
The young man's eyes darted back to the man before him.
"I-I wanted to escape through the Mirror." His voice came out slurred, barely intelligible.
The crowd erupted, their anger boiling over. Some tried to strike him again, while others attempted to hold them back.
"With all that money? Were you dreaming of a new life?" The man sneered mockingly. Looking around at the people surrounding them, he smirked before his face darkened.
"Do you understand what you've done?"
"Y-yes."
"Then explain yourself."
The young man hesitated for a few seconds, thinking. The grip on his hair tightened painfully, forcing him to speak.
"I took an advance payment... for killing the Cannibal. Then I tried to run."
His chest tightened. So many eyes bore into him, filled with rage and contempt. He had never felt such hostility directed at him before.
The grip on his hair tightened again, nails digging into his scalp.
"Don't say it like it's something ordinary... Every godforsaken day, we place our hopes on people like you. We pray for you. But for what? And then it turns out you—the Existant! A clown, a pathetic coward even among his kind."
Those words cut deeper than the beatings. That name—Existant—for some reason, hurt the most.
The man stood, still holding him by the hair.
"Listen up! There were times and places where people would confess their worries and sins! Let's bring that back for a moment. Tell me the sins of this boy through your own pain!"
The young man couldn't stand—his legs were too damaged. He was little more than a ragdoll being held up by his hair.
The man threw him forward, this time not against the wall but at the feet of the crowd.
"Well, Existant? Remember all that nonsense you used to spew? About the Mirrors you saved? When you can't even save us?"
'Ah, that...'
The crowd burst into a rumble of voices, some shouting. They all spoke of their fears—the fear of the Cannibal. The creature that slaughtered entire villages, a threat to the entire Mirror—at least to the nearby human settlements. The being was called Cannibal because of the human corpses found gnawed upon in different places. People concluded it fed on them.
The young man didn't listen to the crowd. He already knew what they were saying. About the hope he had given them and then so quickly taken away. He understood their fear, their anger, their desperation to cling to someone like him.
Because, in the end...
'I just want to survive, too.'
Others couldn't escape this place because they didn't possess the new that the new world offered. Only a rare few could wield this new law. It was something like what he had read about before—magic.
Even though he didn't fully understand it, he had managed to feel it, to some degree control it.
'Even the others couldn't do it.'
The other mercenaries like him had never returned. They had been older, wiser, stronger in his eyes.
'Why am I like this?'
Something inside him began to crumble.
---
The young man sat, slumped against the same alley wall.
His face was beaten and bloodied, bruises and welts covering his skin. His hollow eyes stared at the opposite wall. Faint streaks of dried tears ran down his cheeks.
He thought back to his first arrival in this city, before the disaster with the Cannibal. His first time here in Dampfletown, a city bordering both forest and desert.
'I think there was some kind of festival then...'
---
Night. A glowing city and a festival. A magical, festive atmosphere. People laughing, drinking, forgetting their troubles. The young man, sitting on a wooden barrel, was part of this chaos, though he stood out with his exaggerated grandeur.
"You know! In other Mirrors, they know me as the Demon Emperor of Salvation! So much has happened! I sacrificed myself fighting—literally—against the sky! But now I'm here... though without my powers. And before that, I was the Emperor of Black! I gave up my throne and my darkness to save a few Mirrors from true madness! Ahh, what a time that was—oh, and did I ever tell you about..." He rambled on and on, barely pausing for breath.
A girl, sitting by his feet, leaned her back against the barrel, listening. A mug of alcohol rested in her hands, her face relaxed. Her lips curled into a faint smirk.
"It's like I'm sitting next to the Emperor of the Universe himself," she chuckled.
He was drunk. She would have been arrested long ago for giving alcohol to a minor, but in this place, such laws no longer applied.
"So, you say you're new around here?" the girl asked.
The young man lowered his gaze to look at her. "Well, sort of, yeah."
She turned toward him. "Do you have a place to sleep?"
He hesitated for a moment, then replied with a dumbfounded expression, "Uhh, not really, no?"
"Thought so." She smiled. "It's a bit far, but my grandpa and I live in an old concrete house. If you don't have anywhere else, you can stay with us."
"What?! I can't just agree to go somewhere with a stranger!"
He was slightly flustered by her sudden offer.
"Hmmm? And what would make you agree?"
After a pause, he came up with an answer.
"Become my apprentice! Or my assistant! How can I survive in new lands without allies?" He declared enthusiastically.
The girl was surprised for a moment, then her smile grew.
"Well, if the Emperor of the Universe himself requests it..."
She stood up, faced him, then slowly lowered herself to one knee. Her voice turned ceremonious, but her smile remained.
"I, Noora, swear by my soul to serve you, Mister Existant..."
---
Limping, the young man reached the house.
It was different from the others—concrete, unlike the wooden buildings barely holding together. This house had survived time. Rusted metal frames, remnants of old fortifications—it had once been part of something larger. Now, it stood alone, half-ruined but still sturdy.
Crossing the threshold of the courtyard, he saw the grandfather, still sitting in the old wooden chair in the garden. He looked like a part of the land—motionless, faded by time, yet alive. His gaze was fixed into the distance, as if waiting for impossible seeds to sprout.
He shook his head, called out a greeting, and, receiving no answer, headed into the house. He hadn't been here for days.
In the hallway, the smell of fresh bread hit him—warm, rich, dense. A reminder of home that made his chest tighten.
'Why do I feel so uneasy? Like a stranger in my own home.'
Walking through the corridors, he stopped at the kitchen door. He listened, hoping to hear her voice, her footsteps, even her breathing.
"I know you're at the door. Come in."
He held his breath. Time froze. Everything inside him clenched. But hiding was pointless. He stepped forward.
Noora stood before him—petite, with long black hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore a simple white dress that seemed to glow in the dim kitchen light. Her hands were busy sorting herbs, arranging them into neat piles.
A lump rose in his throat.
"Hey, Noora, long time no—"
He didn't finish. The next second, sharp, burning pain struck his cheek. A slap. She stood before him, her face a mix of anger, hurt, and disappointment.
"You actually had the nerve to show up here."
He lowered his gaze, unable to meet her eyes.
"I know what happened."
She turned back to the counter, resuming her sorting as if nothing had happened. He stood there like a statue, unsure what to say.
"I'm sorry..."
She slammed her palm against the table. The wood trembled.
"Sorry for what? That everyone in this Mirror is going to die? Or that you decided to steal from the villagers?"
Her voice shook with tension, rising to a shout.
"That I can't save you."
She turned around and he was reflected in her mirrored eyes.
"You didn't even try."
She looked away again. Picked up a knife, sliced the herbs into even pieces. The scent of bitterness hung in the air.
Silence stretched. He didn't know what to say. His chest burned.
"Stay as long as you want. Just don't talk to me."
He didn't reply. What could he say? There were no excuses. He turned and left, slipping into his room.
He sat on the bed, pulled bandages from his bag, and began tending to his wounds. Pressed his palms to bruises, feeling the uneven skin. Threaded thin strands of essence through the injuries, careful not to dig deeper. Then he summoned cold—imagined ice trickling over his skin. A thin frost formed, crusting over the wounds. A small relief.
'How do others create such vast cold?.. One master once froze an entire tavern. He was truly a legend.'
Finished, he stripped off his ragged cloak, tossed it into the corner where his gear lay scattered. Lay down. The blanket was thin but warm. Under it, he wished he could disappear.
Sleep didn't come. Thoughts gnawed at him like rats.
'Maybe I can convince her to run away? But Grandfather...'
He closed his eyes, staring at the ceiling, and after a long time, finally fell asleep.
---
Nightmares often haunted the boy, waking him in cold sweat. But this time, something else drenched him in icy dread.
"Where's Noora?" The old man's anxious voice came from beside the bed.
'What?'
The boy sat up, studying his grandfather, who was visibly shaking.
"She's not home?"
The old man nodded.
'She wouldn't... no, definitely not.'
Noora often left the house, but she always told to her Grandfather where she was going. Now the old man was frantic, unsure where she'd gone.
The boy was already pulling on his cloak when he noticed something. His gear was missing. The sword and backpack were gone.
'No no no...'
An idea struck—where she might have run off to. He threw on his cloak and was about to bolt when a voice stopped him.
"Please, both of you... come back safe. That's all I need."
Grandfather's words pinned him in place like needles.
'...'
"Of course."
---
The boy sprinted through empty streets. The villagers had already abandoned their homes. He headed for the tavern—maybe the group hadn't left yet. The Hawks of the Expanse, the desert exploration team, was supposed to return yesterday.
The tavern's entrance came into view. His pupils narrowed. It was too quiet—no one, not even a soul nearby.
Reaching the door, he stepped inside, passing under the wooden arch.
No one was there. Only spilled liquid on the floor and the lingering smell of fried food hinted that the place had been alive not long ago.
'Damn it.'
They must have already left for the forest—to hunt the Cannibal.
A moment of doubt tormented him. Should he even follow them? Other Mirrors had safer paths now—why risk his life here?
And then there was that stupid name—Existant—clinging to him like a curse. A childhood nickname he carried, now infamous among the locals because he couldn't keep his mouth shut during the festival.
Remembering it made him wish the name had never existed.
'Idiot. Nothing but an idiot...'
The humiliation in that alley had made him realize—he was just a coward, always running away. Betraying hope wasn't new to him, so why did his heart feel like it was about to tear apart now?
Clenching his fists, the boy turned and ran.
'I'm going to regret this.'
---
Every step sent a sharp pain through his ribs, but fear drove him forward—fear for her life. The rain lashed down with terrifying force, battering the soaked leaves, shaking droplets from the branches, turning the earth into a squelching trap beneath his feet. Water streamed downward, gathering into tiny rivulets that quickly swelled into murky currents, carrying fallen leaves and clumps of dirt. The air was thick, humid, saturated with the scent of churned earth, tree bark, and stagnant water pooling in the hollows.
'Why did you have to do this?'
The young man pressed forward cautiously, gripping thick roots jutting from the loose soil. Every step could be his last—the stones underfoot were slick, the rain turning the path into a muddy snare. His boot sank into the muck, and when he tried to wrench free, his legs slipped. His body tilted backward, and a second later, his side slammed into a nearby boulder with a dull thud. Pain twisted through his ribs, his breath escaping in a sharp, choked gasp.
He clenched his eyes shut, forcing himself to steady. His hand clawed at a low-hanging branch, nails digging into the bark, anchoring him. He stayed there, breathing heavily, waiting for his heart to slow. His clothes clung to him, soaked through with cold mud, the chill seeping into his skin—but he barely noticed. With a rough swipe, he cleared the water from his face, then looked up—and froze.
Beyond the tangle of branches, veiled in gloom, stood a stone arch. Ancient, half-ruined, its surface mottled with moss and lichen, yet still standing despite the centuries. Moonlight skimmed its edges, tracing the smooth, once-polished stone. It didn't look like just a relic of the past—it looked like a gateway, leading somewhere that had been hidden in the heart of this forest for ages.
This forest had never belonged to Earth. After the worlds shattered, everything blurred—new entities, new lands, new laws emerged. No one knew what lurked beyond these trees, but even the forest's outskirts were treacherous, its flora warped by forces beyond comprehension.
He moved forward slowly.
The closer he got, the stronger the cold became—not damp, not wet, but hollow. The air was unnaturally still, as if nothing had breathed here for centuries.
He stepped into the darkness.
---
Inside, the blackness was absolute. Thick shadows swallowed the walls, obscuring their shape, and the space felt wider than it should have. After a few steps, he stretched out his hand and uncurled his fingers. A soft glow spilled from his palm, illuminating the nearest surfaces.
Before him stretched a vast chamber, like the inside of a colossal sphere. The walls were etched with intricate carvings, twisting patterns that dissolved into the dark. Above, a gap in the ceiling allowed moonlight to pour in, silver beams striking the stone floor, illuminating a ritual circle carved into its center.
But that wasn't what held his attention.
Scattered across the floor, in chaotic disarray, were bodies. Not just corpses—remains of creatures so different from one another they couldn't possibly share an evolutionary lineage. Some were armored in chitinous plates, others had elongated limbs, their forms frozen in postures of agony. They looked grotesque, like broken dolls tossed aside by a careless child.
These weren't just inhabitants of these lands. They were hunters—ancient, shapeless things that could remake their flesh as easily as others changed clothes. Their bodies obeyed instinct, evolving in seconds to match any environment, any threat, any prey. Perfect predators.
Among their twisted remains—shattered, snapped, oozing the faint stench of blood and decay—lay human bodies. Torn apart beyond recognition. Flesh stripped from bone, limbs wrenched from sockets. As if after a frenzied feast.
He stepped forward, as if balancing on the edge of an abyss. Every breath felt empty—his chest tightened, his heart aching with growing dread. And in that same moment, the world around him shuddered: a deep, resonant rumble, like distant stone collapsing, rolled through the ruins and vibrated in his bones. The very space trembled, as if struck by the heartbeat of a monster. He froze—his body refused to obey.
From the depths of the darkness, where even moonlight failed to reach, two blue flames ignited. They drifted forward, silent, and with them came the outline of horns—curved, ancient, like black wood veined with glowing capillaries, pulsing with blue light. And on one of them hung a body. It glowed faintly, like dying embers in a dead fire.
Fear didn't just grip him—it pierced him, locking his muscles, his thoughts, his breath.
The entire group was dead. No survivors.
'She could have escaped… maybe… please…'
The ground shook again. The rhythm of the tremors quickened, like a monster's heart beating faster. Each step brought it closer. The ruins trembled, dust raining from above. The creature approached.
He couldn't move. Not a finger, not even his gaze. Something in those blue flames—deep, cold—hypnotized him, sapping his will. Everything inside him stilled, like water before a storm. The glow in the horns dimmed. The darkness thickened.
Then—movement. A shadow lunged with such speed the air itself screamed.
He didn't even have time to cry out. The horns—long, jagged—pierced his body, spearing through his ribs, shredding flesh, snapping bone. His lungs seized, and instead of air, a thick, warm rush of blood spilled from his mouth. He was lifted into the air—impaled like a doll on a spike. The light in his palm flickered and died.
But before it did, he saw her.
Her body was already there.
She hung motionless beside him. Dead. Moonlight fell across her face, frozen in an expression of terror and pain. And in that moment, something inside him shattered. No more pain—just emptiness, a jagged, icy void devouring him from within.
He was too late.
'Please… no…'
All for nothing. Neither he nor she would return. He never got to apologize. Never got to look her in the eyes again.
'Not this easy… you bastard.'
He gripped the horn impaling his chest. Its rough, porous surface vibrated under his palm—foreign essence pulsed within it. He focused, pushing threads of his own essence past the pain, past the limits of his dying body.
'Even if my soul shatters… I won't let this end like this.'
His essence lashed against the horn, but the creature's energy repelled it, tearing at the threads, resisting. Realizing he couldn't breach it directly, he changed course—guiding his threads around the horns, weaving them upward toward the skull where the structure seem weaker.
He poured the despair into it. The last of him. The world narrowed to a single point: the fracture.
A second.
Then—light.
The creature's skull erupted—as if a sun had ignited inside it. White, searing brilliance tore through its head, veins of light exploding outward like a detonating star.
He gave the last drop of his essence. Everything. No holding back.
The flood broke through, incinerating everything in its path. The structure splintered. A storm raged inside.
Its skull deformed—then burst apart with a muffled explosion.
The horns remained intact, but they flared, feeding on the burst of power. Blinding heat surged through them. He hadn't even realized he'd fueled them—instinctively, with his final breath.
For half a second, blinding light banished the dark.
And then—his consciousness tore free from his body.
---
Everything vanished. The ruins, the darkness, the rumbling—all gone. Only a haze remained, thick like the edge of a death-drenched dream. He floated in the void, bodiless yet aware: he existed.
But there was cold. Not the cold of flesh, but deeper—as if his very self was being scoured by a wind that didn't exist, piercing straight to his core. It clawed at him, carrying away… something vital. His self? His memories?
He didn't understand. He drifted.
Then—it stopped.
Sounds. Muffled, as if underwater. Then sharper, closer.
"Push! Just a little more!"
Nearby—a pained, drawn-out groan. Then a gasp, ragged and wet, the first breath searing with pain… and life. Lungs filling, as if for the first time. A body—heavy, foreign, sticky with blood and something else. He… felt?
His eyes opened. Blur. Light. Movement. Shadows.
Warm hands caught him. A woman's. Gentle. He felt her fingers, the heat of her skin against his.
A woman. Young. Long black hair. Her face was indistinct—but she was smiling. Soft. Loving. And… relieved.
She looked at him, tenderly brushed his cheek. Her lips trembled.
"Hello, Luch."
A flash in his mind. Fragments—blood, the horn, light, her… her dead face—
'What the—?!'
He gasped as if breaching water. His body shook. His heart hammered. This… wasn't his body. Not his skin. Not his lungs.
But he was alive.