The world was silent in Noctareal. Not the silence of peace, but the tense, suffocating stillness that settles before a storm. Ethan stood before the mirror pool — a narrow, silver sheet of liquid embedded in the black stone — and stared down into it like it held the weight of all his unanswered questions.

  It rippled once.

  Then again.

  And suddenly, the image shifted.

  He saw the ruined factory. The one in his world. A shell of rusted steel and shattered windows, swallowed by shadow. But what struck Ethan was not the place — it was who stood in it.

  Himself.

  Or rather, the version of himself that had taken his place. The reflection.

  Ethan’s breath caught. His reflection stood motionless in the heart of the factory, framed by broken glass and moonlight leaking through the cracked roof. In front of him, the beast — massive, stitched together by twisted muscle and reflective bone — loomed with a feral growl that shook the floor.

  But the reflection only smiled. Calm. Serene. Unbothered.

  He didn’t raise his fists. He didn’t shout. He simply lifted one hand, and the air shimmered.

  A thin, translucent blade — shaped like a long shard of mirror — formed in his grip.

  “What… is that?” Ethan whispered aloud.

  As if in response, the reflection stepped forward, his movements precise. Not hesitant, not defensive — almost… elegant. The beast charged. Fast. Loud. Teeth like jagged knives and claws that left trenches in the concrete.

  The reflection vanished.

  No warning. No sound. Just a blink — and he was gone.

  Then behind the beast, steel-toed boots scraping along the floor.

  Mirror Step.

  Ethan’s heart pounded. How did he do that?

  The reflection’s blade flashed once. The beast howled — a clean, deep gash carved across its flank. Silver blood sprayed against the rusted walls.

  The beast turned in fury, its roar splitting the air.

  But the reflection tilted his head slightly… and smiled again.

  The echo of the beast’s roar bounced off the walls — and then, unnaturally, looped. Louder. Distorted. Like the factory itself screamed back.

  The beast reeled, shrieking, ears bleeding.

  “Echo Reversal,” the reflection muttered, barely audible. “You should learn to lower your voice.”

  Ethan watched, wide-eyed. That wasn’t just power — it was control. Precision. A performance.

  “Is this… really me?”

  But deep down, he already knew the answer.

  The reflection dashed forward again — not running, but gliding on a trail of shimmering light. He pivoted mid-air, landing behind the beast once more and dragging his blade along its hind leg, slicing through tendon.

  The creature buckled.

  It roared again, enraged, and swung with its claw — this time catching the reflection’s shoulder. He staggered slightly, blood running dark across his shirt. But he didn’t panic.

  He laughed.

  Laughed, like he was enjoying every second.

  Then he drew something — a circle in the air, traced by his bloody fingertip. The circle shimmered, and a mirror portal opened midair.

  From it, something stepped out.

  Ethan’s breath hitched.

  It was a creature made of shadow and chain — translucent, snarling, but bound. It obeyed the reflection without question, lunging toward the beast with glowing eyes and metallic jaws.

  The beast howled In pain again, this time overwhelmed.

  “What the hell are you?” Ethan whispered, his voice trembling.

  The reflection turned his head slightly, just enough for Ethan to catch a glimpse of that gleaming, fractured eye — glowing faintly like a shattered star.

  The reflection didn’t answer.

  He didn’t need to.

  Because in that moment, Ethan realized something terrifying.

  He wasn’t watching a fight.

  He was watching a hunt.

  ....................................................................................................................................................

  The factory became a stage, and Ethan’s reflection was the only performer who knew the steps.

  Through the flickering window of the mirror pool, Ethan watched — unable to look away, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. His reflection moved like light over water, never still for more than a breath, always one strike ahead of the beast.

  And the summoned creature, bound by chains of light and shadow, obeyed without hesitation. It circled the beast like a predator, harassing it with swipes and slashes, forcing it to retreat.

  But the reflection didn’t press the attack. Not yet.

  Instead, he snapped his fingers.

  In an instant, a second version of him stepped out of a nearby reflective surface — a broken window frame half-covered in soot.

  A mirror clone.

  This one shimmered faintly, like it wasn’t fully there. It mimicked his movements exactly for a moment… and then diverged. While the original stalked left, the clone flanked right, a perfect distraction that confused even Ethan for a second.

  The beast, dizzy and bloodied, roared in frustration and lunged toward the clone.

  It passed straight through.

  The clone exploded into shards of light, blinding the creature briefly.

  Ethan clenched the edge of the stone pool, breath shallow. “That wasn’t a solid clone… it was made of… reflection? Smoke?”

  The reflection moved In — but not to strike.

  Instead, he locked eyes with the beast.

  And something happened.

  The air cracked like glass under pressure.

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  A pulse — invisible but sharp — radiated outward from his fractured eye, hitting the beast head-on.

  The creature froze mid-charge, mid-snarl. Its limbs twitched violently, as if something inside its skull had misfired.

  Ethan’s mouth went dry.

  That wasn’t just a stun.

  It was a shockwave of pure disruption.

  “He looked into its soul,” Ethan whispered, horror and awe creeping in together. “And broke something.”

  The reflection stepped closer. Calm. Precise. Not a drop of fear.

  The beast, dazed, tried to retreat.

  But it was too late.

  The reflection raised his blade — and it fractured into dozens of floating pieces, each shard hovering around him like loyal soldiers. Then, with a slow circular motion of his hand, each piece began to spin.

  And the factory filled with mirrors.

  Small, floating squares of silver light surrounded the beast in a perfect formation. Each reflected it from a different angle — one showed its back, another its eye, one even showed the part of its body it had already lost.

  The creature panicked, spinning, roaring, trying to destroy them — but the mirrors moved with ghostly precision, always staying out of reach.

  Then the reflection whispered a single word:

  “Fracture Storm.”

  Every mirror fired a thin beam of energy at once — not to kill, but to mark.

  Glowing sigils appeared along the beast’s limbs, spine, and chest — ancient symbols that pulsed with silver and violet light.

  The beast howled, falling to one knee. Not from pain — from submission.

  Ethan’s eyes widened.

  This wasn’t a finishing move.

  It was a seal.

  The reflection walked forward, mirrors dissolving around him like petals on the wind.

  The beast trembled.

  Not out of rage.

  Out of fear.

  The reflection reached out — not with violence, but with a kind of gentle cruelty — and placed two fingers against the creature’s forehead.

  The sigils pulsed once more.

  And then the beast collapsed, panting heavily but no longer resisting.

  Ethan was silent.

  No breath. No words. Just an overwhelming, sinking feeling.

  His reflection hadn’t just won the fight.

  He had rewritten it.

  .................................................................................................................................................................

  The silence that followed the battle was unnatural — not the peace of victory, but the silence of something being absorbed. The sigils carved into the beast’s flesh still glowed, seared into muscle and bone like divine branding. Its immense frame trembled, more from fear than pain, and its breath came in ragged, steaming gusts. The wild defiance in its eyes had dulled, replaced by a glassy, helpless submission.

  It wasn’t dead.

  It was waiting.

  Waiting for whatever came next.

  The reflection approached slowly, his boots echoing across the cracked factory floor. Each step was deliberate, as if pacing the final act of a ritual already written. His blade of mirrored glass dissolved into light, its purpose complete.

  He knelt beside the creature’s bowed head, brushing away a smear of blood from his shoulder with two fingers, his face unreadable — not cold, not cruel, just focused.

  Then he spoke. Softly. Kindly, almost.

  “You fought well. Better than most. But this isn’t your end.”

  His tone didn’t match the moment. It was the voice of someone comforting a dying friend, not binding a monster. Ethan, watching from the trembling mirror pool in Noctareal, felt his stomach tighten.

  Something was deeply wrong.

  The reflection placed his palm gently against the beast’s forehead, right between its eyes. The creature shivered — not from the touch, but from what followed.

  The sigils ignited.

  Not with fire.

  With light.

  Silver tendrils flared across the beast’s body, etching themselves deeper like roots of energy burrowing through every inch of it. A low, pained moan escaped its throat, like the sound of something ancient being unraveled.

  And then the beast began to fracture.

  Not with a scream.

  With a whisper.

  Its massive form splintered along glowing fault lines. But there was no blood, no gore. Its skin and bone cracked like delicate crystal, transforming into translucent, mirror-like shards. They hovered in place, weightless, refracting the dull light of the factory into a kaleidoscope of sorrow and surrender.

  The beast’s form compressed, spiraling inward, collapsing into itself as if folded by unseen hands. The sigils tightened. The energy surged.

  Until all that remained was a small, pulsing orb — no larger than a clenched fist — hovering above the reflection’s outstretched hand.

  The orb shimmered, the soul of the beast swirling within like smoke trapped in frozen glass. Ethan stared, barely breathing. The reflection turned it slowly in his fingers, watching it catch the light.

  Admiring it.

  “He didn’t kill it,” Ethan whispered to himself. “He… harvested it.”

  The reflection opened his coat.

  Inside was not fabric — but shadow. Black and endless and shifting. From that pocket of darkness came a faint sound: a brittle clinking, soft and terrible, like fragile ornaments knocking together in a windless room.

  Other orbs.

  Ethan could see them — briefly. Dozens. Maybe more. Each one containing something alive, or something that used to be. Monsters, ghosts, shapes he couldn’t name. Some glowed weakly. Others pulsed with a malevolent light, dormant and waiting.

  He dropped the new orb Into the void.

  It vanished without a sound.

  The coat settled.

  The reflection stood, dusted off his hands like a craftsman finishing a piece of art, then turned slowly to the jagged remains of a broken wall. There, lodged in the steel frame of a shattered window, was a large shard of glass — still intact, and still reflecting.

  It reflected more than the factory.

  It reflected Ethan.

  For the first time, the reflection truly saw him.

  Not through a surface. Not through a spell.

  Through the fracture itself.

  He stepped toward the shard, eyes gleaming with a quiet satisfaction. A predator who had known all along that the prey was watching.

  “You’re still there,” he said, voice low but unshaken. “Good. I was beginning to wonder how long it would take you to find a window.”

  Ethan’s throat dried. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

  The reflection tilted his head, studied the connection between them like it was a painting.

  “You’re not ready,” he said softly. “Not yet. But you’re learning. That’s enough.”

  He lifted a single finger and drew a slow circle in the air.

  The mirror Ethan was watching through fractured.

  Not exploded. Not shattered.

  Fractured. Cleanly. Deliberately. Like someone cracking a seal.

  Hairline lines webbed across the surface, slicing Ethan’s vision into disjointed shards.

  And in the center, framed by the chaos, the reflection smiled.

  Not cruelly.

  Not kindly.

  But knowingly.

  “You’ll need me again soon.”

  Then the mirror went dark.

  No flash. No sound. Just void.

  Ethan stumbled back from the pool in Noctareal. The surface had returned to stillness, but he wasn’t calm. His heart thundered. His hands shook.

  He didn’t know what he had just witnessed.

  Only this:

  Whatever was behind that smile… it wasn’t him anymore.

  .................................................................................................................................................................

  Ethan couldn’t breathe.

  The mirror pool had gone still again, its surface a dull sheen of silver and shadow. No more visions. No flickers of light. No trace of the reflection’s face. And yet — the sensation lingered.

  That smile.

  It wasn’t fading.

  It was following.

  He backed away, nearly tripping on a twisted root that had erupted from the stone ground. Noctareal was shifting again — subtly, the way dreams turn to nightmares when you blink. The air was colder. The sky darker. The silence deeper.

  “What is he?” Ethan whispered to no one.

  He felt watched, even now. Not through mirrors. Through the very fabric of this place.

  In the real world, his reflection moved through the city like a whisper through glass.

  Night had fallen. Streetlights cast pale halos onto the sidewalk. The reflection walked Ethan’s familiar path home, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed — like he belonged.

  No w”unds. No fatigue. Only control.

  A dog barked from across the street, hackles raised. Its leash snapped taut as it snarled toward the sidewalk. The reflection slowed, tilted his head, and stared directly into the dog’s eyes.

  It whimpered.

  Then it fell silent.

  The owner apologized aloud to no one, tugging the dog away. He didn’t notice anything strange about Ethan — just gave a quick, distracted glance and moved on.

  But the reflection never looked away. He watched them disappear.

  Then whispered:

  “Animals always know.”

  He passed a window — a clothing shop, closed for the night. His own face stared back at him in the glass. His expression was neutral at first.

  Then, the smile returned.

  The kind that wasn’t for others.

  The kind you wear when no one is watching.

  He leaned in close to the reflection.

  “It’s funny,” he said softly. “How easy it is to be you.”

  His voice didn’t echo. But it should have.

  He pushed open the gate to Ethan’s home. The key was in the pocket. Of course it was. Everything was exactly where it should be. He stepped inside, inhaled.

  Books. Soap. Old dust.

  Familiarity.

  He moved through the rooms like he was revisiting a childhood memory — not a single step hesitant. He touched the desk. Brushed a finger across the old photo of Ethan and his mother. Opened drawers, flicked the light switch on and off once.

  Then he stopped at the mirror in the hallway.

  Stared into it for a long time.

  He blinked. His eye — the fractured one — shimmered faintly in the dim light. The cracks within it pulsed once, as though syncing with the heartbeat of the house.

  He tilted his head and smiled at himself.

  “Almost perfect.”

  Then he turned to Ethan’s notebook — a journal left carelessly on the bed, filled with scattered entries, sketches, fragments of frustration. He flipped through a few pages, chuckling once at a page that read:

  “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

  He grabbed a pen.

  And wrote something.

  Slowly.

  Deliberately.

  Ethan, back in Noctareal, felt it.

  A cold jolt across the bond. Like something being carved into the walls of his mind without permission.

  He ran back to the mirror pool, desperate to see. But it wouldn’t show him the page.

  Wouldn’t show him the words.

  Only one image surfaced — the reflection, now sitting on the bed, holding Ethan’s journal. Smiling.

  Then the smile widened. Too wide.

  The reflection turned his head just slightly. As if looking beyond the mirror. As if looking at Ethan through the cracks in his soul.

  And he blinked.

  The Oculus Fractura gleamed once.

  The mirror shattered in Noctareal.

  Ethan fell backward, shards of silver light scattering across the floor like falling stars.

  He stared at them, breathless, heart hammering.

  He didn’t know what the reflection had written.

  He didn’t know what he planned next.

  But one thing was certain.

  He wasn’t just borrowing Ethan’s life.

  He was rehearsing it.

  And getting better every second.