The silence in the simulation wing was almost too perfect—like sound had been scrubbed clean. No wind, no hum of city life, no crowds or cheering drones—just the hush of filtered air moving through narrow vents, and the low, distant thrum of something waiting to begin. Compared to the Proving Ground's chaos—the drenched ruins, screaming storms, and Veilspawn cries—this place felt like another planet entirely.
Kairo stepped inside, his boots echoing against the polished steel floor, each step reverberating in the sterile vault. The chamber was a high circular vault. Every wall was lined with glowing blue panels that gave off a cold, clinical light, reflecting off metal railings and mirrored ceilings painting everything in shades of silver and cyan. No warmth. No comfort. Just calculation, as if the room itself were measuring them.
At the heart of the chamber stood a ring of capsule-like pods that looked like long and sleek coffins. Half-suspended above the ground, each one gently pulsing with a dull, violet glow. The Etheron fields within them hummed softly, a pulse that Kairo felt more than heard, like a second heartbeat under his skin. Something about it made him anxious, deeper unease even more than the Proving Grounds. This wasn't a place for fighting monsters. This was a place for fighting yourself.
He touched the edge of one pod, feeling its smooth, glass-like surface vibrate faintly beneath his fingers. The Codex had stirred to life in the Proving Grounds, guiding his strikes, highlighting enemies, reacting before his own instincts could. But this… This wasn't about fighting. This was about being seen. His mind laid bare, And he wasn't sure which was worse.
The team stood nearby, gathered just off-center in the chamber's glow with the rest if the candidates, their faces drawn but focused. Mira leaned slightly on one leg, the wrap on her side peeking beneath her indigo trial suit. She'd cleaned up since the fight, but the pain still sat behind her smile. Even so, she nodded at him when she caught his eye, steady as ever. Lira stood beside her, arms crossed, her black-and-white suit torn at the knee, her braids hanging loose over her shoulders. Her gaze was sharp, daring the room to challenge her. And next to her, Orren held his wrapped arm close, his posture as still and deliberate as ever—calculating, listening. Tarek, farther back, leaned against one of the control panels, blades still at his waist, his usual scowl softened by fatigue. He wasn't talking, but his eyes were constantly moving.
They were different now. The Proving Ground had made sure of that. It had thrown them into fire, forced them to trust each other, bleed together, survive together. And now, it was gone. No monsters to fight. No battlefield to command. Just the hum of the pods and the weight of their own minds.
Zairen entered from a side gate with quiet, deliberate steps, his black coat trailing behind him like a shadow. He stopped at the chamber's center, arms clasped behind his back, his pale, steel-gray eyes scanning the candidates with surgical precision. They didn't miss a thing—not Mira's bandaged side, Lira's defiant stance, Orren's measured calm, Tarek's restless edge, nor Kairo's tense frame. His presence commanded silence, the drones red lenses glinting as they broadcast every word. "You survived the Proving Ground," he began, his voice calm but razor-sharp. "That was a test of instinct. Of endurance. Of how far your bodies could be pushed before they broke. You fought Veilspawn, defied hazards, and emerged bloodied but alive. But survival is not enough. Not for Etherborn." He let that sit for a moment, eyes moving from face to face. Kairo felt his chest tighten when Zairen's gaze passed over him, lingering for just a second longer than the others.
"Because what breaks most Etherborn is not the body," Zairen continued, "It's the mind."
"Trauma, fear, guilt, desire—these are the cracks where doubt festers, where resolve crumbles. The Mental Trials will find those cracks. They will widen them. And they will test whether you can hold yourself together."
He gestured toward the pods. They rippled faintly, the Etheron inside them shimmering like disturbed water.
"These chambers are no mere machines. They are Etheron-driven, designed to scan your psyche—every memory, every fear, every buried guilt, every unspoken wish. They will weave illusions from the raw material of your soul. Worlds you believe are real. Moments you think you've lived. Enemies born from your own shadows. These simulations will feel as vivid as the Proving Ground, as tangible as the blood on your hands. And they will seek to break you."
A few murmurs stirred at the back of the group, quickly silenced by Zairen's glance. Kairo didn't move. My mind? The Codex had saved him against Veilspawn, but this was different—intimate, invasive, a mirror he wasn't ready to face.
Zairen raised his hand, a holo-screen flickering to life beside him, its icons and numbers stark; five core metrics, glowing in violet and white. "The Mental Trials are also measured in points, earned through survival of the self. You will be graded on five principles. "Emotional Resilience; How long you endure the weight of your own pain before succumbing to despair or illusion. Face your trauma without breaking, and you'll earn 1 to 3 points, depending on your fortitude. Clarity of Mind; How swiftly and accurately you discern falsehood from reality. See through the lies woven by the mindscape, and you'll gain 1 to 3 points for your perception. Resistance to Manipulation; The illusions will tempt you, offer you escape, power, or peace—at a cost. Reject these false promises, and you'll earn 3 points for each act of defiance. Identity Integrity; Preserve who you are, your core, your truth, against the simulations attempts to reshape you. Hold fast, and you'll claim 5 points for safeguarding your soul. And finally, Phase Breaks; Each illusion you shatter, each trial you overcome, is a victory. Break the mindscape's hold, and you'll earn 5 points per phase, a mark of your triumph."
He lowered his hand, the holo-screen pulsing, the metrics searing into Kairo's mind. "Team efforts, as in the Proving Ground, grant full points to all who contribute, even in these isolated pods. The Etheron fields link your mindscapes, allowing rare moments of connection—shared visions, echoed voices, or surges of will that pierce the illusions. You may sense an ally's struggle, lend your strength, or draw on theirs, but beware: such bonds can anchor you or expose your weaknesses, tying your fates together."
Zairen's voice grew softer, but no less piercing. "Moving on. The trials unfold in three phases; Personal, Cognitive, and Fracture. The Personal Trial will drag your deepest fears and memories to the surface, forcing you to face what you've buried. The Cognitive Trial will warp logic, perception, and time, challenging your grasp on reality. The Fracture Trial…" He paused, his eyes narrowing, a shadow crossing his face. "It will show you what you could become—or what you already are, hidden beneath your masks."
The pods shifted, tilting upright with a soft hiss, their violet glow brightening, Etheron fields humming louder, a chorus of power. "Time itself is your enemy here," Zairen said, his voice a warning. "Within the mindscape, one second in this chamber stretches to minutes inside. A moment's hesitation can trap you for hours in your own hell. You might live days in the span of a breath. And you must return whole."
Silence stretched, heavy as the Etheron's hum. No one dared move, the weight of Zairen's words pinning them in place. Kairo's throat tightened, Minutes inside… His childhood secrets, his fevers, his father's absence—what would the pods find? What would they make him relive?
Zairen's gaze swept the room one final time, his voice a command that brooked no defiance. "Enter the pods. Survive yourselves."
He turned and walked away, his coat trailing, leaving the candidates in the chamber's glow, the pods waiting like open graves. Kairo's legs carried him forward, his mind racing. Mira walked beside him, her hand brushing his arm, her voice a whisper. "You've got this, Kairo. We'll see you on the other side." Lira gave a nod, chin up. "Try not to go soft in there, Virel." Orren said nothing, but his nod was steady, his presence grounding. Tarek just gave him a look—half warning, half challenge.
One by one, they stepped into the pods. Kairo was last.
He slid into the smooth chamber, its interior cool and faintly glowing. As he lay back, restraints clicked into place around his wrists and ankles—gentle but firm. The helmet descended, sensors unfolding like petals, humming softly as they activated. He closed his eyes, heart hammering. The hum deepened. The light around him faded. And the last thing he saw was the ceiling of the chamber—and Mira's eyes, watching him from her pod, warm and unwavering. Then the pod sealed with a final hiss, and Kairo fell into the dark.
Light bloomed around Kairo, not the sterile cyan of the simulation chamber, but golden, gentle, dappled with the sway of leaves. He opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through a window half-covered by climbing vines. The air smelled of coffee, old books, cinnamon, and sea salt, a warmth that wrapped around him like a memory he'd buried deep. A small room stretched around him—familiar, impossibly familiar. His childhood home, a coastal cottage from when he was five. Wood-paneled walls, shelves stuffed with half-built drones, copper coils, and sketchpads scrawled with crude Etheron circuits. His blanket, rumpled around his legs, was deep green, its edges frayed from restless nights.
He blinked, his body small, fragile—a child's body, swaddled in too-large pajamas. A laugh echoed from outside the room, deep and warm, slicing through him like a knife through time. Kairo froze, his breath catching.
"Dad?" he whispered, his voice high, trembling, a child's plea.
Footsteps padded down the hall, and the door creaked open. There he was—not a ghost, not a shadow, but Varric Virel, alive, younger, smiling. His hair curled in salt-touched waves, his jaw rough with stubble, his ice-blue eyes soft, unburdened. He wore a paint-smeared apron over a black tunic, a grease streak on his cheek, his hands calloused from tinkering.
"Come on, Kair," Varric said, his voice a melody Kairo had forgotten. He crossed the room in two strides, scooping Kairo up, his small body light in his father's arms. "Your mom made breakfast. Pancakes, your favorite."
Kairo couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, his chest tight with a longing he'd locked away. Varric carried him to the kitchen, the cottage alive with morning—sunlight glinting off a copper kettle, his mother humming softly, her dark hair tied back, her smile unguarded. Selena, seven, sat at the table, doodling on a napkin, her eyes bright. The table was set with chipped plates, a stack of pancakes steaming, syrup dripping. Kairo sat at the table like a ghost occupying his own skin. The chair beneath him creaked with his tiny weight, but the pressure in his chest felt like it belonged to a grown man—a haunted one. He couldn't take his eyes off Varric. Not the monstrous echo of the man he'd seen at the pier, not the cold revolutionary who saw people as pieces in a cosmic engine—but this. This was his dad. The man who built kites that flew higher than rooftops. Who traced stars with grease-stained fingers and told bedtime stories about ancient machines with souls. The man whose smile made the world feel solid. Varric ruffled Kairo's hair and poured syrup in a perfect spiral. "Still remember the trick?" he teased, handing over the fork. Kairo nodded dumbly. His hands trembled as he reached for the food, every breath catching in his throat like barbed wire. His eyes scanned the room with disbelief and reverence, trying to memorize every detail—the faded sea-blue paint on the window frame, the crack on the floorboards by the sink, the hummingbird mug his mom always used. Selena laughed, jabbing at her doodle. "Look! It's you and Dad flying on a drone over the ocean!" Varric chuckled. "That looks nothing like me. I don't have a giant mustache."
"Yes, you will when you're old," she said, proud. Kairo laughed—and immediately regretted it. The sound cracked something inside him. A tidal wave of memory surged up from the depths. He remembered this day. The day he left them. This was their last morning together. Before everything shattered and his mother started locking the doors with trembling hands and whispering, "Don't ask about your father again." He remembered clinging to Varric's sleeve that afternoon. Crying when he said he had to "go away for a little while." Remembered the way his mother stood in the doorway, arms folded so tight they turned white, crying from the bottom of her soul watching the man she once loved walk into the mist and never come back.
The pancakes had gone cold by then. And now here he was—living it again. But this time it was perfect. Nothing had gone wrong yet. "I missed you," Kairo whispered.
Varric looked at him, eyes crinkling. "I'm right here, Kair. I never left." He said it so easily. Like it was true. Like none of the years in between mattered. Like Kairo hadn't spent half his life pretending it didn't matter, pretending he didn't care. But he did. God, he did. He missed his dad so much it hurt. And when the illusion started to reset—again, the morning sun rewinding, the kettle whistling, the exact same laugh echoing in the hallway—Kairo didn't fight it. Not at first. Because part of him wanted to stay. To pretend the rest had been a nightmare. That this warmth was real. That his father never abandoned them. That his mother didn't cry herself to sleep behind locked doors. That Selena never stopped drawing. The illusion looped. And again. And again. And each time Kairo reached out—ate the pancakes, laughed at the mustache joke, hugged Varric tighter—and tried to believe harder. He wanted to believe.
But something was wrong. On the fifth loop, he dropped his fork. No sound. He picked up the syrup. Poured it. No smell. The edges of the world were fraying—too perfect, too clean. The wind never shifted. The bird outside never flew away. The sunlight froze in place. He stood. Backed away. Looked down at his hands. They weren't his. Not anymore. "Dad?" he whispered. Varric smiled the same way. "I'm right here, Kair. I never left." A cold shudder ran through him. Kairo's eyes widened. "No. No, no, no—this isn't real." His mother turned. "Eat before it gets cold, sweetie." Selena held up the same drawing, smile unchanged. Unblinking. Trapped. The world cracked. And through it came a hum—a low-frequency drone, electrical, pulsing. Lines of code crawled across the windowpane like veins of lightning.
[CΩDΣX: FRACTURE DETECTED]
[LUCIDITY THRESHOLD AT 12%. SUBJECT AT RISK OF PSYCHIC IMMERSION.]
[DO YOU WISH TO EXIT ILLUSION?]
The words flickered before his eyes, etched into the very air. Reality knocking at the door of his heart. But Kairo hesitated. He turned one last time. Varric was standing in the kitchen's threshold. No longer smiling. No longer speaking. Just watching. Expression unreadable. "I wanted you to stay," Kairo whispered. "I would've forgiven everything. Varric's image rippled. "You still can." Kairo's fingers curled into fists. The warmth in the room was suffocating now, like drowning in honey. "No," he said, voice cracking. "You're not him. You never stayed. You left. And i'm done living in a spiral of self doubt like it was my fault, or thinking i'm a victim, or any of that. I'm done." And with that—he stepped forward, through the glitching threshold, where the cottage peeled away like paper. Reality roared back in. A scream ripped from Kairo's throat as the illusion shattered, and he fell to his knees, gasping. [Phase One: Concluded. Emotional Resilience—4 points. Identity Integrity—5 points.] His chest heaved. Tears burned down his cheeks, that hurt more than any monster ever could.
A moment passed—just enough for Kairo to gasp before the world shifted again. Rain crashed down, each drop sharp and cold stinging Kairo's skin. He opened his eyes to a narrow alley, its walls glistening with grime, streetlights flickering like fading pulses, casting jagged shadows across puddles that rippled with violet cracks. The air was thick with ozone and soaked asphalt, a storm's breath that clawed at his throat. He blinked, the details pulling into sharp focus—not present day, but years ago. He was eight again, his body small, frail, shivering in a thin coat, sneakers heavy with water, a fever burning behind his eyes like a fire he couldn't quench. This was Port Varen, Or something that claimed to be. it felt like one of the cities they'd fled to after his father left, when his mother stopped smiling in photographs, when doors were double-locked at night and silence became survival. Only, it wasn't quite right. It was exaggerated. Way Off. As if someone—or something—had taken a real memory and rewired it with extreme fear. As a child, he learned to stay small, to stay quiet—like a secret no one should find. Somewhere along the way, he began to believe he was the reason his father disappeared. After Varric left, his mother was never the same. She unraveled in quiet ways—less warmth, more paranoid. Like a shadow of the woman she used to be. Varric had left behind more than just silence; he'd told her things—strange, unsettling things about their son. Enough to make her afraid. Not of Kairo exactly, but of what might come for him… or through him. So Kairo grew up in a house shaped by fear and paranoia. Doors double-locked. Lights off before dark. Never talk about the fevers. Especially the fevers. That's when his powers flared—uncontrolled, strange, and tied to sickness. And always, always with the feeling that someone was watching. That something was coming. And the illusion preyed on that old wound, warping it into a dramatic escape story that never truly happened.
"Kairo!" His mother's cry cut through the rain, sharp with panic, echoing from the alley's edge. He turned, her silhouette frantic, hair matted to her face, eyes wide with a terror he knew too well—not for herself, but for him, for the danger he carried in his veins. "Run, sweetheart! They're here!" Her words were a memory reborn, echoing nights when she'd whispered, "You're not safe if they see you," her hands trembling as she checked windows, locked doors. Shadows moved at the alley's far end, faceless C.E.L.E.N. agents in sleek coats, their visors glowing crimson, hands crackling with Etheron cuffs that hummed like a closing snare. Their steps were slow, relentless, a predator's certainty. Kairo's fever surged, a streetlight exploding overhead, glass raining down, a trash can shuddering, its lid spinning in midair. His mother's voice faded, thin and desperate: "Control it, Kairo!" He stumbled, small hands scraping the wall, the fever's heat a pulse that shook the world, violet cracks splintering the pavement, the alley twisting into a maze of mirrors and rain, each reflection showing a boy who believed he was a burden.
A man stepped from the shadows, not an agent, but a figure in a soft gray coat, his face calm, his voice warm like the cottage's sunlight. "Kairo, stop running," he said, extending a hand, his eyes a steady brown, radiating peace. "No more hiding. No fevers. Just a home that stays, a life where you're normal." Beyond him, a doorway glowed, warm and inviting—a house with a flickering hearth, shelves lined with books, a green blanket draped over a chair, just like the one from his childhood bed before the moves began. The rain softened, the agents' steps silenced, his mother's cries gone, the alley's cold dissolving into the house's embrace. The man's smile was unwavering, his hand open, offering the life Kairo had ached for in every new city, every night he lay awake, wondering why he was different, why he drove his family apart.
Kairo's breath caught, his small body trembling, the fever's fire clashing with the storm's chill. He wanted it—more than Varric's smile, more than anything, he wanted to be normal, to lift the fear from his mother's eyes, to stop being the reason they ran. The house's warmth was a lullaby, the man's voice a promise: "You're not a burden kairo. You can be free." His fingers twitched, reaching, the longing a weight crushing his chest. He saw his mother's face in every relocation, her quiet apologies as they packed, her tears when she thought he slept, whispering, "Why him?" The illusion knew his heart, offering a world where he wasn't the cause of her pain, where he belonged. But the warmth wavered, too perfect, too still. The man's coat flickered, violet threads bleeding through, his brown eyes flashing with a cold, mechanical glow. The hearth's fire froze, no crackle, no scent of woodsmoke, the blanket's edges unnaturally sharp, like a painting stretched too thin. Kairo's fever surged, distorting the world around him. The warm glow of the house dimmed to a sickly hue, its walls pulsing like a living thing. Then she stepped forward—his mother—but not the one he remembered, not even the one from this twisted memory earlier. Her eyes were hollow, dark with something cruel, her mouth twisted into a scowl. The rain clung to her like a shroud, and her voice, once soft with worry, now cracked like a whip.
"You'll never be free," she said coldly, stepping closer. And her tone getting angrier and angrier "You were the reason your father left. The reason I lost everything. The reason I lost myself."
Kairo backed away, breath shallow, the illusion tightening around him like a noose. "No…" he whispered, but she advanced, relentless.
"You were never a gift," she spat. "Just a fucking burden. A fucked up mistake. I should have left you when I had the chance too."
The words stabbed through him like knives, each syllable confirming the quiet fears he never said aloud. He dropped to his knees, tears falling down like a waterfall. Vision getting dark and blurry. clutching his head as the house around him warped and cracked. Beyond the illusion, deep within the trials Chamber, red warning lights pulsed. Agents monitoring his pod scrambled, voices urgent:
"Subject Thirty-Seven, vitals spiking—heart rate unstable!"
"He's slipping into full psychic immersion—get Zairen—"
Inside the illusion, just as the ground fractured beneath his feet and his mother's distorted face twisted in fury, The Codex grid flared cold blue ripping through the air like a blade of reason.
[CΩDΣX: TWISTED REALITY DETECTED]
[LUCIDITY THRESHOLD: 14%. NEURAL INSTABILITY AT CRITICAL LEVELS.]
[DO YOU WISH TO RESIST ILLUSION?]
Kairo's breath hitched, chest tight with panic, her words echoing like shards in his skull. He staggered back, eyes wide, the room pulsing red around her fury. Her face was inches from his now—eyes wild, mouth stretched with hate, every line of her face a weapon drawn from memory and twisted into cruelty. But then—something inside him snapped. Or rather, aligned. The codex activated the resistance protocol again.
His breath slowed. His vision cleared.
The agents weren't real. Their cuffs, their soft voices—illusions. Reflections of his desperation to be understood, accepted. Just like her.
The woman before him… that wasn't his mother. Not truly. She was a mask stitched from fear and guilt deep wounds that never healed, her rage and hate wasn't real, it was his shame given shape. Every cruel word she hurled at him was forged from the questions he never dared ask out loud. Was I the reason he left? Was I broken? Did I ruin everything?
The illusion didn't invent all of it—it pulled it from the darkest corners of him. It dressed his worst fears in her face and let them speak. But none of it was real.
"I know who you are," Kairo said softly, not to her—but to himself. The illusion cracked. The lights sputtered. The hallway shivered. The woman froze mid-step, her angry glare flickering like a glitched screen. "I'm not your burden," he said, louder now, his hands rising, black-violet energy crackling to life, brighter than before. "I'm not the reason we broke. And I'm not afraid of the truth anymore." She lunged, mouth open in a scream that fractured like glass—but his hands pulsed once, and the entire scene detonated into shimmering static. Her figure exploded into dust, her final curse swallowed by the Codex's hum. The walls collapsed inward, consumed by light and rain, his body standing firm at the center of the unraveling dream. When the storm faded, he stood alone in the void, steam rising off his skin, rain trailing through his hair. His heart was still racing, but his mind was clear. Her last words—the real ones—echoed faintly in the quiet: You're enough.
[CΩDΣX: ILLUSION NULLIFIED]
[TRAUMATIC PATTERN RESISTED. PSYCHIC RESILIENCE RESTORED.]
[+2 Points: Lucidity | +3 Points: Resistance | Total Score: 48]
Elsewhere in the chamber, Mira was facing her own nightmares. Still in the first phase of the mental trials, Stuck in a loop. The thirty's loop of her darkest memory. Light bloomed around her, not the sterile cyan of the simulation chamber, but soft, muted, filtered through heavy curtains drawn tight. She opened her eyes to a hospital room, its air heavy with antiseptic and the faint, briny tang of sea salt slipping through a cracked window. The walls were pale green, chipped at the edges, a heart monitor beeping faintly, its rhythm fragile, like a thread about to snap. A bed stood at the room's center, draped in crisp white sheets, and there she was—her mother, Liora, her face gaunt, hollowed by sickness, her dark hair thin and brittle, her eyes half-open but distant, clouded with pain. Mira was twelve, her body small, dressed in a stiff jacket her father had pressed her to wear, her hands clutching a crumpled drawing from her younger brothers, Kael and Ryn. This was C.E.L.E.N.'s medical wing in Varenhold, the day her world broke, the day her mother's death forced Mira to become the family's anchor, trading her childhood for a mantle of duty that shaped her into a leader who hid her longing to be cared for behind a warm, steady smile. "Mira," her mother whispered, her voice a faint wisp, barely rising above the monitor's unsteady beep. "Come closer, my light." Mira's throat tightened, her small feet moving as if pulled, the cold floor biting through her shoes. She stood by the bed, her mother's hand reaching, frail and trembling, the skin so thin it seemed to glow. "You're so strong," Liora said, a ghost of a smile flickering. "Take care of them, okay? Kael, Ryn… your father…" Her words dissolved into a cough, weak, the monitor's beep stuttering.
Mira nodded, tears pricking her eyes, her small hand gripping the drawing—a clumsy sketch of their family laughing by the sea, Kael's wobbly lines, Ryn's bright colors, a gift for their mother, who waited outside with their father, too young to face this room. This illusion captured the trauma of her loss and the crushing weight of responsibility, when as a child Mira became the pillar her family leaned on, her father's military rigor forging her into a soldier, not a daughter, every mistake a failure to protect those she loved, a burden she carried into the Trials, masking her exhaustion with warmth. She'd stood here, promising to be strong, her heart aching to be held, to be the child again, not the leader. The room pulsed with memory—sunlight glinting off a glass of water, the curtain swaying in a coastal breeze, her mother's lavender scarf draped over a chair, its scent faint but piercing, a tether to the woman who sang lullabies. Her father stood by the door, his general's uniform immaculate, his face a fortress, but his eyes betrayed a crack, a grief he'd never voice. "Mira," he said, voice low, "she needs you to be steady." She nodded, her small shoulders squaring, the weight settling like iron.
The monitor's beep slowed, then flatlined, a long, piercing wail slicing the air. Liora's hand went limp, her eyes closing, the scarf slipping to the floor with a whisper. Mira's cry caught in her throat, her small body shaking, the drawing crumpling in her fist. Her father's hand landed on her shoulder, heavy, unyielding. "You're the eldest, Mira. They look up to you now." She wanted to collapse, to scream, she could feel her soul begging for mercy as the pain traveling in her veins overwhelmingly difficult. but she stood, steady, watching her mother die in front of her, helpless, as the room dimmed to gray, then bloomed again—the same room, the same bed, her mother alive, smiling, her voice clear: "Mira, come closer." The illusion looped, the hospital room resetting—sunlight, antiseptic, the scarf's lavender scent, Liora's frail hand reaching. "Take care of them," she said again, and Mira nodded, tears falling, promising, enduring the pain each cycle. The loop was perfect, her mother alive, her family whole, no duty crushing her soul. She sat by the bed, held her mother's hand, whispered, "I'll keep them safe," and let the moment replay, each cycle a chance to stay, to pretend she could save her, that she didn't have to carry the world. She wanted to believe. But something was wrong. the monitor's beep echoed without rhythm, a hollow drone. The scarf's lavender scent vanished, replaced by a sterile chill. The sunlight froze, too bright, too still, like a stage light stuck in place. Mira stood, her small hands trembling, looking at her mother's face—unchanging, unblinking, a smile too smooth, too perfect. "Mom?" she whispered. Liora's eyes met hers, but they were empty, like polished stones. Her father's voice repeated, "Be steady," but it was flat, a shadow of his gravelly tone. The room shivered, violet cracks splintering the walls, a low hum rising, not mechanical, but alive, like the pulse of her own heart. Mira's breath caught, her small body rooted, tears streaming down her cheeks. The room pulsed, "You're not her," she said, voice shaking. "And that's not you either, father."
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, her jaw tightening. "I can't keep pretending I'm a kid waiting to be cared for. That life is gone. I grew up. I carried this family. I still do. And I never saw it as a burden—caring for you made me who I am. Even if my inner child wanted peace, a carefree normal childhood and life, I chose love. I chose duty. And I'm done carrying guilt for it." The illusion fought, the house reaching, Liora's face twisting with blame, but Mira stepped forward, her hands rising, unleashing a tidal wave of her water Etheron, shattering The room shattered, bed, walls, her mother's false form and the illusion itself [Phase One: Concluded. Emotional Resilience—3 points. Identity Integrity—5 points.] Mira stood in a void, chest heaving, tears wet on her cheeks, her heart raw and mind exhausted off that hell. but unbroken. She'd endured the pain, held her truth—She was more than duty, more than grief, more than the girl who once wished to be free.
The void pulsed, a new memory stirring, heavier, ready to test her again.
Water roared around Mira, a deafening torrent that battered her from all sides—cold, relentless, alive. Violet Etheron pulsed through the flood like veins in a living organism, casting glimmers across the walls of a crumbling trial hall. Marble pillars fractured beneath the weight of the surge, the vaulted ceiling pouring cascades of luminous water that rose around her—first her waist, then her chest. The scent of ozone and wet stone choked the air, the atmosphere heavy with the pressure of a storm sealed inside. Every surface shimmered with jagged violet fissures that bled light, turning the room into a cathedral of panic. Her indigo trial suit clung to her skin, torn at the arms, her breath ragged as flickers of water Etheron sparked from her trembling palms—faint, wild, slipping through her control. This wasn't the Proving Ground—not truly. It was a nightmare disguised as memory, warped and exaggerated, an arena stitched from fear. Her team—Kairo, Lira, Orren, Tarek—fought against the flood, their faces drawn in desperation, their voices jagged with panic. Their cries crashed into her like waves: her name, again and again, each syllable heavier than the last. "Mira, help!" Kairo's voice cracked through the chaos. He clawed at the water's surface, hair matted to his face, eyes wide with terror before the current dragged him under. Nearby, Lira flailed violently, her braids streaming behind her like ink in water, shouting, "You're supposed to lead us!" And Tarek—usually all teeth and defiance—clung to a sinking pillar, his twin blades useless, his expression stricken. "Do something, Mira!" he shouted. Then a wave hit. His voice vanished. Her pulse thundered. Instinct took over. Etheron surged in her blood as she raised her hands, trying to pull the water away, to lift them, to turn her fear into something useful—but it turned against her, violet and wild. The surface seethed, resisting her command. Kairo vanished. "No!" she cried, lunging forward, arms burning as Etheron flared—too much, too hot. The water boiled beneath her touch. It erupted violently, dragging Lira down in a froth of steam and light. The illusion cracked—but didn't end. It spiraled deeper. Tarek hit the marble wall with a sickening sound, limp. The hall throbbed, the glow from its veins blinding. Mira's throat tightened. Her Etheron fizzled, helpless. Guilt surged instead—heavy, suffocating. She had failed to save her team. Failed to control her power. Failed, again, to protect the people who needed her. Just like before. Just like home. Her father's voice echoed in memory: "You're the eldest. They need you." And her mother, gone far too soon, had left behind only silence and responsibility. Kael and Ryn had leaned on her. She had let herself believe she could bear it. That she had to. The moment reset. The flood dropped away. Her team returned—gasping, desperate, crying her name again. Another surge. Another failure. Another wave. The loop didn't announce itself, didn't repeat like a broken reel—it spiraled, seamless, seductive. She tried again. And again. Every time, the stakes felt real. Every time, the guilt ran deeper. But something shifted. The veneer started to crack. The lighting didn't change. The cries didn't evolve. Kairo's hand broke the surface at the same angle. Lira's voice hit the same pitch. Orren's fear was precise, surgical. Too clean. Too deliberate. The world flickered, not like a dream, but like a performance lit from behind a screen. Her gaze locked on Kairo. His eyes were panicked—but empty. No fire, no spark. Lira's fury felt theatrical. Tarek's terror, sculpted. The illusion was collapsing under its own weight, under Mira's scrutiny. The symmetry of the cracks. The unchanging pillars. The perfection of the dread. It was all too… designed. A memory surged to the front of her mind—Kairo's nod in the pod, quiet but certain. Lira's crooked grin. Tarek's arrogant salute. They were strong. They were capable. They didn't need her to carry everything. They never had. The flood rose again, but this time Mira didn't raise her hands. She stared it down. "This is not it." she whispered, the words raw with realization. Her Etheron flickered, then faded. She let it go. The world pulsed violently in protest. Cracks widened across the ceiling like lightning in stone. "Save us, or you're nothing!" her teammates' voices spat—but they were hollow now, echoes bouncing inside a lie. But Mira stood straighter. Kael's laughter echoed in her thoughts. Ryn's wide-eyed trust. Her mother's soft voice, etched in memory: "You're strong, Mira—but you're enough, just as you are." She clenched her fists—not in fear, but in defiance. "I don't have to save you all," she said, louder now, firmer, water lapping at her collarbone. "You're not weak. And I'm not alone." The flood snapped upward, lashing violently, as if to drown her for her rebellion. Her team's faces twisted with accusation—but she didn't move. Didn't conjure Etheron. She simply stood there, solid, anchored in truth. "I trust you," she said, a final declaration. Her voice cut through the illusion like a blade of light. The hall convulsed. The pillars fractured into dust. The flood collapsed inward, breaking into violet particles. Kairo, Lira, and Tarek unraveled with it—no longer screaming, no longer real. Just figments. Just fear. Silence. Mira stood alone in a void, soaked, heart thundering, breath ragged. The echoes faded. A trace of Lira's real laughter lingered like a grounding chord, sharp and sincere. She had faced the illusion. Unmasked it. Chosen trust over control. And in doing so, she had severed the chain of guilt that had quietly ruled her for years.
[PHASE TWO: CONCLUDED. CLARITY OF MIND—2 POINTS. RESISTANCE TO MANIPULATION—3 POINTS.]
[TOTAL SCORE: 44]