Mandel remained frozen, lost in a haze of sorrow and guilt. The illusion may have dissipated, but the emotional aftershock still clawed at his heart.
He knew it had been an illusion.
But it felt far too real.
The image of murdering his own son with his own hands… it was carved into his soul. A torment he couldn't shake.
He was drowning in anguish.
After a long, tense silence, Mandel's throat twitched a few times before he rasped out, "How did you do that?"
His voice was raw with disbelief. What had just happened defied all reason.
This world—this illusionary realm—they were his. He had created it. He was its god.
So how the hell had this American seized control?
Mandel's mind reeled. He couldn't wrap his head around it.
John offered a faint smile. "Your so-called illusion? In America, that's child's play for a monk."
"...A monk?" Mandel's eyes narrowed, and then a bitter smile crept across his lips. "So you're a monk. No wonder."
He'd heard whispers about American monks—mysterious figures said to have pushed illusionary arts and martial prowess to divine levels. They were rumored to decipher the secrets of the heavens, manipulate fate, even meddle with reincarnation.
They sounded like myth.
Mandel had never met one in person—never crossed fists with one. So when he'd heard tales mocking the Ninja League's illusions as little more than party tricks to American monks, he had scoffed.
Until today.
Until this moment.
Now, having tasted John's power firsthand, Mandel knew—those rumors were true. And terrifying.
He gritted his teeth. "This illusion world... is it yours now, or still mine?"
"It's still yours," John said casually. "But I used a little trick to make you forget that you were the one in control. Then, I overlaid it with an illusionary technique of my own—one that took hold of your mind within your own world."
Mandel inhaled sharply.
What John described was insane—unbelievable. He'd never even heard of such a technique: someone using an illusion inside another person's illusion to seize mental dominance.
It was like hijacking a god's throne... in the god's own temple.
These American monks were beyond terrifying.
Mandel was utterly shaken. His will to fight had all but evaporated.
Then John said something that sounded maddeningly calm:
"Of course, if I really wanted to, I could destroy your illusion with zero effort."
Mandel flinched.
He stared at John, stunned. Then, after a long pause, he spoke, voice tight and complicated.
"If... If you can really break my illusion that easily, then I'll let go of my son's death. I won't seek revenge."
Illusions were his pride. Among all ninja arts, this was where Mandel excelled. If John could truly shatter his greatest illusion without struggle, then there would be no point continuing this feud.
He'd be outclassed.
But John chuckled.
"Why stop there?" he said. "Let's raise the stakes. If I break your illusion—in one second—you'll take me as your master. How about that?"
"Take you... as my master?" Mandel's eyes turned to slits.
This arrogant American had already killed his son. Now he wanted to own him? Reduce him to a servant?
Outrageous.
And yet... John's tone was so steady, so confident, that Mandel didn't dare scoff.
John leaned in slightly. "I'll say it again. One second. If I break your illusion in that time, you'll serve me. Deal?"
Mandel was no fool. He was the deputy leader of the Australian Ninja League—a man of status and power. For John, this wasn't just about pride. If he could take control of Mandel, he could indirectly control the entire League's movements across the continent.
A strategic win.
And yet... John had said it on a whim. He didn't care about the League—didn't need it. As long as their power didn't spill into American territory, they were of no concern to him.
Still... having a puppet in the right place never hurt.
Mandel's thoughts spiraled. Rage flared within him at the thought of bowing his head. And yet—he couldn't dismiss John's power.
"Break my illusion in one second?" he scoffed inwardly. Is that even possible?
Sure, John's illusions were bizarre—disturbingly effective. But his illusions weren't weak, were they?
He's bluffing. He has to be.
And yet, despite that reasoning, Mandel didn't respond with blind arrogance. He was no longer a reckless young warrior who rushed into traps. He was older. Wiser. More dangerous.
He would stay rational.
John, on the other hand, showed no urgency. He waited patiently, letting Mandel stew in thought. Then he offered another incentive.
"We can make the bet more... interesting. If I fail, you can kill me. I won't resist. You can have your revenge."
That silenced Mandel instantly.
The chill in his eyes returned. A flash of raw fury surfaced.
He wanted revenge. But John had proven himself overwhelmingly powerful—so Mandel had been forced to suppress that desire.
Now?
If John didn't live up to his word, Mandel could strike him down, no resistance. Justice for his son.
John nodded. "I never go back on my word. So? Do we have a deal?"
Mandel stared at him for a long moment, then slowly nodded.
"Fine. Let's make this bet," he said solemnly. "But don't think I'll let you off if you break your promise."
John's smile widened.
"Break."
The moment the word left his mouth, it echoed like thunder through the illusion.
High above, the blood-red moon hanging in the sky—otherworldly and strange—suddenly shattered like a mirror. Its fragments scattered into glittering dust, vanishing like fireflies on the wind.
In an instant...
The illusion world crumbled.
It collapsed in the blink of an eye, like a glass palace imploding.
Mandel stood there, dumbstruck.
He hadn't even blinked before the illusion was gone.
Not one second.
Not even half a second.
The world was real again. The fake moon, the twisted dreamscape—obliterated by a single word.
A single command.
And all Mandel could do was stare.
Shocked beyond words.