Kent stood motionless in the mirror world. The ground beneath him shimmered like water but felt like stone. All around, warped reflections of himself stared back—some scared, some angry, some broken. His breath fogged the cold glass. He had no idea how long he'd been trapped.
He took a step. The reflections mimicked him. Another step, and the surface cracked under his foot like a spiderweb.
A child's voice echoed.
Faint. Fragile.
Help me…
The mirrors pulsed. Kent clutched his head. That voice—he knew it. Not just the sound, but the ache it carried.
Suddenly, the world rippled again, and the glass shattered—not in sound, but in sensation. In a blink, the mirror world folded in on itself, collapsing into darkness.
And in that darkness, the past came rushing in.
Ten Years Ago
Thirteen-year-old Kent walked home alone, clutching his schoolbag against his chest. It was his usual route but it was getting late, and dusk painted the neighborhood in anxious shadows. The air felt wrong. A little too quiet. His route took him past the back of a hardware shop and an old, crumbling shed that had long been abandoned.
That's when he heard it.
A sob—high-pitched, raw, and very close.
He stopped. "Hello?" he called out.
Silence.
Then—thump.
Something—or someone—was in the shed that stood at the end of an old street.
Against every sane instinct, Kent crept closer. The wooden door hung slightly open. He pushed it with the toe of his shoe, and it creaked ominously.
Inside, dust choked the air, and rotting tools lined the walls. But tucked in the corner, knees drawn to her chest, was a small girl in a hooded cloak. Her body trembled.
"Hey," Kent said softly, stepping inside. "Are you okay?"
The girl didn't respond, but her shaking grew worse. Her hood was pulled low over her face.
"Do you live around here?" he tried again.
She finally looked up—but only slightly, revealing no face beneath the hood. Just a blank void. Kent stumbled back, heart pounding.
But then… her hand reached out, not to hurt him, but to grab his. He hesitated—and then gripped her tightly.
"You can't stay here," he said, swallowing his fear. "Come on."
He led her out of the shed, his sneakers crunching on gravel. As they neared the main street, the dim lights of passing cars caught on her cloak, and for the first time, she allowed her hood to fall.
Kent froze.
She had no mouth. No eyes. No nose. Just smooth, pale skin stretched over a head like porcelain.
Still, somehow, she began to speak.
"I was never supposed to leave…"
Kent started, unsure if he was imagining her voice in his head. "What do you mean?"
"They're watching," she said, her head twitching toward the shadows. "If they see me with you, they'll erase you too."
"What? Who—"
But then, her tone changed. She turned to Kent, gripping his hand tighter, trembling.
"Thank you… thank you for finding me."
And then it happened.
The air thickened like tar. Her skin began to glow—no, crack. Thin golden fissures spidered out across her face and body. Her breath hitched.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
A blinding light exploded from her chest.
Kent was thrown backward onto the pavement, skidding across the ground. The world rang like a bell. When he sat up, all that remained was a faint scorch mark and an unnatural silence.
Sirens wailed in the distance, but no one around seemed to notice the explosion.
No witnesses. No debris.
Just Kent.
Alone.
Now.
Kent gasped, falling to his knees in the mirror world as the memory faded. The sensation of her hand in his was still lingering—cold, small, desperate. He rubbed his palms together, trying to shake it off.
"Was that my memory?" He asked out loud.
A pulse shook the ground, and the glass under him liquefied. This time, it didn't pull him into the past—but forward.
The mirror world splintered.
And Kent stepped into the next room.
It was another throne room—vast, red-lit, gothic in design. Stone pillars lined the walls like watching sentries. At the far end, seated in a throne of bone and velvet, was her.
The Witch.
She didn't rise. She merely tilted her head, curious, like she was admiring a strange new insect.
"So," she purred. "You made it past Genesis."
So there was more.
Kent stepped forward, fists clenched. "I want answers. Now."
She laughed, a sound too sweet to be real. "So direct. You haven't changed at all."
"What is this place?" Kent demanded. "Why don't I remember anything from when I became a player? Who are you?"
She stood, descending the throne like water flowing down stairs. Her bare feet made no sound.
"Questions, questions. So many questions…" she circled him. "You poor thing. Still thinking this game has rules."
He turned with her, refusing to let her out of sight.
"Is there an out?" He asked, referring to the system.
She paused. "Pass the Final Tier."
Kent frowned. "What does that mean?"
The witch smiled, leaning in. "The one who first steps into the final tier… rules it."
His heart skipped.
"I don't—"
"Don't worry. Even the revered supreme players never made it to the Final Tier."
The words struck like a whip. Supreme players? That meant there were more humans with the system.
Kent staggered, finally asking the question he had been wanting to ask, "are you going to let me leave?"
She smiled, leaning closer. Her lips hovered near his ear.
"Honey, the only way out is to defeat me."
Kent flinched back. His stomach dropped. Not because he feared her but because he was unsure if he would make it out unscathed. There was still so much he didn't know. "That makes no sense—"
She touched his forehead gently.
"Scared?" She asked. Kent felt severely underestimated.
He tried to slap her hand away, but it was too late. Her eyes were glowing now—silver and endless.
The room folded inward.
The air became syrup.
"No!" Kent shouted, trying to resist, but his limbs locked up.
"You're still too early," the witch said, fading into mist. "So I'll give you what you wanted."
"What—"
"A story."
With that, everything cracked.
And Kent fell, spinning into another illusion. But before the illusion swallowed him whole, something colder and sharper, grabbed him and yanked him sideways.