Rachel stared, wide-eyed, at the stage that still bore the scars of Naemor's battle—scorched stone, shattered fragments of spell-etched runes, and a lingering tension in the air that no one dared breathe too deeply. Her gaze kept returning to the final moment—the arrow of pure light that pierced the clone and made the entire world seem darker by comparison. It wasn't just powerful. It was unshakable. Unquestionable.
Naemor had returned to meditation, face pale but calm, the light of his spell still flickering faintly behind closed eyes. Even now, he was analyzing, recovering—refining.
"Next contestant," the guide called out, eyes drifting to Rachel.
Her heart dropped. Her time had come.
She walked toward the stage, ignoring the sideways glances and veiled contempt from those who had dismissed her as weak. Her limbs were heavy, her arms still marked by the faint red scars of the dissolved seal.
She stepped onto the arena floor and stood still, bracing herself.
But the clone didn't form.
A shape flickered. A haze of mana gathered—but no distinct image took form. The magic stuttered like it didn't know what it was trying to replicate.
Rachel turned to the guide, confused—but the guide looked just as baffled.
Then—he appeared.
A figure cloaked in black emerged from thin air beside the guide. No sound. No fanfare. Just presence.
The air chilled. Conversations died instantly. Every contestant stiffened like prey before a predator. The cloaked figure said nothing, merely lifted a gloved hand—and one of the seals on Rachel's arm evaporated into a soft crimson mist.
The clone immediately snapped into form. Rachel's mirror stood before her, fully realized.
Only one seal remained.
Her breath quickened.
She dropped into a fighting stance, stiff and imperfect, but ready.
The clone smiled. A knowing, unsettling smile. And it began walking.
Not charging. Not sprinting.
Walking.
Deliberate. Confident. Cruel.
Each footstep cracked the stillness.
Rachel's thoughts spiraled.What is it doing?Should I run? Should I charge?No—wait, wait—what am I even doing?
Her limbs began to tremble. Her stance collapsed. She was frozen, not by power, but by doubt.
The clone reached her.
Out of sheer reflex, Rachel threw a punch—wide, desperate.
The clone slipped under it effortlessly, never breaking eye contact. With surgical precision, it drew back and slammed its fist into Rachel's face.
Her skull rang like a bell.
Pain shot through her spine, but she stayed standing. The clone grabbed her hair and drove a knee into her jaw. Blood exploded from her mouth. Then the assault began—elbows, knees, fists, kicks. No hesitation. No mercy.
Rachel was a blur of red.
The crowd winced.
But still—she didn't fall.
She wobbled, staggering, breath hitching and chest tight. Her blood now coated the arena, and it moved. Every drop was crawling, whispering, being drawn toward the last seal on her arm.
But Rachel didn't see it. Her world was pain.
The clone, finally bored, stepped in for the final blow.
It drew back, preparing to shatter her skull—
And Rachel, barely conscious, raised her arm.
The one with the seal.
She didn't know why. She didn't think. She simply moved.
The seal lit up like molten metal—then split.
Agony unlike anything she'd ever felt tore through her arm and chest, like claws raking her bones. The seal cracked with a shriek and shattered, transforming into hundreds of floating, blood-drenched pages.
The cloaked girl on the sidelines tilted her head. "Huh," she whispered. "She really is a bookworm."
The pages hovered, swirling around Rachel like torn scripture in a storm. Her blood—her pain—had become a weapon.
The pages hardened into blades, spears, glyphs—each one a different shape of death, and with a thought, they launched at the clone.
No buildup. No pause.
Just speed.
The clone tried to counter, but it had no context. These weren't Rachel's known skills—they were written in ink the clone couldn't read. One by one, the blood-weapons tore into it.
Chest. Arm. Leg. Skull.
The final strike split its heart in two—and the clone shattered, fading to nothing.
Rachel exhaled.
Collapsed.
The arena spun.
Then she felt arms wrap around her. Naemor's. Firm, steady, strong.
He lifted her like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade and walked off without ceremony.
"Pass," the guide said, barely blinking.
The cloaked figure leaned toward her ear, whispered something only she could hear, and then disappeared without a sound.
The remaining matches played out. Some passed. Others failed. Many fell in battle, never understanding why.
At the end, the guide addressed the survivors.
"Congratulations. You've stepped foot into the real world. You've made it past the first wall. Now comes orientation. Training. Assignments."
A pause.
"Let me be clear," she continued, tone sharp, "this trial—these last three tests—they weren't a guarantee. They were permission. A check to see if you're even worth investing in."
The crowd shifted, uncertain.
"Passing doesn't mean power. It means potential. And if you think this was harsh—know this: the real world is crueler still."
She looked directly at those who had hesitated earlier.
"If you rejected the battle, you were never going to pass. Because in Twilight, we don't back down. Not when lives are on the line. Yes, we retreat. Yes, we regroup. But never because we're afraid."
Her voice grew louder, and something darker shimmered behind her words.
"We are Twilight. We are the light that shines the way. And the darkness that holds back the monsters."
A final pause.
"If you can't be that, walk away now."
She glanced at her wrist.
"With time dilation, only eight hours have passed. Some of you will feel dizzy from having your consciousness transferred. That's normal."
And with that, she snapped her fingers.
Rachel blinked.
The spinning stopped.
She was back at the bar.
Her arms were still sore. Her mind… clear. Too clear. It was like her thoughts had aligned with frightening precision.
Chiron leaned across the counter with a smug grin.
"Well, look who's back. Can't handle your liquor, huh?"
Rachel rubbed her head. "Where… am I?"
"You never left," Chiron said with a shrug. "You just slumped forward like you passed out mid-drink. We were starting to place bets on how long you'd last."
He slid a glowing glass toward her. A blue liquid shimmered inside like starlight trapped in a bottle.
"On the house. You'll need it."
Rachel squinted at it. "What is it?"
"Just 'Blue.' That's what the regulars call it. Helps cultivators when their minds get… stuck. Clears the fog."
She downed it. The moment it touched her tongue, her headache vanished, her heartbeat steadied, and her breathing aligned like clockwork.
She exhaled. "Damn."
"Better?" Chiron asked.
"Better than ever," she muttered. "But I should go. If I stay out any longer, my people will start to worry."
"Smart girl," Chiron said, wiping the glass. "Go make them proud."
Rachel stood, wobbling for just a second—but her eyes gleamed with a new kind of clarity.
And then, without another word, she walked out into the world.