The world reformed around Maera's group in a burst of cold white light. When vision returned, Maera Raynhart found herself standing not in the same arena as Ron's team, but in another space entirely—one that looked eerily identical, yet was clearly separate. The obsidian walls curved high above them in a silent circle, the same dim silvery glow descended from nowhere, and beneath their feet lay the same polished, mirror-like floor stretching endlessly in every direction. It was the same design, the same atmosphere… yet it was unmistakably a different domain, meant solely for her team's trial.

Col Alven stood calmly to her right, hands relaxed but eyes razor-focused. Drevin Solveil positioned himself slightly forward on the left, posture tense and ready to strike at any moment. Behind him, half-hiding as usual, was Iselde Velmira, her fingers gripping Drevin's sleeve tightly as she peeked past his shoulder.

But Maera's gaze was fixed on the figures standing across from them.

Four silhouettes. Four bodies. Four perfectly formed replicas.

Each copy was a flawless mirror of the person it imitated—Maera's firm stance, Col's controlled sharpness, Drevin's quiet intensity, and even Iselde's timid posture. Everything was the same. Except…

Except for the aura.

The four duplicates stood wrapped in a faint, swirling shadow, like darkness clinging to their very skin. Their eyes were colder, emptier, emotionless yet piercing—eyes that didn't reflect thought, only intent.

Iselde flinched and stepped back instinctively.

"W-Why… do they look like… like me…?" she whispered, voice trembling.

Maera lifted an arm to steady her group, her tone firm but controlled.

"Don't panic," she said. "They may look like us, but losing our composure is the fastest way to lose this fight. Focus."

As if responding to her command, the obsidian walls vibrated slightly—

and Eira's voice resonated through the arena like an echo drifting from the sky.

"Those shadows in front of you…"

her tone grew sharper, almost ceremonial,

"…are your opponents. Defeat them to clear this final phase."

Col exhaled slowly.

"Our opponents are… ourselves."

Eira didn't leave them any room for doubt.

"They are your exact replicas. Anything you can think—

they can think too."

Drevin's brows furrowed.

"Our strategies…?"

"Your strategies," Eira confirmed.

"Your combat styles, your instincts, your reactions—everything."

A heavy silence settled over the team.

"They possess your weapon mastery, your elemental affinity, your physical strength… everything that defines you."

Iselde trembled harder, her eyes fixed on the shadow version of herself—cold, merciless, standing behind drevin shadow but still with a level of confidence she herself had never shown.

Maera narrowed her eyes at her darker counterpart.

"So this really is a test of who we are."

Across the arena, the four shadows moved in perfect unison—

one step forward, quiet as death.

Maera lowered her stance.

"Get ready," she whispered.

The battlefield for Maera's team had begun.

Maera exhaled once, grounding her stance, and lifted her hand. A faint red glow pulsed along her skin before solidifying into a familiar weight—her crimson gauntlets materializing around her fists with a resonant metallic snap. The polished red metal glimmered faintly under the silver light, fitting her arms like an extension of her will.

Col stepped forward beside her. Without a word, two daggers appeared in his hands—sleek, curved blades glowing with a muted silver sheen. They were the same weapons he had trained with relentlessly, the same ones he trusted more than anything. He spun one dagger once, testing its balance, then tightened his grip.

Behind them, Drevin inhaled deeply. The air around him shimmered subtly as a quiver materialized across his back—filled with perfectly carved arrows of obsidian-tipped mana. In his left hand, a long bow appeared in a smooth flash, its dark wood and faint runic patterns matching the calm intensity in his eyes.

Iselde hesitated. Her small frame shook visibly, but she lifted her trembling hands. A soft teal glow flickered, and a small leather pouch materialized in her grasp—the same pouch where she stored her enchanted dusts and emergency brews. It wasn't flashy, it wasn't powerful in appearance, but it was hers. She clutched it close to her chest, trying to steady her breath.

But before any of them could take comfort in the familiar weight of their weapons—

Across the arena, the shadows moved.

With the same ease.

The same stance.

The same precision.

A red gauntlet materialized on the shadow-Maera's fist.

Twin daggers appeared in the hands of shadow-Col.

A bow and quiver formed across the shoulder of shadow-Drevin.

And in the hands of shadow-Iselde, a matching pouch shimmered into existence—held with the same fearful posture, yet with eyes that lacked fear entirely.

Col's jaw tightened as he took a half-step back.

"They… copy our weapons," he muttered, a cold realization settling in his chest.

Maera didn't break eye contact with her darker counterpart. The shadow version mirrored even the tilt of her head, the fold of her fingers, the faint shift of her center of gravity.

"The woman's voice said it already," Maera answered quietly.

"They're our exact copies."

The four shadows continued to stare at them—silent, unblinking, emotionless. It was like looking into a mirror that stripped away warmth and humanity, leaving only skill, power, and instinct.

Maera flexed her gauntleted fingers once, the red metal gleaming.

"Which means," she said softly, "this won't be a normal fight."

Drevin nodded in agreement, his bow already drawn halfway.

Col lowered his stance, daggers angled forward.

Iselde swallowed hard, clutching her pouch even tighter.

Across the arena, the four shadows lowered into identical stances.

The fight against themselves was seconds away.

.

.

.

Maera didn't hesitate. The instant the tension peaked, she flashed forward, her crimson gauntlets igniting with a surge of red light as she lunged straight toward her shadow counterpart. Col moved right behind her, his twin daggers gleaming as he sprinted across the reflective floor with swift, precise steps. Drevin raised his bow, drawing back the string in one clean motion, an arrow already forming between his fingers. Iselde remained where she stood, clutching her small pouch tightly—her stance timid, but her eyes focused.

And across from them, the shadows moved in perfect unison.

Shadow-Maera launched forward at exactly the same speed, her own red gauntlet shimmering with a darker aura. Shadow-Col rushed ahead with equally sharp footwork, twin blades flickering through the dim light. Shadow-Drevin raised his bow in the exact same posture, calm and unhurried. Shadow-Iselde mirrored the real Iselde's hesitant stance, the same pouch clutched to her chest.

Maera's and her shadow's fists collided with a sharp metallic crack, red aura bursting outward in a violent ripple. The force of impact shook the air, and Maera grit her teeth as their auras flared—hers bright crimson, the shadow's a darkened, almost corrupted red. They pushed against each other, neither gaining ground, their strengths perfectly matched.

Col clashed with his replica only seconds later. The strikes of their twin daggers glittered like silver flashes—clang, clang, clang—rapid, precise, dangerous. Every slash Col attempted was countered instantly, the shadow's blades following the same rhythm, the same instincts, the same intent.

Drevin's arrow soared through the air at the same moment his shadow released one. The two arrows collided mid-flight with a sharp crack, shattering into fragments of mana that sparkled before fading. Drevin narrowed his eyes, drawing again—only to see his shadow already pulling back a second arrow with identical timing.

Iselde swallowed hard and finally moved. She reached into her pouch and withdrew a handful of glass shards—thin, reflective pieces she had carefully prepared long before the competition. Across the arena, shadow-Iselde did the exact same thing, pulling out an identical set of shimmering shards.

Iselde lifted her trembling hand and tossed the shards upward. They hovered in the air, suspended by her mana. She closed her eyes briefly, steadying her breath, and mana swirled softly around her.

A pale, white-blue magic circle formed behind the floating shards.

"Second Circle Mirrorweaving Magic…" she whispered under her breath.

"Mirror Shard Scatter."

The shards shot forward like a burst of crystal rain—precise and deadly.

At the same moment, her shadow opened its hand.

A matching magic circle flared behind the shadow's shards.

The same spell.

The same timing.

The same force.

The two arrays of shards collided in mid-air, each mirror fragment meeting its twin with perfect synchronicity. The impact created a shower of glittering reflections, scattering fragments of refracted mana across the arena.

Everywhere in the battlefield, the same truth was becoming painfully clear.

Maera and her shadow were locked in a dead-even power struggle, neither gaining an inch.

Col's dagger duel remained perfectly mirrored, every block meeting its exact counterpart.

Drevin's arrows and the shadow's arrows countered each other with identical precision.

Iselde's spells collided with their opposite halves, canceling one another exactly.

No matter what they tried…

no matter how instinctive their movements were…

Their shadows matched them perfectly.

It was a battle of equals—

a fight against themselves.

And for the first time, Maera's group felt the weight of what "Reflected Self" truly meant.

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