Michael stepped through the portal. The air on the other side felt thick, almost sticky, like walking into a room full of unspoken words, and words that would never be uttered.

He blinked, expecting the roar of the crowd or the clash of other Adventurers warming up. But there was nothing. No cheers filtering through the barriers. No opponents are sizing him up from across the arena. Just silence, heavy and complete.

He looked around. The space wasn't what he'd imagined for the Envy trial. No open field scarred with craters from past battles. No river or forest to twist into weapons. Instead, it was a single room, not too big, maybe the size of a small gym.

The walls, floor, and ceiling were all mirrors, smooth, flawless panes that caught every bit of light and threw it back at him. His boots echoed softly as he took a step forward, the sound bouncing off the glass like a whisper that wouldn't quit.

In the mirrors, he saw himself. Dozens of them, stretching out in every direction. His reflection stood there in his worn leather jacket, the one with the guild patch on the shoulder, his dark hair messy from the last trial's sweat.

He raised a hand, and every version of him did the same. It was endless, like staring down an infinite hallway. He turned slowly, trying to find an edge, a door, anything that wasn't his own face staring back.

"Where's everyone else?" he said. His voice came back at him from all sides, overlapping, like a crowd of Michaels talking over each other.

He stopped turning, his stomach twisting. This wasn't right. The Pride trial had been a mess of one-on-one scraps, Wrath a brutal free-for-all. Envy should have been something like that, rivals clawing for the same prize, eyes full of that green hunger. But here? It was just him. Alone with himself.

A low hum started up, vibrating through the floor. The mirrors rippled like water, and the air grew colder. Words appeared in the glass in front of him, etched in faint silver script: Face your own shadow. Conquer your reflection, or be consumed.

Michael's breath caught. He read it twice, his mind racing. Conquer his reflection? That sounded like one of those old monk stories, the kind his grandma used to tell about facing inner demons. But this was a trial.

Real stakes. Lose, and he'd be out, maybe worse, if the whispers about these sin rooms were true. He clenched his fists, feeling the familiar spark of his shadow manipulation flicker in his veins. Tendrils of darkness curled from his fingertips, testing the air. They hit the mirrors and fizzled out, absorbed like smoke into fog.

"Okay," he said to the empty room, his voice steadier than he felt. "Let's see what you've got."

The hum grew louder, and the mirrors shifted. Not the glass itself, but what was in them. His reflections changed. The one straight ahead stayed normal for a second, then its eyes narrowed.

It tilted its head, just like he might if he were sizing up a threat. But then it smiled, a sharp, knowing grin that Michael hadn't worn in years. Not since before the guild, before everything went sideways.

He stepped back, boots scraping the floor. "What the hell?"

The reflection stepped forward too, syncing with him perfectly. But when Michael stopped, it didn't. It kept coming, pressing against the glass from the inside, like it wanted out.

The others joined in. Hundreds of Michaels, all grinning now, their postures shifting from casual to ready, hands flexing like they were about to draw weapons.

His pulse quickened. This wasn't just a trick of the light. The reflections were moving on their own, peeling away from his image.

One broke free first, the grinning one. It stepped through the mirror like it was water, rippling the surface as it emerged, solid and very real. Dressed just like him, down to the scuffed boots and the faint scar on his left knuckle from that bar fight last year.

Michael's shadows lashed out instinctively, coiling around the thing's legs. But it just laughed, his laugh, low and rough, and swatted them away like flies.

"Come on, Mike," it said, voice echoing his own down to the gravelly edge. "You know that trick won't work on me. I'm you, remember?"

More came through. Two, then five, then a dozen. They circled him slowly, filling the room with their footsteps. Each one was him, but twisted. One had broader shoulders, like he'd actually stuck with those gym sessions instead of skipping for late-night runs.

Another's eyes burned with that fire he'd lost after the first big loss, the one where Nova had stepped in and saved the day, stealing the glory without even trying. They all wore the same clothes, but their faces, god, their faces held every "what if" he'd ever buried.

"You're pathetic," one said, the broad-shouldered version. It cracked its knuckles, stepping closer. "Always hanging back, letting the others shine. Nova walks in, fresh off whatever god-complex bullshit he's got, and boom, you're second fiddle again. Why? Because you're scared. Scared to grab what you want."

Michael swung at it, his fist cutting through the air. It connected, solid hit, right to the jaw. The reflection staggered, but then it grinned wider, rubbing its chin.

"See? That's the envy talking. You hate how easy it is for him. Reincarnated hotshot, power handed to him on a silver platter. And you? Scraping by with shadows that fade in the light."

The words hit harder than the punch. Michael's chest tightened. He remembered the day Nova joined the guild, tall, quiet, with that aura that made everyone turn.

Michael had been grinding for months, pulling all-nighters on low-rank quests, just to get a nod from the higher-ups. And Nova? In just a few trials, he was leading squads. It wasn't fair, and it singed in Michael's heart, but he couldn't do anything.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.