The reflection did not speak. It never did. It simply raised its arm and pointed, two fingers extended, toward a corridor that should not have existed.

It was long.

Too long.

A straight, narrow passage carved cleanly into the living cave, its edges sharp and unmistakably man-made, as if someone had forced order into a place that despised it. The glass walls of the cavern stopped abruptly at its mouth, replaced by dark stone blocks fitted together with obsessive precision.

No moss.

No cracks.

No natural curves.

Just stone, pressed tight against stone, swallowing light whole. The corridor looked less like a path and more like a wound cut into the world.

The reflection turned its hand palm-up and curled its fingers once.

Go.

I hesitated only long enough to acknowledge the fear blooming in my chest. Then I stepped forward.

The moment I crossed the threshold, the air changed. The warmth clinging to my body from the life mana thinned, stretched, as if something here resented it. The corridor smelled old—dust, iron, something faintly rotten beneath it all.

My footsteps echoed too cleanly, each one snapping back at me from unseen distances, multiplying until it sounded like there were others walking just out of sync with me.

I kept going.

Minutes passed. Or seconds. Time had stopped behaving the moment I entered, unraveling into something soft and unreliable.

The corridor did not curve.

It did not branch.

It did not end.

The stone walls were the same dull black-gray throughout, absorbing light instead of reflecting it, forcing my eyes to strain just to understand where the space ended and darkness began.

That was when I felt it.

A gaze.

Not the vague sense of being watched, not paranoia or nerves. This was weight. Pressure. Something settled at the base of my skull, cold and deliberate, as though invisible fingers rested against my spine. It wasn't hostile in the way a predator is hostile. It was curious. Intimate. Like it was leaning close, reading me.

My neck prickled.

Instinct screamed at me to turn around.

I almost did.

My head began to move before I consciously stopped it, muscles tightening, spine twisting—then I froze mid-motion, breath catching sharply in my throat as memory slammed into me.

Don't stare down tunnels, cracks, or seams; if you lock eyes first, it locks on you.

My heart hammered painfully against my ribs. I forced my head forward again, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached, and continued walking. The gaze did not leave. If anything, it grew heavier, closer, as if offended by my refusal to acknowledge it.

"Great," I thought bitterly, my inner voice sharp and deliberately loud. Of all the trials, I get the one where I'm stalked by an invisible horror in a murder hallway. Fantastic design choice. Ten out of ten.

I imagined Belle rolling her eyes at me. Imagined Kent making a joke that was half bravado, half fear. Imagined Nora quietly watching everything, cataloging details while pretending not to be scared.

It helped. A little.

Then the voice came.

"Sebastian."

I flinched so hard my foot caught on uneven stone, my body pitching forward before I caught myself. The sound of my name echoed down the corridor, folding over itself, repeating softly until it dissolved into the dark.

The voice was gentle.

So very gentle.

It came from behind me.

My mother's voice.

Not the version blurred by time or memory, not softened by distance. It was exact. Every inflection. Every cadence. The same tired warmth she used when she wanted me to listen, when she wanted me to stop asking questions she didn't know how to answer.

"Sebastian," she said again, closer this time. "Why won't you look at me?"

My chest tightened painfully. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to draw blood. My legs wanted to stop. My body screamed to turn, to see, to confirm, to deny.

I didn't.

I walked.

Each step felt heavier than the last, like gravity itself was trying to anchor me in place. The corridor seemed longer now, stretching subtly with every footfall, punishing progress with distance. Behind me, the sound of bare feet on stone followed, unhurried.

"Do you know how cold it was?" my mother's voice continued, sadness threading through it like a knife. "At the end. Do you know how quiet?"

It's not real, I told myself, over and over, the words becoming a mantra. It's not real. It doesn't exist. This place feeds on reaction.

I remembered the tablet. The rules carved into stone by someone who had survived long enough to warn others.

When something calls your name, don't reply; it wants inside, not a word, but you.

I didn't speak.

"I left you letters," the voice said softly. "I tried to explain. I tried to make you understand."

My teeth ground together. The pain in my palms sharpened, grounding me, reminding me that I was still here, still moving, still me. The voice followed effortlessly, never gaining, never falling behind.

"You never listened," she murmured. "You never looked."

Something twisted in my chest then, not fear, not grief, but anger. Hot and sharp and familiar. Not at the voice, not at the cave, but at the memory it was wearing like a mask. At the half-truths. At the secrets wrapped in riddles and despair.

I walked faster.

The corridor darkened further, the stone swallowing even the faint glow of my mana. The air grew thick, pressing against my lungs, making each breath feel earned. Behind me, the footsteps stopped.

Silence fell so abruptly it hurt.

For a moment, just a moment, I thought it was over.

I exhaled shakily, shoulders loosening despite myself. The gaze was gone. The weight lifted. The corridor felt empty again, just stone and darkness and the echo of my own breathing.

See? I told myself. You didn't break the rule. You didn't turn. You didn't answer.

Then something stepped in front of me.

I stopped.

She stood there, blocking the corridor completely.

My mother.

Or what the cave thought she was.

Her skin was ghostly pale, stretched too tight over her face, veins faintly visible beneath like cracks in porcelain. Her black hair hung limp and wet around her shoulders, clinging to her neck as if she'd crawled out of deep water. Her eyes were wrong, too dark, too empty, swallowing light instead of reflecting it. And her smile…

Her smile was wide and stiff, pulled into place without warmth or familiarity, like someone had carved it and forgotten why.

She tilted her head slightly, studying me.

"Why are you afraid?" she asked, her voice no longer coming from behind me, but directly in front. "I'm right here."

My heart pounded so hard I thought it might tear itself free.

I did not move.

I did not speak.

I stared straight ahead, not at her eyes, not at her face, but through her, focusing on the space beyond her shoulder, on the imagined continuation of the corridor.

My entire body shook, every instinct screaming that this was wrong, that a human shape standing this still, this close, was an offense against reality itself.

It doesn't exist, I told myself. It's a rule. And rules matter here.

She stepped closer.

Her presence was cold. Not the absence of warmth, but something actively draining, like standing too close to deep water in winter. I could smell her now, iron and rot and something chemical, like old medicine.

"You're hurting yourself," she said, concern twisting her features into something grotesque. "Just look at me. Just acknowledge me."

My vision blurred. Tears stung at the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall. Not for her. For everything she represented. For the questions I'd never get answers to. For the pain that had followed me across worlds.

I took a step forward.

My shoulder passed through her.

There was resistance, like pushing through thick fog, followed by a sudden, nauseating cold that crawled across my skin. The image flickered violently, her face distorting, smile stretching too wide, eyes sinking inward as if collapsing into themselves.

She screamed.

The sound was wrong. Not loud, not sharp, but layered, dozens of voices overlapping, all speaking at once, all filled with hunger and frustration.

I didn't stop.

I walked through her, through the screaming, through the cold, my jaw clenched so tightly my head ached. The corridor ahead shuddered, stone rippling like disturbed water, as if the cave itself were reacting to my defiance.

Behind me, the screaming cut off abruptly.

Silence returned.

I kept walking.

My legs felt numb. My thoughts were slow and heavy, as though the pain had sunk deep and settled there, reshaping something fundamental. I understood it then, not intellectually, but instinctively.

This trial wasn't about fear.

It was about refusal.

About choosing not to engage, not to indulge the part of yourself that needs answers, closure, comfort. It was about accepting that some things, some faces, some voices, were traps designed to hollow you out if you let them in.

The cave didn't want my attention.

It wanted me.

So I walked.

And I did not look back.

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