Psychological warfare is quieter than steel, but it cuts deeper. A blade announces itself. An explosion demands attention.

Even pain, when it is purely physical, has a kind of honesty to it.

You know where it comes from. You know when it starts. You know, eventually, when it ends. The body bleeds, the nerves scream, and then—if you survive—the pain recedes, leaving scars that can be pointed to, named, and explained.

The mind is not so merciful.

The cruelty of psychological warfare lies in its intimacy. It doesn't strike from the outside; it enters through doors that were already unlocked.

It wears familiar faces. It speaks in voices you trust, or worse, voices you once loved. It doesn't need force, because it recruits memory, fear, regret, longing, and doubt as its weapons.

Where a physical attack seeks to break bone or flesh, psychological warfare seeks to rewrite meaning. It asks not "Can you endure this?" but "What if everything you believe about yourself is wrong?"

A sword can only harm the present body. Psychological warfare reaches backward and forward at the same time. It drags the past into the present, weaponizing moments you thought were over, conversations you never finished, wounds you pretended healed. At the same time, it poisons the future, whispering that no matter what you do, the ending is already decided. Physical pain exists in the now. Mental pain colonizes time itself.

There is also something deeply unfair about it. You can train muscles against strain, bones against impact, reflexes against speed.

You can armor the body. But how do you armor hope? How do you shield yourself from the idea that you were never enough to begin with?

Psychological warfare doesn't need to invent new suffering. It simply rearranges what already exists inside you and presents it back as truth.

Another cruelty is that psychological attacks often masquerade as self-reflection. They feel earned. When the body is struck, you know you were attacked.

When the mind is struck, you are convinced you did it to yourself.

The enemy doesn't say, "You are weak." It asks, "Aren't you weak?" And because the question comes from inside, it feels more honest than any accusation ever could.

This is why psychological warfare creates shame in a way physical violence rarely does. Pain inflicted by another can be blamed outward.

Pain that feels self-generated collapses inward.

The victim becomes both the wounded and the executioner.

Over time, this erodes the distinction between enemy and self, until resistance itself feels pointless. Why fight something that feels like truth?

So when psychological warfare began without warning, I was spooked and scared, afraid that I might lose this trial.

One breath, the cave empty and quiet, the next—

Sebastian stood in front of me.

No. Not stood.

Reclined.

The space twisted itself into a room that shouldn't exist inside stone. Velvet drapes cascaded from a canopy like spilled wine, deep red threaded with black, heavy enough to swallow light.

A bed sat at the center, massive, indulgent, the kind meant to make a statement rather than serve a purpose. Silk sheets were tangled and warm-looking, the fabric creased in a way that suggested bodies had been there for a while.

They had.

Sebastian lay back against the pillows, black hair loose, golden eyes half-lidded in that infuriating way that made it look like the world never truly demanded anything of him. One arm rested behind his head. The other curved protectively around a women.

Belle Ardent.

She lay against his chest beneath the same blanket, her long black hair spilling over his shoulder, her blindfold still in place like it always was, as if even in illusion the cave respected that detail. Her head rested just above his heart.

His fingers slid through her hair in slow, absent strokes, intimate in a way that made my stomach twist.

They looked… comfortable.

Not dramatic. Not exaggerated.

Domestic.

Real.

My feet didn't move.

I didn't breathe.

The sound that left my chest wasn't even a gasp. It was just air, leaving me without permission.

Sebastian's eyes shifted.

They met mine.

The illusion noticed me.

He smiled.

Not the polite one.

Not the battlefield grin.

The private one.

The one meant for people allowed close.

"Well," he said mildly, voice warm, unhurried. "You're staring."

My fingers twitched.

Belle stirred slightly, a small movement, like she had adjusted in her sleep. Sebastian's hand stilled for a moment, then continued its slow path through her hair.

He glanced down at her with something dangerously close to fondness.

"She's asleep," he added, softer. "Try not to be too loud."

The room pressed in around me.

"This isn't real," I said.

My voice sounded thin.

Sebastian hummed. "That's what you're telling yourself now?"

He carefully shifted, easing Belle away from his chest just enough to slide out from beneath her. He moved slowly, deliberately, making sure she stayed comfortable, propping a pillow beneath her head before standing.

The blanket slipped lower, revealing the edge of her shoulder, pale against the dark sheets.

He turned back to me.

Up close, it was worse.

Every detail was right.

The height.

The posture.

The way he held himself like he didn't need to prove anything.

"I didn't invite you," he said calmly. "But since you're here."

He gestured vaguely at the bed, at the room, at everything.

"Congratulations," he continued. "You finally get to see what you keep imagining."

My chest burned with shame.

Belle shifted again, this time waking.

Her head turned toward us, blindfold unmoving, but her attention unmistakable. She sat up slowly, blanket sliding down her torso, hair cascading freely. When she spoke, her voice carried that sharp, elegant edge that always made people straighten instinctively.

"Sebastian?" she asked. "Why does it smell… unpleasant?"

She angled her head toward me.

The illusion of her smile was subtle.

Cruel.

Sebastian sighed. "Someone wandered in."

Belle's lips curved faintly. "Oh."

She turned her body fully toward me now, sitting beside Sebastian like I wasn't worth standing for. Her posture was relaxed, casual, like my presence didn't even register as a threat.

Her gaze, hidden behind the blindfold, felt heavier than any blade.

"You're still here," she said. Not a question.

I swallowed. "This is a trial."

Sebastian tilted his head. "Everything is, if you're desperate enough."

Belle laughed softly.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic.

It was dismissive.

"You look smaller than I imagined," she said. "I always thought envy made people puff themselves up."

Sebastian chuckled. "Be nice."

She reached for him then, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer. He went willingly, leaning down until their foreheads touched.

"I am being nice," she murmured. "I'm not even angry."

She kissed him.

Slow.

Unhurried.

The kind of kiss that existed to be seen.

They were fucking kissing in front of me.

My vision tunneled.

Belle pulled back just enough to speak again. "You're staring again."

Sebastian glanced at me, brows lifting. "Told you."

Something inside me cracked.

"You're illusions," I snapped. "You don't get to talk down to me."

Belle's smile sharpened.

"Oh," she said softly. "But we do."

She rose from the bed.

Standing, she was nearly my height. Taller than I thought she would be. She walked toward me without hesitation, stopping just far enough away that I could feel her presence without touching it.

"You want to know the difference between you and him?" she asked.

I didn't answer.

She didn't wait.

"He doesn't look at people like obstacles," she said. "He doesn't measure himself against them. He moves forward and lets the world decide whether to keep up."

Sebastian remained behind her, watching silently.

Belle continued. "You look at him and see everything you lack. I look at him and see everything he chooses to give."

Her head tilted. "That's why you'll never stand where you want to."

Anger surged, hot and wild.

Sebastian finally spoke again. "You should leave."

I laughed.

It came out wrong. Broken.

"Or what?" I demanded.

Belle didn't answer.

Sebastian stepped forward.

Not aggressively.

Not threatening.

Pitying.

"I already won," he said quietly. "You're just slow to realize it."

That did it.

Mana surged.

I moved.

The first blow passed straight through him.

The illusion shattered like smoke, reforming instantly, Belle already retreating, already safe. My gauntlets slammed into nothing. Explosions tore through the room, ripping fabric and stone alike, but the bed remained untouched. They remained untouched.

Sebastian's voice echoed from everywhere. "You can't hit what you want to be."

Belle's laughter followed. "Or what you want to take."

I screamed.

I attacked again and again, tearing the room apart, detonations ripping through drapes, walls collapsing into dust. The cave absorbed it all, unbothered.

The illusions didn't fight back.

They didn't need to.

The pressure returned.

Not emotional this time.

Physical.

My limbs grew heavy. My vision blurred. Something cold wrapped around my chest, squeezing.

Life.

Being pulled away.

I staggered, dropping to one knee.

Sebastian watched from a distance, expression unreadable now. Belle stood beside him, hand resting casually on his arm.

"You were warned," she said.

The world dimmed.

Years peeled away from me like skin.

I felt it. Not metaphorically. Literally.

Strength draining. Vitality unraveling.

Ten years.

At least.

My knees hit the ground.

I curled inward, arms wrapping around my chest as the cave emptied itself of illusion, leaving only stone and silence.

I sobbed.

Not loudly.

Ugly.

Quiet.

Like something breaking without witnesses.

I had lost.

And the cave made sure I felt every second of it.

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