CHAPTER 81: CHAPTER 81 – THE FALSE KING

The Pane was quiet. Too quiet.

Shards of the fallen boy still drifted through the air like dust in a shaft of light, fading before they touched the ground. The rebels knelt in silence, their reflections trembling in the fractured floor. No one dared move. No one dared breathe too loud.

Ren stood at the center, his crown still orbiting his head in perfect, slow spirals. The shards whispered faintly, like fragments of voices caught between life and mirror. His blade lowered, but his fractured eye gleamed bright enough that no one doubted he could raise it again in a heartbeat.

The Pane had a king now.

But kings needed thrones.

The girl in black dust straightened slowly, her eyes shining with amusement. "So decisive," she said, voice dripping with mock reverence. "The Pane has been waiting for someone like you, Ren. Someone ruthless enough to silence it."

Ren’s gaze flicked toward her. "And what are you waiting for?"

She tilted her head, lips curling into a smile too wide, too knowing. "For you to sit. A crown is nothing without a throne, after all. Do you hear it? The Pane is calling you."

Ren frowned, but before he could reply, the Pane shifted.

The fractures in the ground spread outward in spiraling patterns, forming lines that converged in the distance. Slowly, with a grinding sound like mountains of glass being dragged across stone, a shape rose.

A throne.

Made entirely of jagged shards, each piece glimmering with distorted reflections. It towered higher than any of the rebels, its back crowned with broken mirror-fragments that caught and bent the Pane’s false light. The air around it shimmered with pressure—an invitation, and a warning.

The shard-winged girl at Ren’s side clutched his arm tightly, her wings trembling. "Ren... don’t." Her voice was hushed, pleading. "That throne isn’t just a seat—it’s a prison. Whoever sits there becomes... part of it."

Ren’s grip tightened on his sword. The crown pulsed as if in response to the throne’s presence, the orbiting shards drawing closer to his skull. His fractured eye burned with light.

The rebels were still kneeling, watching. Waiting.

If he turned his back on the throne now, the cracks of doubt would spread. The Pane respected strength, not hesitation. He could already feel it—the fragile balance of fear he had won hanging by threads of glass.

The girl in black dust whispered again, almost giddy, "Sit, Ren. Let the Pane crown you fully. Be more than a rebel. Be the Pane itself."

Ren’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. His crown’s shards rotated faster, humming louder, like a storm trying to tear free.

He stepped forward.

Every fragment of the Pane seemed to hold its breath.

The throne awaited.

Ren’s boots crunched against the fractured floor as he approached the throne.

The rebels parted instinctively, bowing lower, their reflections rippling across the glassy ground like waves retreating from a storm. The Pane itself trembled, as though anticipating something monumental.

The shard-winged girl clung to his sleeve, eyes wide with fear. "Ren... please." Her voice quivered, each word like a tether pulling him back from the abyss. "Once you sit, you’ll never be the same. That throne will carve you into what it wants."

Ren stopped for a breath. The crown’s shards hummed in agitation, their orbit accelerating. His fractured eye reflected the throne’s jagged spires, and for a fleeting instant, he saw himself already seated there—cold, unreachable, a monarch of distortions.

But the Pane wasn’t offering him a choice. It was demanding proof.

The moment his hand brushed the throne’s edge, the shards around it stirred like snakes roused from slumber. A violent pulse slammed into his chest, and suddenly—

—he wasn’t in the Pane anymore.

Ren stood in a void of infinite mirrors, each one reflecting a different version of him. Some were twisted with cruelty, others hollow with despair, some burning with madness. Thousands of Rens stared back, overlapping until he could no longer tell which was the real one.

From the mirrors, voices whispered:

"You are nothing without us."

"You are only what others see."

"You are the Pane’s echo, not its master."

Ren staggered, clutching his head. The fractured eye flared, and every reflection flinched back at once.

Then—one mirror shattered.

Through the shards stepped a figure.

It was Ren—but crowned fully, his entire body threaded with cracks of light, his sword fused into his arm like an extension of his being. His smile was sharp, merciless.

The False King.

The reflection raised its blade-arm, pointing it at Ren. "To sit upon the throne, you must first kill yourself."

The shard-winged girl’s voice echoed faintly, distant but desperate: "Ren, don’t let it take you!"

Ren’s grip tightened around his sword. His fractured eye locked onto the False King’s cold grin.

The throne wasn’t just testing him. It was demanding he erase every version of himself that wasn’t strong enough.

And the first to fall... would be himself.

The void of mirrors stretched endlessly, each pane quivering with distorted light. Shards drifted in the air like glass snow, cutting against Ren’s skin when they brushed past.

Before him stood the False King—his reflection, crowned and complete, eyes brimming with cold sovereignty. Where Ren still bore fractures and hesitation, the False King was pure resolution, forged sharp by the Pane itself.

Their gazes locked.

"You don’t belong here," the False King said, his voice calm, heavy with inevitability. "You are half-formed, unworthy. Sit on that throne, and the Pane will tear you apart. Only I can rule."

Ren steadied his breathing, tightening his grip on his sword. "You’re not me."

"I am all of you," the False King corrected, stepping forward, each stride echoing like a hammer against glass. "Every choice you buried. Every cruelty you denied. Every hunger you tried to silence. I am the Ren who survived without doubt."

The fractured eye burned, and with its glow, Ren saw—images flashing through the mirrors: himself betraying friends, leaving the shard-winged girl behind, taking the Pane by force instead of bleeding for it. Versions of himself that didn’t care.

Ren snarled, shoving the visions away. "If that’s what it means to rule, then I’ll break the throne itself."

The False King’s smile widened. "Then prove it."

The duel began.

The False King’s blade-arm struck first, a sweeping arc of light that shattered nearby mirrors into cascades of glass. Ren parried, the collision ringing like two worlds colliding, sparks of fractured light bursting around them.

Every clash was overwhelming. The False King fought with precision Ren had never achieved, his strikes fueled by unyielding confidence. Where Ren hesitated, the False King anticipated. Where Ren struck with anger, the False King struck with purpose.

"You falter because you cling to them," the False King said mid-swing, deflecting Ren’s desperate counter and forcing him back. The shard-winged girl’s reflection flickered faintly in the mirror beside them, screaming soundlessly. "That girl. Those rebels. They are chains. A king must have no chains."

Ren gritted his teeth, lunging forward with a roar. Their blades locked again, glass underfoot cracking into fissures.

"That’s where you’re wrong," Ren spat, sweat and blood mixing on his lips. "If I cut away every bond, I wouldn’t be strong. I’d be empty—just like you."

The False King pushed harder, his crowned head looming inches away. "Empty... or eternal?"

Their struggle splintered into chaos. The mirrored world distorted, fragments of past battles erupting around them—Ren against the Shard-Keeper, Ren facing the Eye in the Sky, Ren cradling the girl’s trembling form. All of them looped, reflected endlessly.

But this wasn’t just combat. It was a crucible.

The Pane demanded sacrifice.

The shard-winged girl’s voice suddenly pierced the void—distant, muffled, but enough to snap Ren’s head toward her reflection. "Ren! Don’t let it decide for you!"

In that moment, the False King struck, his blade-arm stabbing directly toward Ren’s heart.

But Ren didn’t recoil. He let the blade pierce through his chest—gritting his teeth as pain roared through him—only to grab the False King’s wrist with iron resolve. His fractured eye flared like a star, light spilling into every mirror, forcing his reflection’s face to distort.

"You’re right about one thing," Ren hissed, blood spilling from his lips. "You are me. But you’re only the part of me that forgot how to fight for others."

With his other hand, Ren raised his sword and drove it through the False King’s chest.

Both versions froze—locked in mirrored agony, each blade inside the other.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the mirrors around them began to shatter.

The False King’s grin trembled, his perfect form cracking apart like porcelain. "Fool... bonds will break you..."

"No," Ren whispered, forcing the blade deeper as both of them bled. "They’ll make me king."

The False King let out a hollow laugh, his crown fracturing into shards of light that scattered into the void. Then, with one last smile, he shattered completely—falling into nothing.

The mirrored world crumbled.

Ren collapsed to his knees, clutching his wound, but the fracture in his eye glowed brighter than ever. The throne’s presence pulsed in the distance, waiting, no longer denying him. The Pane had witnessed the choice.

Ren stood, blood dripping across the reflective ground, and began walking toward the throne again.

This time, the mirrors bowed.

This time, the Pane didn’t resist.

And as he reached out—his hand trembling, his eyes burning—the shard-winged girl’s voice finally reached him clearly.

"Ren... don’t lose yourself."

His fingers brushed the throne. The world held its breath.