Toren exhales slowly, rubbing his temples. "My reflection wouldn't shut up. It kept talking about things I didn't even remember."

Kyra laughs, half-sympathetic. "Let me guess—it insulted your hairstyle?"

Mave glares at her, but Verrin cuts in smoothly. "That makes five of us." He glances at the empty space where the last light should appear. "So Bragg's still inside."

Kyra smirks instantly. "Of course he is."

And right on cue, a heavy pulse fills the air again—louder this time, almost dramatic. The light swirls for a few seconds before Bragg stumbles out, looking utterly exhausted. His armor's scuffed, his hair's a mess, and his face screams frustration.

"Finally!" Bragg groans, straightening up. "That mirror bastard wouldn't stop talking in riddles!"

Kyra bursts out laughing. "Hahaha! Look at that, our mighty leader—last one out of the trial!"

Bragg groans, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, my brain's not built for riddles…" He glances around the room, then sighs. "So, what's our next trial? Don't tell me it's another one of those mind games. I swear, if it's something to do with the brain again, I will die."

Kyra smirks from her spot on the couch. "What brain?"

Bragg shoots her a glare. "Ha-ha. You're hilarious."

Verrin chuckles softly, setting his cup down. "It's probably something different this time. The first trial was reflection—testing insight or awareness. If the old monster's words are true, then the next one should deal with either resolve or strength."

"Resolve or strength, huh?" Mave mutters, rolling his shoulders. "Guess that means it's finally my kind of test."

Toren grins faintly. "As long as it's not about talking to myself again, I'll take it."

Kyra leans back, stretching lazily. "I don't know… I think Bragg could use another round with his reflection. Might teach him humility."

"Keep talking," Bragg warns, though there's a faint grin tugging at his lips. "When we get to a strength trial, I'm making sure you're the one standing in front."

Alix, who's been silent through their banter, finally speaks. His tone is calm, almost detached. "Whatever it is, we'll find out soon enough."

Before anyone can reply, the air around them shifts again.

A deep hum fills the chamber—steady, resonant, and unmistakably powerful. The golden veins in the marble floor begin to glow, forming intricate runes that spiral outward beneath their feet.

Kyra's smile fades. "Oh, come on. Already?"

Verrin's eyes narrow as he senses the change. "It's starting…"

Light rises from the runes, enveloping each of them in a soft, blinding aura. The temperature drops sharply—like standing on the edge of a storm.

Bragg curses under his breath. "Here we go again—"

And before he can finish, the light flashes, swallowing them whole.

The second trial has begun.

Alix blinks.

The world around him reforms—not with marble, runes, or the familiar hum of magic—but with the faint scent of soap, warm bread, and wooden polish.

He's standing in a small hallway. The walls are pale blue, chipped in some places. Old wooden doors line the corridor, each with a brass number plate. From somewhere nearby, children's laughter echoes faintly—high, light, and achingly familiar.

Alix frowns. His boots—no, shoes—feel wrong. He looks down and sees sneakers, faded and worn, the kind he hasn't seen in… decades.

"What the…" he murmurs under his breath, his voice sounding younger, thinner.

He turns, and sunlight streams through a dusty window at the end of the hall. The world outside is gray and familiar—cars, a playground, and the faint buzz of a city he hasn't seen in what feels like lifetimes.

Earth.

Alix's breath catches.

"Why am I… back here?"

He takes a hesitant step forward. The floorboards creak softly beneath him, and the sound sends a strange pang through his chest—a sound he knows. Too well.

Then a gentle voice calls from down the hall.

"Alix! It's time to eat, dear!"

He freezes. That voice. It's soft, patient, with that faint tremor of someone used to caring for too many children at once. He remembers it. Sister Marianne.

A door opens, and there she is—a woman in her late forties, wearing a simple gray habit and a warm, tired smile. Her eyes light up when she sees him.

"There you are," she says kindly, wiping her hands on her apron. "Come now, before the soup gets cold."

Alix doesn't move. His mind races, fragments of memory clawing to the surface. The wooden hallway. The scent of vegetable stew. The sound of children running, laughing—his old world, before everything. Before the system. Before magic. Before war.

Before he became the king of the monsters.

"Sister… Marianne?" he asks softly, his tone uncertain.

The nun blinks, confused. "Of course, dear. Who else would it be?" She laughs lightly, the sound warm and real. "You've been spacing out a lot lately. Are you feeling alright?"

He looks around again—every detail so vivid it almost hurts. The peeling paint, the small framed drawings on the wall, the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

This isn't an illusion. It feels real.

Alix's fingers tremble as he touches the wall. It's rough, solid, cold.

He whispers, "I'm… home?"

Sister Marianne frowns slightly at his odd tone, then softens. "You've always been home here, Alix." She tilts her head, smiling kindly. "Now come on, the others are waiting."

Her words strike something deep inside him—a memory buried so long he had forgotten it existed.

He follows her, almost mechanically, down the narrow hall and into the dining room. The long wooden table is surrounded by children—ten, maybe twelve of them, all laughing, arguing, reaching for bread. A few glance up when he enters.

"Hey, Alix! You finally woke up!" one of them says, grinning.

"Yeah, we thought Sister Marianne was gonna eat your soup," another teases.

Their voices blur together—warm, chaotic, alive.

He stands there, motionless, watching them. A younger version of himself sits among them in memory—thin, quiet, eyes always drifting toward the window as if looking for a world beyond this one.

And it hits him all at once. The nights he stared up at the ceiling, wishing he was somewhere else. The silent prayers he made, asking for purpose, for a way to matter. The pain of being forgotten.

Although he doesn't really know why he chose to forget these memories, something deep inside him whispers that he did it for a reason. Maybe it was easier that way—cutting ties with a life that offered nothing but loneliness and waiting.

But now, standing here among the laughter and warmth, Alix realizes he can't remember much about what actually happened when he was still in the orphanage. The faces blur, the voices echo faintly, as if viewed through fog.

He eats quietly, spooning the warm soup without tasting it. Sister Marianne hums softly while refilling bowls, the children chatter about nonsense—schoolwork, games, imaginary adventures. It's all so mundane, so painfully human. Yet… so peaceful.

When everyone finishes eating, the chairs scrape against the wooden floor as the kids rush to clean up. Alix stays seated for a moment longer, lost in the strangeness of it all—this world he once called home, the one he abandoned without a second thought.

Then, suddenly—

"Big brother!"