Chapter 4
The silence after battle is never truly silent.
It lingers, filled with invisible echoes—blood cooling, souls fading, and the quiet shifting of fate.
Nyxen—still wrapped in the illusion of Nyxara—walked through the remains of the throne hall. The pillars were shattered, black lotus petals burned to dust, and the air hummed with spiritual aftershocks that bent space like molten glass.
He pressed two fingers to his chest. Beneath the disguise, his pulse was steady but slow—too slow. The Golden Scripture's flow had warped slightly from the demonic resonance that flickered during his battle with the princess.
"Too much exposure…" he murmured. "The disguise won't last long if I keep calling the Scripture directly."
The voice that replied came not from the hall, but from the faint shimmer in his mind—the whisper of the sword sealed far beneath the city.
—You are being watched.
Nyxara's gaze lifted. In the reflection of a broken mirror near the wall, a faint shadow moved—just for a moment—but it was enough.
He wasn't alone.
Outside the palace, the night deepened into something beyond night.
The streets of the City of Darkness curved impossibly, crossing into themselves; towers hung upside-down from invisible skies.
And at the heart of it all, the Tower of Infinite Reflections loomed—a bridge between all dimensions of the dead and the divine.
That was where the Heaven-Sealing Sword slept.
And that was where all heirs, princes, and seekers were drawn, like moths to the last light in the void.
Nyxara walked toward it.
Her cloak rippled like liquid dusk, her steps leaving faint trails of golden runes that vanished instantly. The demonic core within her chest pulsed faintly—a reminder of who she truly was beneath the illusion.
She could feel the others watching her now. The surviving heirs.
Nine left.
Each of them carried fragments of old divinity—enough to erase nations, enough to destroy the unprepared.
She had already slain two.
The third was waiting.
He appeared when the stars dimmed—a boy, no older than sixteen, sitting atop a pile of silver skulls.
His eyes were clear, pale blue, reflecting the light of distant galaxies.
He wore no crown, no armor, only a tattered cloak that had once belonged to royalty.
And yet the aura around him was different—clean, balanced, timeless.
Nyxara stopped ten steps away.
"You're not hiding," she said quietly.
The boy smiled, his tone polite, almost gentle.
"Why would I hide? Those who hide do not live long here."
He rose, brushing ash from his sleeves. His presence rippled the world around him; the cracked stones began to heal themselves, light returning to the broken walls.
"Are you the next heir to fall?" she asked.
The boy tilted his head, curious. "Fall? No. I'm the Thirteenth Prince. I came here not to fall, but to remember."
"Remember what?"
He looked up at the sky that wasn't a sky, the stars swirling into spirals of dying light.
"What it means to be human."
There was silence between them, heavy and strange. Nyxara studied him carefully. His Qi wasn't sharp or chaotic like the others. It was serene—so balanced that even her demonic instincts recoiled.
"Who are you really?" she asked.
The Thirteenth Prince smiled faintly. "A mirror."
Before she could react, he raised his hand—and the world turned white.
When Nyxara opened her eyes, she was no longer standing in the ruins.
She was standing before a reflection of herself.
Not the illusion, not Nyxara—the real Nyxen, with crimson eyes, demonic markings across his arms, and the shadow of the sword's will burning behind him.
The mirror spoke with her own voice.
"So this is what you've become. A creature pretending to be human."
Her heart froze. "What trick is this?"
The Thirteenth Prince's voice echoed all around them.
"This is no trick. The Tower responds to those who carry the scent of the sword. It reflects what you hide most."
The reflection smiled, cruel and knowing.
"You run from your own power, even as you chase it. You wear false skin and call it wisdom. You destroy worlds, but can't face your own reflection."
Nyxen's hands trembled slightly. "You think I'm afraid?"
"You are," the mirror whispered. "Afraid that once the disguise breaks, the monster will no longer listen."
The words struck like blades.
She tried to summon her sword art—the Golden Scripture of the Unorthodox Path—but the mirror moved faster, drawing the same sigils, the same power. Each movement mirrored hers perfectly.
Strike met strike.
Light met shadow.
And every time she attacked, her reflection became stronger.
She gritted her teeth. "He's forcing me to confront my imbalance…"
"Correct," came the Prince's calm voice. "The City of Darkness does not test strength. It tests truth."
For hours—maybe days—or maybe years Nyxara fought herself.
Every cut burned deeper. Every parry echoed memories she wished she'd buried: the universe she destroyed to protect a single mortal child; the betrayal that shattered his first world; the vow that bound him to the Unorthodox Path.
She was losing—not because her reflection was stronger, but because it didn't hesitate.
At last, bleeding, her disguise flickered. Her long black hair shortened, her red eyes blazed with unfiltered demonic light. The form of Nyxara broke apart, revealing Nyxen beneath—a being of divine shadow and scarlet flame.
The mirror smiled in victory.
But then Nyxen stopped retreating.
He closed his eyes and whispered, "You're right. I am a monster. But I am my monster."
When he opened them again, both eyes burned with golden light.
The Golden Scripture fused with the demonic core inside him—the forbidden harmony he had avoided since the last cycle of destruction.
"Art of Mora," he said softly.
The world trembled.
The reflection froze, its expression twisting into awe and fear. The Art of Mora wasn't a sword technique—it was the embodiment of the body's own destruction and rebirth. His aura exploded outward, fracturing the illusion itself.
The mirror shattered.
The world screamed.
And when silence returned, only Nyxen stood, breathing heavily, surrounded by shards of glass that glowed like dying stars.
He looked around the broken illusion and saw the Thirteenth Prince watching him from afar, his expression unreadable.
"You broke the mirror," the Prince said. "Few ever do."
Nyxen's voice was rough but steady. "If you wanted to test my truth, you have it."
The Prince stepped forward, eyes filled not with hostility—but sorrow.
"I see it now. You are not like us. You were never meant to inherit the sword."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because the sword chose wrong once," he whispered. "And it remembers."
Before Nyxen could ask more, the Prince's form began to fade, dissolving into mist.
His final words lingered like prophecy.
"When you reach the Tower's heart… it will show you what it regrets most."
The light dimmed. The city's ground trembled again, and distant screams echoed through the labyrinth.
Another heir had fallen.
Eight remained.
Nyxen stood alone, the last fragments of his disguise still flickering across his body. His aura was calm now—not divided, but one—both divine and demonic, balanced like a blade held between worlds.
He turned his gaze to the Tower, now burning faintly with golden flame.
"The Heaven-Sealing Sword is waking," he murmured.
He sheathed his invisible blade and walked onward.
Through the void.
Through the city that had no end.
Toward the tower where truth itself was forged.