Sterling groaned as he regained consciousness, his head throbbing with the kind of pain that made him wonder if he was actually better off unconscious. The air was thick, musty, clinging to him like an old blanket, and the scent of burning incense mixed with something else—something foul—invaded his senses.

"Great," he muttered, blinking through the haze clouding his vision. "What now?"

The flickering light from the candles cast long, ghostly shadows on the stone walls, and as his eyes adjusted, he took in the chamber around him. Ancient symbols—some of them etched so deeply into the stone they almost pulsed with some eerie energy—lined every surface. Tapestries, covered in patterns that seemed to stare right through him, hung limp and dusty from the walls. It felt like he’d been dropped into the middle of some ancient horror flick, and not the good kind.

Sterling sat up too fast, wincing as a sharp pain shot through his side. "Ah, yes... more pain." He rubbed his ribs gingerly. Whatever happened before he ended up here, his body sure wasn't happy about it.

That’s when he heard it. Chanting. Low and rhythmic, echoing from somewhere beyond his cell, like it was bouncing off the walls and creeping into his mind. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

"Where the hell am I?" he muttered. He scanned the room again. No windows. Of course not. Iron bars formed the only doorway, casting jagged shadows on the cold stone floor. His heart picked up speed. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it down. He’d been through worse, right? Probably.

Then it hit him—fragments of memory flooding back like a bad dream. The lake, the voice, the trial. Oh yeah, that whole "chosen to stop a cult of wizards" thing. Because that made sense. Sure.

Sterling's head pounded as a sharp, piercing pain wracked through his skull, forcing him to his knees. "What the..." He pressed his hands to his temples, gritting his teeth. Images and words that weren’t his own poured into his mind like a torrent.

"The Blood Moon and Sun Ritual," a disembodied voice echoed. Because why not, right? "You are ensnared in a realm caught in an eternal blood moon and sun, where dark cults perform sinister rituals to summon ancient evils. Your objective is to prevent the cult from completing their dark ceremony..."

Sterling’s eyes shot open, widening with disbelief. No way. This was a joke, right? A dream? "Stop a cult? Are you kidding me?"

The voice continued, apparently uninterested in his existential crisis. "Sterling, you are destined to be the sacrifice for the god of duality, who balances creation and destruction. To disrupt the ritual, you must find and reinforce—or disrupt—these seals using ancient maps and clues left by the spectral remains of the sorcerers."

Sterling blinked, the pain in his head fading as quickly as it had come. He groaned, leaning back against the cold stone wall. "Right. Because that makes total sense."

He had to find some seals, deal with some dark god, stop a ritual... and also not die in the process. Simple, right? No pressure.

The cell around him suddenly felt much smaller, the weight of what he’d just been told pressing down like a thousand-pound boulder. His pulse raced as he scanned the room for any possible means of escape. Then he saw it—a small, barred window up high on the wall. Way too high to reach, but a window nonetheless. He got to his feet, his mind buzzing with desperation.

"Okay, powers... I know I’ve got powers, right?" he mumbled to himself. "I can... do things. Magic stuff. Come on..."

He started pacing, muttering every possible word that came to mind. "Abilities? Powers? Skills?" Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Then, almost as a joke, he shouted in frustration, "Status!"

To his surprise, a faint light appeared before him, a translucent panel displaying... well, him. Stats. Attributes. Everything.

Status

* Curse of Misfortune: The universe just loves messing with you. Bad luck is your best friend, except it’s trying to kill you.

* Child of Reflection: You can hop between reflections. Handy for spying, sneaking, and, you know, escaping.

* Flaw: Reflection from Another World: Your reflections hate you. A malevolent version of yourself is trying to break free from the mirrored surfaces. Sweet.

Sterling stared at the glowing panel, his mouth hanging open. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

He glanced at the window, his faint reflection staring back at him through the bars. The words from the status screen swirled in his head—Child of Reflection. He had to try it, right?

"Okay... focus," he muttered, looking at the glass mirror outside his cell. He reached out, hesitating for a moment as his mind reached out and touched the cold glass. He willed himself to pass through, unsure of what to expect. His brain felt like he ate three ice cream tubs.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

And then it happened.

His body felt like it was dissolving, slipping through the glass like liquid. One moment he was inside the cell, the next, standing in a narrow corridor on the other side of the cell. "What the...fu" He stared back at the window, but there was no time to celebrate.

The chanting was louder now, ominous and suffocating, pressing down on him. But that didn’t matter—not right now. He felt it. Something inside him had awakened, and it was flowing through him like cool water on a scorching day.

The sensation was exhilarating, almost intoxicating. For the first time since waking up, he felt in control. Almost as if he could feel the magic in the air, like threads of energy he could touch. He grinned despite himself, his pulse slowing to a steady, confident beat.

"Okay," he muttered, flexing his fingers, "let’s see where this takes me."

He pressed on, creeping down the dimly lit corridor. The chanting grew louder, and so did the sound of footsteps approaching. His heart rate spiked again as he ducked into an alcove, his body pressed against the cold stone.

He couldn’t fail now.

Sterling's breath came in shallow bursts as he pressed himself deeper into the shadowy alcove. His body melded into the darkness, the cold stone digging into his back. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, slow and deliberate, drawing closer with every second. He could feel the panic rising in his chest, but he swallowed it down, focusing on what he had just done. Child of Reflection, that’s what his power was called. It saved him once, and he had a feeling it would have to save him again—soon.

He glanced to his right, at the flickering light reflecting off a cracked piece of glass embedded in the opposite wall. The mirror was small, maybe the size of his hand, but that didn’t matter. He had learned something important: size wasn’t an issue. As long as there was a reflection, he could use it.

The footsteps drew nearer, and Sterling’s pulse quickened. His eyes locked onto the sliver of glass. I can do this.

Taking a breath, Sterling focused. The chanting seemed to grow louder, more intense, filling the air with an almost palpable weight. His mind reached out, touching the reflection in the glass. There was a brief moment of disorientation—like plunging headfirst into ice-cold water—and then, just like before, his body dissolved into the reflection.

The transition was smooth, though his heart raced as his body slipped into the glass. The world around him warped, the stone corridor bending and shifting as if seen through a fractured lens. He was inside the reflection now—a space between spaces. Everything outside moved in slow motion, and though his body wasn’t physically present, his mind stretched out across the reflective surface, sensing the movement of the cultists.

In this state, he wasn’t bound by time or form. He could see his surroundings, hear the footsteps approaching, yet remain unseen, hidden in the shimmering world of the reflection.

The sensation was unlike anything he’d ever felt—his body felt weightless, almost ethereal. It was a strange limbo, a place where he wasn’t fully himself but not fully absent either. And then, as if by instinct, he moved. It wasn’t like walking or running. It was more of a glide, an effortless shift from one reflective surface to another, like sliding through liquid silver.

Sterling’s essence flowed from the tiny shard of glass in the wall to the iron bars of a distant cell door, then into a puddle of water further down the corridor. Every reflection became a potential hiding spot, a new vantage point, and Sterling moved through them with growing confidence, his body weaving between the reflective surfaces like a shadow.

He could still hear the footsteps—closer now—but he was already several feet ahead of where the cultists expected him to be.

This... this is incredible, he thought, a grin spreading across his face. His heart was still racing, but there was a thrill now, too—an exhilaration in knowing that he had a way to escape, to outmaneuver anyone who tried to trap him.

Sterling came to a halt inside a shimmering puddle just beneath a torch bracket, his form barely visible in the distorted reflection on the wet stone floor. The footsteps stopped, and for a moment, there was only silence. He could hear the cultists murmuring to each other, their voices a low hum. They were confused—he could sense it.

He watched through the reflection as one of the robed figures stepped into view, a hooded man carrying a flickering torch. His face was obscured, but the tension in his stance was clear. They had lost him.

Sterling remained perfectly still, hidden in the rippling surface of the puddle. They won’t find me, he thought. Not like this.

The robed figure leaned forward, shining the torch into the alcove Sterling had hidden in moments earlier. The light passed over the stone walls and empty space, finding nothing. The cultist turned away, muttering something under his breath, before stepping back to rejoin the others.

Close call. Sterling felt the surge of adrenaline pulse through him. He waited a few more moments, letting the cultists retreat further down the corridor, their footsteps growing fainter.

Once he was sure the coast was clear, Sterling reemerged from the puddle. His body solidified on the stone floor, his senses snapping back to full awareness. He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, feeling the cool air rush over his skin. His mind was buzzing with excitement, but also dread.

The chanting was still there, echoing through the halls, growing louder and louder with each step he took. He had escaped—for now—but he wasn’t safe. Not yet.

He glanced around, looking for the next reflection, the next way out. His pulse slowed slightly as he found it: the gleam of polished metal further down the corridor.

Sterling clenched his fists, his determination hardening like steel. I can do this. I can get out of here. I just need to keep moving.

Without a second thought, he vanished into the next reflection, his body dissolving like mist into the shimmering metal, slipping further into the shadows of the cursed labyrinth. The cultists wouldn’t catch him—not if he could help it. But deep down, Sterling knew this was just the beginning.

The trial had barely started, and the god of duality was waiting.