Emerett flipped the open sign as Percy left the shop. He removed the bell from the door, clasped it shut, and then sealed it with the spells Emerett had taught him—the real Emerett.

Simulacra#3 let out a deep sigh as he released the magic he had been maintaining for the past two hours. His mana reserves weren’t large enough to sustain Emerett’s appearance for long. Even holding the illusion beyond an hour had become increasingly difficult. He had been forced to tap into the shop’s mana supply to avoid exposing himself to Percy.

Too much was at stake. Emerett had left nearly six months ago, heading for the Arid Deserts beyond the Arakath Empire, where the ruins of the ancient Parathonians lay. The Parathonians had been the dominant species of the last age, and their magic far surpassed anything humans controlled. They were beings of pure energy, able to convert themselves into raw magic and reverse the process at will. But something grave had happened—something far more ancient—that had wiped them from the face of Kargasa millennia ago. It was this mystery that Emerett had gone to search for.

Rumors had been spreading across the realm that the Sun Emperor had discovered an ancient artifact—one that gave him the power to control his subordinates. All the neighboring kingdoms, along with the Free Cities, had begun covertly spying on the Empire. Any artifact from the Parathonians was deadly, powerful, and legendary. It was one such artifact that had propelled the Crydonian Republic to dominance in the western part of the realm, a millennia ago, under the rule of a mysterious king who had since been forgotten.

Simulacra#3 leaned back against the dusty counter, the weight of the illusion he had just dispelled lifting from his shoulders. The room, now quiet without Percy's presence, felt empty in a way that settled deep into his bones. His mana reserves were low, and the tension in his chest was still tight from the strain of maintaining the illusion of Emerett for so long. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

“Do you ever wonder how long we can keep this up?” The voice came from the corner of the shop, low and rumbling, almost as if it had always been there, like an echo.

Simulacra#2, still half-concealed by a veil of shadows, emerged from the corner, his presence as solid and unnerving as always. His form shimmered briefly before settling into something familiar, something indistinguishable from Emerett himself.

"How long until the cracks show? Or until we break?" Simulacra#3 continued, his tone a little too sharp. "How long until they realize we're just shadows? Copies of a man who’s gone off to do something none of us really understand."

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The other Simulacra—Simulacra#2—let out a long, low sigh, the sound reverberating softly through the stone walls. “I think that’s exactly the point, isn’t it? None of us really understand. Not fully. We’re just… echoes. Replacements. We were never meant to understand.”

Simulacra#3 scowled. "Right. Replacements. But for how long? Emerett built us, sure, gave us life, purpose… but we weren’t made for this. Not like he was." His eyes flickered to the door, the protective spells still in place, keeping the outside world at bay. "We were made to fill in, to pretend. But now? Now we’re all that’s left. And the real Emerett… he’s off searching for some artifact, in a far away land."

Simulacra#2 nodded. "You think I don’t feel the weight of it? I’m not some mindless puppet, you know. I’ve seen the cracks in our purpose, too. We mimic, we watch, we wait. We keep the illusion alive as long as we can. And for what? To buy time? To protect a secret none of us fully grasp?”

A silence fell between them for a moment. The tension was palpable, as though the air itself was reluctant to hold their words.

Simulacra#3 leaned forward, his voice quieter now. "You think Emerett knows what he’s doing? Or is he just as lost as we are? All these rumors about the Parathonian artifacts… About the Sun Emperor… Do you think Emerett even knows the real danger of what he's looking for?"

Simulacra#2’s form flickered, the edges of his being growing indistinct for just a second. "He knows enough. He’s always known enough. That’s why he left. He couldn’t let the world fall into the hands of the Sun Emperor, not when something far darker is at play. The Parathonians… they weren’t just powerful. They were ancient. And what’s buried out there? It’s not just magic—it’s something worse. That’s why we’re still here, covering his tracks. Keeping the shop open. Keeping the illusion going."

Simulacra#3's brow furrowed. “But why us? Why not leave the truth to be found? Why burden us with this charade?”

“We were built for this,” Simulacra#2 said, his voice oddly soft. “We were designed to be copies—a bridge between what Emerett left behind and whatever comes next. It’s our role to keep the world from falling apart while he does what no one else can.”

Simulacra#3 looked at his counterpart, eyes narrowing. "And what happens if Emerett doesn’t come back? If he’s lost out there, in the ruins of Parathonia, or worse—if he’s consumed by whatever it is he’s after?"

Simulacra#2’s gaze softened, a flicker of something akin to sympathy crossing his features, though it quickly vanished. "Then it’s up to us to make sure his work isn’t forgotten. To make sure the world doesn’t forget him—or us."

Simulacra#3 took in a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the weight of the conversation lingered, heavy and unshakable. They were more than just shadows of Emerett. They were echoes in the dark, and the darkness was closing in.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” Simulacra#3 murmured, half to himself.

Simulacra#2 remained silent for a long moment, as though weighing his words carefully before speaking. “Then we’ll do what we must. For Emerett. For the world. And for ourselves.”

The words didn’t bring comfort, but they were all they had.