Stepping out of the other end and into the darkness of the new Corridor, Deremiah lowered his head, then a tired breath of relief left him.
"It... actually worked," he muttered. "The [Mantle of Deference]... It actually worked."
[Welcome Aspirant, to your Third Trial]
☆ ☆ ☆
Rewind back to the dark of the previous night. As he stood there amongst the trees, watching the nobles laugh and chat about life in Imperial — the things they would do after leaving the Gates and becoming a Mancer, the cliques they would form in the Mancer Guild Academy — Deremiah came with a plan.
This plan required the use of his new abstract Technique, [Mantle of Deference]. It appeared fate had handed him the perfect opportunity to test the Technique in a practical scenario while simultaneously offering a way to survive the Second Trial.
Crunch!
Unintentionally, or maybe intentionally, he stepped on a brittle, dry twig. Pallock lifted his gaze at him. He gasped, and then, they all turned to him.
"Who the hell are you?"
Deremiah wasn't sure then that the Technique would work. In fact, he deliberated just making a run for it, especially when Alfis started being a little hostile.
"Alright then, Deremiah. This is a party you weren't invited to. So... move along!"
But then Mist asked that question;
"Do you have a way to cross the chasm on your own? If you don't, you could join us."
Deremiah knew then that the [Mantle of Deference] had already taken effect. There was no way nobles would simply be that welcoming to slummers.
From what he noticed, the Technique seemed to work more effectively on those who were already somewhat susceptible, amplifying their vulnerability even further.
Mist and Faya were proofs of this as they were the first to fall for his charms.
For Alfis, who was naturally more distrustful, the [Mantle of Deference] took longer to take effect — and even then, its influence on the resentful noble was not total.
Since Dane was ever silent, Deremiah couldn't discern whether the Technique had any impact on him at all. But when it came to Pallock, Pallock was a curious case.
Whenever Mist looked at Deremiah, she looked at Deremiah with longing. Alfis looked at him with anger, but Pallock?
His glances at him bordered on some kind of fear or admiration. It was like a child seeing a tall, powerful knight for the first time.
Terrified, but in awe.
Deremiah didn't know what but it seemed that Pallock saw something in him. Perhaps it was the same thing Alfis had seen that caused him to freeze back in the ruins.
Whatever it was, Deremiah couldn't care for it now. He had to keep his mind at one place, he had to focus on the task at hand. He had to survive the Gates.
Outside this realm of challenges and paragons, the world was not any safer. There were still Gate Breaks, the Mancer Guild and its Academy, the politics of the powerful Clans and the oppression.
This was what his life was going to be now and Deremiah had come to accept it. Hopefully, his advantage of knowing everything could help him navigate the upcoming challenges.
He lifted his head up and strands of his curly white hair fell on both sides of his face. Letting out another breath — this one being one of readiness — he held tight on the hilt of his sword and narrowed his eyes.
"Alright then."
The loud 'dong!' sound echoed in the darkness and the mighty Trial Leaderboard stretched tall in front of Deremiah. Seven buzzes rang, and seven names including Mist, Faya and Dane were removed from the long list of participants.
Deremiah looked down and clenched his teeth. He couldn't let himself be troubled by guilt. Not inside the Gates and not for characters who were all going to die anyway.
He waited for the darkness to recede and for the Corridor to begin to take shape.
Slowly, it did. It was a silver light at first, but it began to increase, stretching outward and chasing away all the shadows.
Then the room of mirrors began to emerge. One by one, mirrors of all shapes and sizes took over the place, forming the walls, the floor, and ceiling.
Some stretched to dizzying heights, towering over him, while others were small and triangular.
They were connected to each other mostly, however, there were passage ways occuring at some instances, allowing Deremiah to walk around.
His boots struck the floor softly as he did, every step he took echoing in the silence. His steady breath was the only other sound, and his watchful eyes were the only things moving apart from him.
This Corridor presented the Third Trial; the Labyrinth of Mirrors. From what Deremiah could see, it was just as he had written it in the novel; eerily beautiful, the kind of beauty that made your skin prickle.
The room's illumination didn't come from any clear source that he could see, but every surface shimmered, creating a surreal, dreamlike radiance.
His reflection was everywhere, every angle. On his left, there was three reflections of him from separate mirrors and they were warped into a humorous exaggerations. His entire body was stretched, and he reached as tall as the ceiling.
To his right, the reflection there made him appear fatter than Pallock of the Stone Clan. Above him, the ceiling mirror made his head appear larger than it was, while the ground beneath his feet displayed him as though submerged beneath rippling water.
Deremiah continued to observe quietly. He knew not to allow himself to be awed by the silvery display, otherwise he would be caught off guard by the real challenge in this Trial.
The Third Trial was one of the very difficult ones. Mentally and emotionally.
It's main aim was to break the participants. Eventually, these reflections would begin to taunt him, attack his weaknesses, and chip away at the walls of his resolve.
The reflections had separate names; Guilt, Fear, Secrets, Doubt and Weakness. And each of them would attempt to tear into his mind with all they knew.
Deremiah had written this challenge to push his characters to their breaking point, to test their mental and emotional strength. To prove themselves worthy of wielding the power of Aether or Void.
As one without control over their own emotions could not have control over an energy so powerful.
But now, it was Deremiah's test as well. It was his turn to prove himself.
He stopped before one of the larger mirrors, noticing this one had an honest reflection of himself. Narrowing his eyes, he turned to face it fully, and for the first time, he saw what he really looked like.
First was his face. Looking at the mirror, he realized that his sword's blade had barely done it justice back in the forest. Here, under the clarity of the mirror, his face were clearer and even more striking.
It was sculpted with almost divine precision. He had a perfectly defined and sharp jawline, complemented by pronounced cheekbones that made him look somewhat regal.
Then those intense purple eyes, they were bright and arresting, like orbs of energies themselves. Above them were straight, full brows and below them was a pointy nose and a pair of thin lips.
His long, curly silver-white hair fell below his neck, framing his face like a crown. And his shoulders were very broad, tapering into a lean, muscular form.
The brown leather shirt was even clinging to his toned muscles. Muscles that he didn't remember working for.
Deremiah was breathtakingly good looking.
Again, he thought; 'Whose handiwork is this?' The Inquisitor? The Writhe? He wouldn't be surprised if it was the [Writhe of Command], seeing that its abilities were boundless at this point.
Deremiah stared at his lifted palm, remembering what had happened in the last Trial with the Writhe. He pushed aside the thoughts and slowly returned his gaze to the mirror.
"Ngh!" He jerked back abruptly, his breath catching in his throat.
"What the—?"
On the mirror, the chiseled perfection of Deremiah Morcant had disappeared, and in its place stood a young man with neatly combed dark hair.
He was dressed in a simple modern shirt and jeans, a pen capped in his pocket, and a pair of glasses perched on his nose.
Deremiah cursed. It was the reflection of his former body. It was Jarren Fletcher.