The soft glow of dawn crept into Merir's room, spilling across its polished golden tiles like waves lapping against the shore. The fractured mirror reflected the light unevenly, jagged streaks of its glow weaving across the walls. Merir sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward with his head in his hands. The events of the previous night haunted him, his mind swirling with fragmented thoughts.
The voice. The tear. The lies.
His world no longer felt solid. The truth of reality—Lumina's unyielding order—was something he once accepted as absolute, immutable. Yet, last night shattered that blind faith. He *changed* reality. His footsteps had vanished into silence, and light itself bent under his command.
And then there was the system—the cold, calculating voice whispering its power into his very being.
"Spoken lies reshape reality. Use them wisely. Overextension will bring consequence."
Merir traced his fingers down the edge of his bed. The weight of his family's name sat heavy on his shoulders, and the way his father had turned his back on him after the previous day's humiliation pressed deeper into his soul.
"Summon your Solaris Blade," Merir murmured to himself mockingly, mimicking Lord Cael's cold, commanding tone. His lips curled into a bitter smile. He remembered the way his siblings had looked at him—Lux's sneering smirk, Kael's silent disappointment.
Merir turned his gaze to his hands. When compared to his siblings' radiant glory, he was an outcast.
"I wasn't born for greatness," he muttered under his breath. The words felt like poison, biting into him even as he spoke them. But before doubt could root itself in his mind, another thought broke through—a memory of last night—a whisper of Mark Malaya.
The system hummed faintly in the back of his mind as if responding to his frustration.
"Lie Slots: [2/5]. Lies Recorded: ['My footsteps make no sound', 'The light bends.'] Lie Gauge: 90%."
Merir stood abruptly, his heart pounding. He turned toward the corner of the room where the faint light of morning pooled. His father's words echoed louder in his mind now.
"The Solaris Blade is no parlor trick. It is the foundation of our power. Summon it, or you disgrace this family."
Gritting his teeth, he took a step forward, then another. His footsteps were silent—thanks to his earlier lie—and they only deepened the eerie tension that hung in the air. Merir stood in the center of his room now, his gaze fixed on his trembling hands.
Could he do it? If he truly had this power to reshape reality, could he finally summon the Solaris Blade?
His nails dug into his palms.
"No," he whispered. "That's not mine. It can't be."
For years he'd tried. For years he'd stood in the center of the radiant training field, humiliating himself time and time again as his siblings jeered and his father turned away. The light never came for him.
But that was before—before this power, before the lies.
Merir closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as the words formed in his mind. He had to start small; that was what the system had taught him. Too much, too far, and he'd collapse.
He opened his palms. "I say... therefore I am," he whispered. "This light is a blade."
The words hung in the air like an incantation. For a moment, nothing happened. The room seemed to inhale, the glow of morning dimming faintly as the system responded.
A sharp pulse of energy spread outward, rippling through his body, making his knees buckle slightly. His hands felt warm—hot, even—and he flinched, opening his eyes in alarm.
Radiance.
Golden light poured upward from his palms, flickering wildly like fire barely contained. It was rough, unpolished, the shape constantly shifting as though the lie fought against the weight of reality itself.
Still, it was there. Shimmering, glowing. His breath caught as he stared, momentarily stunned into silence.
"Minor Lie Successful. Lie Gauge: 85%. Lie Available for Recording. Would you like to proceed?"
Merir's lips twitched. After all these years... after endless humiliation... here it was. The Solaris Blade.
But even as awe filled his chest, the flaws became apparent. The blade flickered like a mirage, its edges wavering and faint. It didn't hold the same sharp, radiant power as his siblings' weapons. It felt... fragile. Temporary.
The energy began to falter, the unstable blade flickering more violently. Merir's arms trembled as he tried to hold onto it, but the weight grew unbearable. The golden light sputtered before vanishing altogether, leaving him clutching at the empty air.
"No," he gasped, staggering back a step. "No, no, no!"
His breathing grew ragged as he clenched his fists. The taste of failure was all too familiar, yet it stung even more now after he had come so close.
"You can't give up here," he muttered to himself, sucking in sharp breaths. "You can't."
Twice, the blade had slipped from his grasp: first in front of his father and siblings, and now even after bending light itself. Why is it never enough?
Merir paced the room, every step accentuated by the lingering silence of the earlier lie. The system's voice echoed faintly in his mind:
"Recorded Lie: 'This light is a blade.' Lie Slots: [3/5]. Lie Gauge: 85%."
He paused, his chest heaving, his gaze fixed on the cracked mirror. His reflection stared back at him—thin, shaking, pale. A Solaris in name only.
But even now, a spark of determination pierced through the self-loathing. "This is just a lie," he whispered under his breath, testing the weight of the words. "Just a lie. But sometimes... lies are stronger than the truth."
He held up his hands again. His body screamed at him to stop, the memory of the strain etched into his muscles, but he couldn't stop now. Not after this.
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and spoke once more, his voice steady:
"This light is a blade."
The room pulsed again. Golden light bloomed in his palms, less intense this time but more stable as he repeated the earlier command. He pictured the blade in his mind—not the grand, perfect weapon of his siblings, but something different.
The blade that formed wasn't flawless. Its edges rippled faintly, and its glow flickered with jagged imperfection. It was crude, ugly even—but it was his.
Merir's lips curled into a faint smile as he gripped the weapon, its faint warmth radiating through his hands. For the first time in years, he wasn't holding an illusion. Mirage wasn't bending the light to make a flicker of falsehood; this thing in his hands was real.
"It's weak," he muttered under his breath, "but it's mine."
Despite the blade's flaws, he felt the stirrings of hope. Maybe he couldn't summon the Solaris Blade in the way his family demanded. Maybe he'd never summon their perfect vision of strength. But through his lies, he'd forged something new. Something different.
And maybe—just maybe—it was enough.