Chapter 52: The Butterfly’s Last Hallucination!

Cecil gathered frost in his right hand and released a cloud of white mist toward the illusory Lena holding the book. The mist passed straight through her figure, as if drifting through an insubstantial projection. The book‑clutching Lena remained standing there, her lips still moving, her expression unchanged. Yet Cecil caught a faint shift of air to his left — the wind stirred by butterfly wings, far stronger than that of an ordinary butterfly.

He turned to his left. Nothing was there. But he remembered what Gwendolyn had said earlier: Lena was three metres away, closing in. If the illusion blinded him to the real Lena, then the genuine girl must lie in the opposite direction of what his eyes showed him.

Cecil took a sharp stride to his right. He moved fast, keeping his weight low, pushing hard off his left foot. As he stepped, he unleashed frost from his right hand across the ground on his right — not an attack, but a blanket of cold. A thin sheet of ice spread outward from beneath his feet, frost creeping across the stone in silent waves.

When the ice extended to where his second step landed, it met resistance. A boot sole touched the icy surface, slipped slightly, and its owner’s balance wavered for a split second.

Cecil loosed another burst of frost toward that spot. This time it was a compressed ice orb, aimed just above the patch of ice that had been trodden on. The orb flew forth and grazed something mid‑air — the butterfly’s wings. The vividly coloured butterfly twisted sideways to dodge a direct hit, yet the frost trailing the orb froze a small section along the edge of its right wing. Tiny ice crystals clung to the membrane, tilting its flight path by half a degree.

The "Lena" within his vision flickered in that instant, like an old projector disturbed by a touch. For a brief moment the true arena peeked through. Lena stood roughly two steps to his right, leaning slightly forward. Her left hand rose, fingers tracing slow arcs through the air as though manipulating invisible threads. Her butterfly hovered beside her shoulder, the small patch of ice on its wing slowly melting.

Cecil did not hesitate. He sent a third wave of frost toward the ground right beside Lena’s left foot. He was not targeting Lena herself, only the stone beneath her. The instant ice spread under her sole, her left foot skidded. Her body tilted roughly ten degrees to the right. Her left hand stopped its motions, and the butterfly’s flight faltered for a heartbeat.

The illusory "Lena with the book" grew noticeably fainter. The real Lena stood two paces before him, her light‑brown eyes wide, lips pressed tight. The butterfly on her right shoulder shook its wings, shaking off the melting ice. The blue‑green‑violet iridescence flared back to life, swirling faster than before.

Cecil knew another illusion was coming. He closed his eyes.

"She is readjusting," Gwendolyn’s voice came from the left, and this time the direction was correct; she truly was beside his left side. "The shifting glow on the butterfly’s wings is the warning sign. The faster it swirls, the stronger the illusion grows. It is speeding up now."

Cecil pressed his right palm against his chest. Frost seeped through his clothing from his palm, spreading through his chest and covering his upper body. It formed an ultra‑thin cold film across his skin — not ice armour, merely a thermal marker. This layer let him perceive the boundaries of his own body far more clearly. The butterfly’s illusions could warp sight and sound, yet they could not alter the temperature across his skin. As long as he could feel the temperature of every inch of himself, he would not lose his sense of direction entirely.

The illusion descended.

This time the vision felt far more complete. When Cecil opened his eyes, he found himself inside an old room. The walls were off‑white, the ceiling low, and a fire smouldered in the corner fireplace, nearly burnt out. The air carried the stale smoke of burning firewood mixed with the damp scent of aged fabric. He glanced down at his hands. No frost lingered on them, no thin layer of ice; his skin was dry.

He recognised this room. It was the study from his childhood, the one his father had used long ago. Rows upon rows of old books lined the shelves. On the desk lay an open copy of the Knight’s Order charter. A fountain pen rested atop the pages, its tip crusted with dried ink.

The study door stood open. Footsteps echoed from the hallway. A man’s steady stride, unhurried, the thud of boots against wooden floorboards drawing closer and closer. He knew that sound. He did not need to see to know who it belonged to.

Yet it was an illusion. He knew it was fake.

He held still. Behind closed eyes, he remained rooted on the real trial‑ground stone. He could feel the steady chill of frost on his chest and the hard rock beneath his feet. The old study was unreal, the footsteps were unreal, and the father beyond the door was nothing but a fabrication. Still those footsteps drew near, pricking at his mind like a needle, stirring emotions buried deep inside him.

"Do not listen," Gwendolyn’s voice drifted from somewhere nearby, soft yet clear. "That sound is false. You know it is."

Cecil drew a deep breath. He felt Gwendolyn’s cold presence against his left ankle — real, stable, untouched by illusion. He anchored his focus to that single point of chill, clinging to it like a rope that would not drift away in a raging current.

Then he moved, eyes still shut. He took two strides toward where he remembered Lena stood and released frost from his right hand. No compact ice orb this time, but a broad dispersing wave spreading outward like a net. The frost washed over a fan‑shaped area roughly five steps wide before him. If Lena stood within that zone, she would feel the sharp drop in temperature.

A barely audible gasp came from his right. It was faint, yet in the quiet arena Cecil caught it. He turned toward the sound and loosed a second surge of frost. White mist cut through the air and collided with something — the butterfly’s wings. The butterfly twisted mid‑air to evade the blow, yet it moved more slowly than before. The ice on its wingtip had only just melted, and the membrane had not fully regained its flexibility.

A crack split the vision of the old study. A sliver of the real arena broke through: stone bricks, blue‑white runes, the triangular boundary lines, and Lena standing barely one step away. Her left hand was pressed against her chest, as though brushed by the frost. Her face wore an expression Cecil had never seen before — not fear, but gritted, desperate concentration. Her butterfly hovered at her shoulder, its blue‑green‑violet light flickering violently, twice as fast as earlier.

"She is pouring everything she has left into the next illusion," Gwendolyn warned from his left. "If you hold firm through this one, she will have nothing left."

Cecil squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He felt frost spread evenly across every inch of his skin, like an invisible suit of armour. Illusions could assail his sight and hearing, yet they could not touch that layer of cold upon his body.

The new illusion crashed over him, more powerful than any before. Cecil found himself standing in a snow‑covered field. Gwendolyn stood before him in human form, her silver‑blue hair streaming in the wind, her blue eyes holding that familiar mix of irritation and shyness. She opened her mouth as if to speak. But Cecil did not listen. He centred all his awareness on the frost coating his chest, holding that layer of chill stable.

The illusory Gwendolyn in the snow spoke. The real Gwendolyn remained to his left. Cecil knew where true reality lay. He kept his eyes closed and did not shift position. He waited for Lena’s next assault — or rather, waited for her strength to give out.

Time stretched inside the hallucination. Cecil could not tell how many seconds had passed, perhaps ten, perhaps thirty. His frost reserves drained slowly, far more slowly than in any prior fight. He only needed to sustain the thin thermal film across his skin, no aggressive attacks required.

Then cracks spider‑webbed across the snowy scene, as though a mirror had been struck from behind. The vision shattered, revealing the genuine arena beneath: stone bricks, glowing blue‑white runes, triangular boundary lines, and Lena two steps away.

Lena swayed unsteadily. Her left hand fell away from her chest to hang limp at her side. The butterfly descended from mid‑air to perch upon her shoulder, its iridescent glow dimmed, like a lamp running out of fuel. She lifted her gaze toward Cecil. Weariness mingled with quiet relief shone in her light‑brown eyes.

"...You have won," she whispered, her voice soft and hoarse.

The dome’s metallic chime boomed out. "Round winner — Northern Team. The final fragment has been awarded."

Dark‑gold light coalesced into a fragment at Cecil’s feet. He bent down and picked it up, warm and solid in his palm. He closed his hand around all five fragments: the first won by Oliver, the second claimed by Lydia, two more given over by Vera after Rounds Three and Four, and this last piece. Five fragments in total.

He turned and walked back toward the northern zone. Lena made her slow way back to the eastern side. Vera stepped forward from the edge and slipped an arm around her sister’s shoulders. Lena rested her face against Vera’s shoulder without a word, though her shoulders did not shake — she was not crying.

Cecil rejoined his team and opened his palm to display the five fragments. Freddy leaned in for a closer look. Lydia reached out to trace the etched patterns on their surfaces. Oliver’s Robin tilted its head down from his shoulder. Edwin’s rust beetle rested calmly upon his fingers.

Gwendolyn hopped back onto Cecil’s shoulder and settled beside his neck, her tail draped over the nape, her blue eyes fixed on the fragments.

"Adding the seven in Vera’s possession, that makes twelve fragments in total," Cecil said. "We only need eight to form the complete circle. We hold five, and they also hold five — counting Vera’s original four, plus one from Eamon and one from Leon."

"Regardless of how you count," Gwendolyn replied, "there are more than eight fragments now. We have enough. The only question left is — who will assemble them."

Cecil lifted his head and looked across the arena. Vera stood in the eastern zone with Lena leaning against her, Martha and Eamon behind them. Her gaze travelled across the field to the fragments in Cecil’s open hand. She studied them for two seconds, then tilted her chin, gesturing for him to come over.

Cecil closed his hand and slipped the fragments into his pocket. He walked toward the eastern zone.