Chapter 42: Trish Vs Trish

[A/N: I’m a bit sleep-deprived while writing this; I’ll be checking this out later for any mistakes! And then mass releasing Chapters afterwards!]

We opened the door, and beyond it lay another grey expanse, but this one wasn’t empty. Two figures stood waiting in the distance. Familiar figures. Especially to me.

"Is that... supposed to be us? And... is that supposed to be you, Reyn?"

Trish asked, curiosity edging out caution as she studied the dark, shadowy male silhouette ahead.

I didn’t blame her for asking. Whatever this test had pulled from, that wasn’t Reyn Brimstone.

It was me. Before I’d been transported to this world.

I’d almost forgotten that face. It was sharp and definitely military, a face that had spent decades staring down battlefields and finding them wanting. I kind of missed it, honestly. But it was better this way, too rugged, too hard for the romance game I was playing now.

Lukas F. Brandt.

Now that was a name I hadn’t thought about in months. Not since I’d woken up in this body.

"I guess?"

I lied easily.

"So the strongest version of me is military, huh?"

I played dumb, pretending I had no idea why my impossible self looked like that. But Trish’s counterpart was the one that truly caught my attention.

Her strongest self was her villainess self.

The shadowy form made it hard to make out details, but the silhouette was unmistakable: the way her hair was tied, the cut of her dress. I’d seen that exact silhouette on the cover of the novel.

A military general and a villainess.

Against Reyn Brimstone and... another villainess.

"Strongest version? So you already know how this works...? Then that means... that one over there is supposed to be the strongest version of me?"

Trish crossed her arms, one hand rising to her chin as she leaned forward for a better look. But before she could study her counterpart further, the door behind us slammed shut with an echo far louder than its size should have allowed.

Then the figures spoke.

Just like in the novel, their first move was to assess the challengers. If you were lucky, you might not even have to fight them.

Something Lucius never got.

But as for me...

The general looked at me first, then at Trish. A slow grin spread across his shadowed face. Then he moved, drawing a firearm from his holster with practiced ease and pressing the barrel to his own head.

"Lucky man."

He said in a foreign language, our native language.

He was me, after all. He’d already recognized what this was about. To him, I was living our lifelong dream. Apparently, that dream was something no version of me could ever let go of.

BANG!

The gunshot cracked through the grey expanse. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless before it hit the floor. Both Trishes flinched at the sound, mine and the counterpart.

The alternate Trish recovered first. Her gaze found her counterpart, then slid to me.

Unlike mine, she didn’t grin.

She scowled.

Her eyes narrowed with a hatred so sharp it could only mean one thing: she’d recognized my blood as Brimstone.

The family who had refused to help her in her timeline.

Trish exhaled beside me, her voice steady but laced with resignation.

"Guess mine isn’t giving me a favour..."

"Then let’s take care of it—"

"No, let me."

Trish cut me off, stepping forward and ripping the lower part of her dress in one clean motion. The fabric tore away, leaving her legs bare up to her knees and her movements unrestricted. It was, admittedly, absurdly distracting.

"This one clearly hates House Brimstone."

She said it as if that simple fact explained everything.

"And as I said, I, Trish Fillaunete, will do anything in my power to satisfy my saviour. That means this other version of me must do the same."

I felt my pulse quicken from excitement. The way she said it, the absolute certainty in her voice, the way she’d torn her dress without hesitation...

"I’ll prove that I can back up my words through this."

She was just as perfect as Anna.

"What?"

The other Trish sounded genuinely offended, crossing her arms. Her scowl deepened as she stared at her counterpart, as if trying to understand how another version of herself could serve a Brimstone so eagerly.

And not just any Brimstone, but Reyn.

The disappointment.

The failure.

If it had been Gavian, the golden child, the one who actually mattered, that would have at least made sense. But this? This was insanity.

The alternate Trish’s expression twisted, caught somewhere between disgust and genuine bewilderment. Her shadowy form rippled with barely contained fury as she took a step forward.

"You serve him. You, a Fillaunete, serve a Brimstone."

The words came out like venom, each syllable dripping with years of accumulated hatred. Her gaze swept over Trish, over the torn hem of her dress, over the way she’d positioned herself protectively in front of me.

"Have you no pride? No spine? Did you forget what his family did to ours? Or are you so desperate that you’d whore yourself for—"

"Careful. You’re so mad you’re forgetting that you’re in an alternate history. Well, at least that’s how I think things work around here."

Trish smiled.

And I couldn’t help but wish I could summon snacks to watch this entire thing.