Chapter 2781: Story 2782: The Murderer Behind the Mirror

Ronan stared at the blood-covered figure beyond the golden door.

The stranger had his face, his eyes, even the small scar beneath his jaw. Yet there was something missing from him—a warmth, a flicker of humanity that Ronan had spent his entire life fighting to preserve.

The figure raised its bloody hands.

“You remember now,” it said.

Ronan struggled to stand. “I remember nothing.”

“Then why are you afraid?”

The question pierced deeper than any blade.

Behind Ronan, Lyra stepped forward and seized his wrist.

“Don’t listen to it. Memories can be twisted.”

The figure smiled.

“Can love?”

A vision erupted across the chamber.

Lyra lay motionless beneath a blackened sky. Her bow was broken beside her, and countless dead surrounded her body. Ronan knelt over her, his sword dripping with blood.

In the vision, he was wearing a crown.

Lyra released his wrist.

Ronan turned toward her, horrified. “That wasn’t real.”

“Then don’t let it become real,” she whispered.

The vision shattered.

Beyond the door, the Firstborn tilted his head.

“You always say that, little brother. Yet every time the world breaks, you choose the same ending.”

“I am not you.”

“No,” the figure answered. “You are what remained after Mother murdered me.”

The First Mother screamed.

“Enough!”

Crimson chains burst from her arms and wrapped around the golden doorway. She pulled with all her strength, forcing the enormous doors together. The Firstborn barely moved.

He simply placed one palm against the frame.

The chains turned to ash.

“You taught me how to die, Mother,” he said softly. “Did you think you could teach me to stay dead?”

Seratha collapsed.

For the first time, Ronan saw her not as the ancient guardian who had commanded armies of corpses, but as a frightened woman who had watched her own choices become monsters.

He moved toward her.

She recoiled.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I’m your son.”

“I know.” Her voice broke. “That’s why I’m afraid.”

The Firstborn stepped through the doorway.

The chamber instantly lost its color. Elias’s black chains froze in midair. Aren’s silver barriers became brittle glass. Darian’s violet flames vanished, leaving only smoke.

The Nameless King bowed until its head touched the ground.

“Firstborn,” it whispered.

The figure looked down at it.

“You stole my name.”

“I preserved it!”

“You built a kingdom from the names of the dead and called your theft salvation.”

The King trembled.

The Firstborn extended one hand. A black thread emerged from the creature’s chest, carrying thousands of glowing names. They spiraled around his fingers before disappearing into his palm.

Then he turned to Ronan.

“Now, brother, we must finish what Mother began.”

Ronan raised his sword, though its blade had nearly melted away.

“What do you want?”

The Firstborn glanced at Seratha.

“Justice.”

His eyes darkened.

“And to bring back the one person she never intended to kill.”

A coffin rose from beneath the chamber floor.

Its lid bore five names.

Four were familiar.

The fifth had been scratched away.

From inside came three slow knocks.

Then a child’s voice whispered:

“Mother, I’m still here.”