[LOCATION: UNKNOWN FOREST — NIGHT]
Tristin lay on his back in the dirt, staring through skeletal branches at a sky that refused to blink.
The air smelled like damp earth and copper.
The system had been silent for hours. So had Oblivion.
Just the low thrum of Limitless, humming under his skin like a second heartbeat.
Then—
[NOTIFICATION]
<< USER PERFORMANCE: STAGNANT >>
<< ASSESSMENT: UNSATISFACTORY >>
[You have failed to meet projected development metrics.]
[Your threat profile has diminished.]
[You have become narratively stagnant.]
"The Watchers are displeased."
Initiating: PUNISHMENT REALM [DEEP-LAYER: FRACTURE]
Tristin blinked. A flicker of irritation.
"...What now?"
The forest held its breath.
<< WARNING: WATCHER DISPLEASURE DETECTED >>
<< CONSEQUENCE: PURGATORY REALM INITIATED >>
<< OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE. EVOLVE. OR PERISH. >>
He sat up.
The air in front of him ripped.
Like reality had been peeled back by a hand that didn't ask permission.
And behind it—something vast.
Something hungry.
A voice echoed—not in his ears, but in his bones:
"You were meant to burn brighter."
Then—
A hand.
Pale.
Infinite.
Bigger than the sky.
It didn't grab his body.
It grabbed his existence.
And yanked.
[LOCATION: FRACTURE GATE — BEYOND THE VEIL]
There was no portal. No sound.
Just absence.
And then he was inside it.
Like stepping between two frames of reality that didn't want to touch.
The forest was gone. So was the sky. So was the blood.
What replaced them was too quiet to be silence.
His skin itched.
Not from bugs.
From memory.
The air scraped across him like it was trying to peel away something beneath the surface — something that didn't belong here. It knew he was foreign. It didn't want him.
He coughed — and something came out that wasn't spit. Not blood either. Just… static.
Each breath tasted like physical regret.
Even Limitless dimmed — as if the technique itself was unsure whether it could survive this place.
The Kagune stirred—hissing, twitching, sensing something it didn't understand. Something it feared.
Then his mask returned.
It bloomed from his face like a tumor made of bone.
Because this place wasn't safe.
This place wasn't real.
Then the light changed.
Not from above.
From beneath.
The ground rippled—tiles rearranging, cracking, rebuilding beneath his feet like they were forming a judgment in real time.
The world formed a circle around him.
A cathedral of breathless horror.
[THE CHOIR AWAKENS]
Mirrors rose like tombstones.
Tall. Unforgiving.
Each one framed in scorched iron, wrapped in twitching, soundless chain.
They didn't reflect him.
They reflected versions of him he hadn't survived long enough to become.
The Hero.
The God.
The Butcher.
The Child.
The Forgotten.
Dozens more behind them.
Each one humming in a slightly different tone. Slightly off-pitch. Slightly wrong.
A thousand Tristins forming a choir of what-ifs.
Each voice harmonized with the next in a melody that shouldn't exist—a sound made of failure, prophecy, trauma, and denial.
They weren't looking at him.
They were looking through him.
"You're looking at outcomes, Oracle."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
"Not reflections. Not fantasies. Just futures."
"Ones that bloomed the moment you stood still."
Tristin turned.
Nothing there.
But the voice went on.
"You've worn most of them already. For a few seconds. A few decisions."
"You don't recognize them. But they've recognized you."
The mirrors shifted.
Closing around him.
Forming a circle.
The Choir.
They began to hum again.
Low. Dissonant.
Like a thousand broken violins scraping across the teeth of a dying god.
"This is the Fracture Gate," the voice said.
"Purgatory, if you prefer myths."
"Your soul is still intact. But your purpose?"
A pause. A faint smile — not seen, but known.
"That's what we're here to find out."
"This is where the system keeps the versions of you it couldn't use."
Then they all stopped.
No sound.
No movement.
Just stillness—like the code itself had frozen.
[SYSTEM INTERRUPT — OVERRIDE DETECTED]
<<< ALERT: HIGH-TIER ENTITY PRESENCE CONFIRMED >>>
<<< TRACE: NULLPRIEST SIGNATURE VERIFIED >>>
>> ENTITY: NULLPRIEST
>> CLASS: UNCLASSIFIABLE
>> FUNCTION: NARRATIVE DISRUPTION / PATH PURGATION / ECHO ENFORCEMENT
>> ALIGNMENT: SYSTEM-NEUTRAL (OBSERVER PRIVILEGE)
[ERROR: ENTITY AUTHORITY EXCEEDS CURRENT SYSTEM JURISDICTION]
<< USER STATUS: LOCKED >>
<< INTERFERENCE: IMMUNE >>
––––––––––––––––––––––––––
[THE NULLPRIEST DESCENDS]
Then—
It stepped through the mirrors.
Wrapped in tattered black stitched with torn prompts.
Chains dragging from his wrists.
No face.
Only a hood. And a mouth.
Behind the fabric, something shifted.
Like it was trying to smile.
Tristin's Kagune flared.
The tendrils curled tight.
Even they didn't want to move first.
It didn't walk.
Didn't rise.
Didn't fall.
He coalesced.
Drawn together from silence like dust pulled into form.
Then the voice hit.
Not sound. Not speech.
A presence, pressed into Tristin's ribs.
The words weren't heard.
They were received.
"Welcome, Oracle."
"You may call me the Nullpriest,""Binder of unchosen futures. Archivist of rejected selves. Judge of narrative decay."
The mask inside his hood did not smile.But the threaded stitches moved, like they wanted to.
"When Watchers weep, I arrive.""When players freeze, I remind them what was waiting in their place."
His presence pressed into the floor like weight made from regret.
"This isn't punishment, Oracle.""This is context."
"Given more than most. Done less than any."
Tristin's tendrils shifted — half-threat, half-question.
"Don't posture. There are no gods here."
"Only ghosts."
The Nullpriest gestured toward the mirrors.
"This is the Mirror Choir. Each frame a version of you that wanted to exist."
"But didn't get the vote."
"You're not the Chosen One."
"You're just the one who got lucky."
[SYSTEM PROMPT — TRIALS AVAILABLE]
Choose a path.
Step into the frame.
Survive the outcome.
Time Remaining: [23:59]
Tristin didn't move.
Didn't speak.
The Choir hummed again.
A thousand Tristins.
All waiting.
All watching.
"I'm not your goddamn test subject," he said.
"I'm not their puppet."
Tristin's Kagune twitched.
Flared.
Useless.
The moment he resisted, he was already undone.
The world fractured.
Sound bled color.
And his self—the root of it, the soul—was yanked downwards.
Like being un-named.
[YOU ARE OUTSIDE THE NARRATIVE]
Like the world decided, mid-sentence, that Tristin didn't fit anymore — and deleted him from grammar itself.
He didn't scream.
There was no mouth to scream with.
Only the feeling of being erased too slowly to stop.
His body dropped. Eyes open. Hollow.
[LOCATION: BEYOND THE SYSTEM — OBSERVER QUEUE]
Tristin floated.
The void around him was too wide to comprehend.
Then he looked down.
Beneath him: an ocean of faces.
Millions.
All staring up at him with black, pupil-less eyes that shimmered like empty screens.
Not prisoners.
Candidates.
Hands stretched upward—not in plea.
In expectation.
Each one wanted in.
"You think they gave you this life because you earned it?" the Nullpriest voice asked, echoing behind him like a cut left open too long.
"They gave it to you because they couldn't decide who deserved it."
"Choose me."
"I'll be better."
"I'll kill more."
"I'll kill less."
Their voices layered into a chorus of hunger.
A sea of identities desperate to be written.
"You think this is about you?" the Nullpriest whispered behind him.
"It never was."
They reached for him.
Hands of ash.
Eyes without whites.
Hearts still beating—but for what, he couldn't tell.
The void tilted.
They reached up.
They didn't want revenge.
They didn't want justice.
They wanted his place.
Then: collapse.
Tristin slammed back into his body, coughing blood onto the Choir floor.
The Kagune flared—more from instinct than rage.
The Nullpriest watched.
"This is the cost of refusal."
"You still think they owe you something."
"They don't."
"They just want a show."
Tristin rose.
Barely.
Shaking.
He turned toward Mirror One.
The Hero.
A rusted hand pointed toward the frame.
"Start there. Be him."
"Let's see what happens when you say yes."
The frame shimmered.
Opened.
Welcomed him.
Tristin stepped forward.
The Kagune folded.
The mask peeled away—dripping like wax.
His heartbeat slowed.
The last thing he heard:
"You're not proving you're strong enough to stay."
"You're proving you're not replaceable."
[TRIAL INITIATING — PATH ONE: THE HERO]
[CONSEQUENCE OF FAILURE: MIRROR OCCUPATION — SELF LOSE]
As he vanished into the trial, the Nullpriest turned to the other mirrors.
And the versions of Tristin left behind began to hum louder.