They called it a low-threat case.
A precautionary sweep of a quiet zone. No curse spikes. No spiritual echoes. No blood, no screaming.
Just a line of unconscious victims—five in total—found collapsed across a stretch of abandoned playgrounds and rooftops in a quiet district of Quadrant 6. No visible wounds. No signs of a Layer breach. But each one had their hand locked in a shape.
Rock.
Paper.
Or scissors.
And every last one had been alone.
That was enough to send a Game Ender.
But not just any Game Ender.
This time, it was Kaze.
He arrived before anyone else.
No van. No support. No declaration.
Just silence.
As usual.
The soles of his boots never echoed, even as he landed soundlessly on the edge of a concrete rooftop and peered down at the courtyard below.
Broken fences, rusted monkey bars, overgrown ivy creeping over a faded blacktop where a game had once been painted in cheerful colors. Time had washed it away… but something newer had replaced it.
At the center of the yard, etched in white chalk, was a wide circle. Within it: three handprints. Stylized. Symmetrical.
Rock.
Paper.
Scissors.
But there was a fourth mark, drawn roughly in charcoal.
It wasn’t a hand.
It was a blade.
A cut.
Kaze remained still, half his face masked beneath his hood. He scanned the scene for three minutes without moving. His breath barely stirred beneath the cloth. Then, finally, he dropped from the rooftop without a sound.
He landed inside the circle.
The world didn't change.
Not at first.
But Kaze had walked enough Layers to know when one was waking up.
The temperature dropped—not freezing, but biting, sharp. A phantom sensation, like someone brushing ice across the back of your neck.
And then the world blinked.
Just once.
Everything remained the same—but also wrong.
The colors dulled. The wind died. And every sound vanished, as if the air itself had swallowed it whole.
Kaze narrowed his eyes.
“Layer confirmed,” he murmured.
He turned his head slightly as if acknowledging someone who wasn’t there.
“I know you're watching,” he whispered. “Let’s play.”
The circle lit beneath his feet, glowing faintly.
A distorted tone echoed through the playground. Low. Mechanical. Repeating.
Begin.
Three images hovered in front of him, spectral and pulsing.
Rock.
Paper.
Scissors.
Kaze raised one hand slowly.
Behind him, shadows began to stretch.
Across the courtyard, a figure emerged. Faceless, featureless… yet perfectly poised.
It moved like him. Stood like him.
And when Kaze flexed his fingers, it did too—half a second later.
It wasn’t a mirror.
It was a mimic.
He threw scissors.
The mimic threw rock.
Instantly, a sharp pulse hit his forearm—phantom pain, no injury. It faded in seconds but left a ghost of something deeper.
The figure said nothing.
It only reset.
Rock.
Paper.
Scissors.
Again.
Kaze shifted his weight, calculating.
The mimic threw paper.
He countered with scissors.
A low thrum passed through his spine—but this time, no pain.
Victory.
But the mimic didn’t slow.
It began to adjust.
Each round, it threw faster.
More reactive.
More refined.
Kaze clenched his fists. The Layer wasn’t just reacting—it was learning.
Not just moves.
Patterns. Rhythm. Stance. Breathing.
He took a breath and shifted his form, lowering his center of gravity. Just slightly.
The mimic copied the adjustment instantly.
His brow furrowed.
He remembered a case file—one Elise had flagged weeks ago during the Telephone investigation. A rogue Layer that had displayed similar behavior. Reflex adaptation. Script erosion.
Self-modifying logic.
That kind of design wasn’t random.
It was artificial.
Kaze threw rock.
The mimic tried to respond with paper, but he feinted—
And slashed the air with his hand as if drawing a blade from his side.
Nothing physical happened.
But the mimic staggered.
It registered the ghost of the move.
Even though he hadn’t used it.
Kaze’s voice was low, sharp.
“You’re pulling more than data,” he said. “You’re pulling memory.”
The Layer responded by shimmering. The sky flickered like a screen glitching.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Words began forming in the air.
“Round 4 Initiated – Adapting Opponent Signature”
The figure shifted again.
Now it moved faster.
Clean.
Deadly.
Like a shadow of someone who had watched Kaze fight a hundred times.
Maybe it had.
He prepared his next move—only to see a fourth symbol flash across the interface.
? Cut.
New.
Unfamiliar.
He didn’t throw it.
But the mimic did.
The air screamed.
Kaze staggered back, clutching his side.
A phantom blade had sliced across him—not physically, but in that subtle way cursed Layers attacked: through soul threads and memory anchors.
He didn’t bleed.
But the pain was real.
Sharp. Immediate. Gone.
The figure stood across from him.
Still expressionless.
But somehow…
It was smiling.
And that’s when he realized:
This wasn’t just a game designed to beat him.
It was a blueprint.
The Layer was building a version of him—
Not for itself.
But for someone else.
And it wasn’t done learning.
Part II – Shadow of the Player
The wind returned for only a moment.
A sharp breeze brushed past Kaze’s hood like a warning. Then, once again, everything inside the Layer grew still.
It didn’t feel like an illusion anymore.
It felt like a simulation.
Not a cursed echo.
But a design.
Deliberate.
Constructed.
And Kaze was at its center.
The mimic didn’t attack—not yet. It stood just outside the chalk ring, posture eerily calm. The way it tilted its head was identical to how Kaze once did before slicing through a cursed marionette in Layer 21.
Too identical.
That battle hadn’t been recorded.
No one else had survived it.
So how did it know?
He stepped forward, one boot sliding against the dirt with a controlled drag. The mimic copied the movement—but added something else. Its fingers flexed slightly… mimicking his exact grip on a blade that wasn’t even drawn.
“You’re not learning anymore,” Kaze muttered. “You’re becoming.”
The fourth symbol flickered again in the air: ? Cut.
Beneath it, new text appeared.
“Phase Transition: Signature Lock – 56% Integrated”
His eyes narrowed behind the shadow of his hood.
So that’s what this was.
A cursed game pretending to be Rock, Paper, Scissors, when in truth, it was a targeted scan—a ritual written to dissect a Game Ender’s fighting identity. The pain wasn’t the point. It was a tool.
To study.
To archive.
To replicate.
Kaze didn’t move yet.
Instead, he spoke—his voice flat but firm.
“If you're trying to make a copy of me, you should know something first.”
His hands shifted. His stance changed completely—into a position none of his teammates had ever seen.
A forgotten form.
One he hadn’t used since before he joined Sanctuary.
The mimic stuttered for half a second—then corrected.
It mirrored him again.
Perfectly.
Kaze’s eyes narrowed.
“Then I’ll give you something to remember.”
He lunged—not with a throw, but a feint, pivoting hard right, twisting into a backward sweep, dragging both legs beneath him like a low scythe.
The mimic reacted instantly.
But instead of dodging—
It anticipated the move and answered with rock mid-motion.
A heavy spiritual hit connected with Kaze’s arm.
His muscles froze.
The pain shot straight through his nerves, burning hot for a split second—then faded, but left his hand numb.
He didn’t stop.
He pressed forward.
Strike.
Feint.
Shift.
The mimic was faster now.
Smarter.
But Kaze wasn’t playing to win anymore.
He was playing to feed it.
To see how far it could go.
And it was learning too well.
The figure began chaining moves together—not just throwing symbols, but reacting with precise counters that lined up perfectly with Kaze’s known combos.
A deflect. A parry. A fake retreat.
All him.
All stolen.
Kaze's cloak fluttered around him as he skidded backward, kicking up dust.
Then, for the first time in the battle—he paused.
His body was calm.
But his mind…
Not quite.
A flicker of something cold slid down his spine.
He didn’t like being copied.
Because he knew what came next.
If this curse reached full synchronization, it wouldn’t just act like him.
It would think like him.
Feel like him.
And someone else would use it.
Above them, the symbols reset once more.
??
??
??
?
“Final Pattern Assimilation: 71%”
The mimic raised its hand again.
But it wasn’t in a ready pose anymore.
It reached for its hip.
And from the air—it drew a blade.
An invisible weapon.
Kaze’s weapon.
Even its hum sounded right.
He froze—not out of fear.
But out of certainty.
That was his voidblade.
His phantom slice style.
Perfectly mimicked.
But missing something.
It was empty.
It had form—but no soul.
Kaze stepped forward.
“Let’s see what you do with regret.”
And for the first time in the match—
He let his guard down.
Deliberately.
Part III – A Copy Can’t Bleed
Kaze didn’t dodge the strike.
The mimic lunged with his own blade form—perfect posture, perfect arc, zero hesitation.
A move that had ended cursed entities faster than any field recorder could measure.
But this time… the blade hit.
The cut went clean across his chest.
It should’ve split skin.
Should’ve dropped him.
Instead, Kaze stood still.
Unshaken.
His cloak sliced at the shoulder and fluttered downward like torn silk.
The mimic stepped back—uncertain.
Its head twitched, as if processing incomplete data.
Kaze exhaled slowly.
“You know how I move.”
“You know what I’ve done.”
“But you don’t know what it costs.”
He stepped forward—and his steps were heavier now.
Each one echoed, even in the silence.
Not because of sound.
But because of presence.
The Layer began to warp.
Glitch.
Like the rules were unraveling.
The mimic raised its blade again.
Kaze didn’t flinch.
Instead… he moved through it.
Not dodging. Not deflecting.
Erasing the motion with his own—like he was overwriting the curse’s code.
The mimic reeled back.
Confused.
Sloppy.
Desperate.
Its body staggered and reset, limbs flickering out of sync.
That was when Kaze whispered—low and cold.
“Let me show you what it means to lose.”
He threw no symbol.
He stepped into the center of the ring.
And let everything go still.
The mimic hesitated.
For the first time, it didn’t move.
It was waiting.
Analyzing.
Trying to predict.
And that was the problem.
Kaze never played by the rules.
He closed his eyes.
And remembered something no one else knew.
A strike he had used only once.
Years ago.
A mistake.
A victory that felt like a loss.
He moved with no warning.
No symbol.
No ritual.
Just a flicker.
And then—
Silence.
The mimic dropped.
Not shattered.
Not screaming.
It just collapsed.
Blade still in hand.
But no longer able to raise it.
A soft distortion shimmered through the Layer.
Then words etched themselves into the air.
“Assimilation Failed. Adaptation Rejected.”
“Memory Load Incomplete.”
“End Match.”
The world blinked again.
Colors returned.
Wind returned.
Kaze stood alone in the circle.
The mimic gone.
His blade never drawn.
He looked down at the final mark scorched into the ground.
It wasn’t a game sign.
It was a command.
“Copy failed. Try another.”
But below it—written faintly in another layer of text, barely readable—
Were three words.
“Mirror Project – Revive”
Kaze’s eyes narrowed.
He didn’t speak.
He turned and walked away—cloak billowing in the rising wind.
The pain in his chest faded.
But what lingered… was colder.
A copy could learn your moves.
But it could never carry your guilt.
And it could never match a soul that had already broken—and rebuilt itself to win again.
The silence followed Kaze even after he left the Layer.
Not a curse-born silence.
Just the kind that comes from being alone with your own thoughts.
By the time he crossed through the Sanctum gate, the sky had shifted to violet, streaked with evening haze. Drones hummed overhead, scanning returning operatives. His ID cleared without issue.
He said nothing.
He never did.
Inside the operations hall, Riku was already waiting—leaned against a terminal with his goggles flipped down, typing into the air faster than most could see.
When Kaze entered, Riku paused mid-keystroke.
You’re late,” he said. “By three minutes. That’s unlike you.”
Kaze walked past him, cloak trailing behind.
“The simulation didn’t want to end.”
“Simulation?” Riku repeated. He pushed off the console. “So it wasn’t a curse after all?”
Kaze stopped at the terminal near the mission archive wall. He slid his gauntlet across the input node, uploading his report. Red light scanned across his wrist.
"It was something pretending to be a curse.”
“Pretending to play a game?”
“Pretending to be me.”
Riku’s smirk faded slightly.
“Come again?”
Kaze turned, the edge of his mask catching the light.
“It wasn’t testing my reactions. It was learning. Copying.”
“It used my forms. My strikes. Even ones I haven’t used in years.”
“So it was building a shadow?”
“Not a shadow. A replacement.”
The room dimmed slightly as the terminal beeped—entry uploaded.
“Entry #13 filed,” said the archive system.
“Entity dissolved. Layer sealed. Copy incomplete.”
Riku muttered something under his breath as he reviewed the glyph printout.
These formation marks... that’s not traditional Layer residue.”
He brought up the symbol Kaze had recovered—Mirror Project – Revive—and stared at it for a long second.
“This matches the dead code Maya pulled from the Telephone case.”
Kaze didn’t respond.
He was already walking away.
Outside the hall, Maya stood at the far end of the corridor, talking quietly with Elise. When she saw Kaze, she excused herself and walked toward him.
“You’re back.”
He nodded.
“Still you?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then— “Barely.”
Maya walked beside him in silence for a few steps.
“Riku says the game tried to mimic your style.”
“It didn’t fail,” Kaze said. “It learned enough.”
“Enough to be dangerous?”
He looked ahead.
“Enough to fight someone like me again. And win.”
Maya didn’t speak for a while. When she did, her voice was quieter.
“You think this is connected to the Game Master?”
“I don’t think,” he replied.
“I know.”
They reached the lift leading back toward the private sanctum rooms.
Before Kaze stepped in, Maya stopped him.
“You left something behind.”
She handed him a worn piece of chalk—just a fragment, the kind used to mark the game’s opening ring.
“From the scene,” she said. “It had your handwriting.”
Kaze stared at it for a second longer than usual.
Then closed his fingers around it.
“Then someone’s rewriting the story.”
He stepped into the elevator.
The doors slid shut.
? Game: Rock, Paper, Scissors (Layer Variant)
? Entity Type: Adaptive Mimic Construct
? Status: Dissolved
? Notes: Copy reached 71% signature match before rejection. Glyphs indicate connection to "Mirror Project." Investigation into artificial curse design ongoing.
? Notable Finding: The mimic copied Kaze’s moves, but could not replicate his emotional weight—suggesting that soul imprint remains immune to simulation… for now.