Balt’s vision swam, the forest twisting in front of him like a fever dream. His legs shook with every step, barely obeying him now. He wanted to run—needed to run—but his body betrayed him, moving at a crawl, like he was dragging chains. Each step sank into the earth as though the ground itself tried to swallow him whole.

  Blood soaked his armor, dripping down his arms in sluggish rivulets. He could smell it—iron and rot—and every breath rattled in his lungs like rust scraping metal. Strangely, the pain was gone. That terrified him more than the wounds themselves. Numbness was worse. Numbness meant the end was near.

  Am I dying?

  The thought slithered in, unwelcome. His teeth clenched. “No… no, not like this,” he hissed to the trees, to himself. His voice cracked, half-whisper, half-beg. “I’m not dying here.”

  But his heartbeat slowed, each thud like a distant drum, weaker and weaker. His body screamed for rest. Just lie down. Just close your eyes. It would be so easy. The ground beneath his boots tilted, his vision dipped, and his head swaying sideways like a drunkard.

  He staggered, caught himself, stumbled again. His legs tangled and nearly buckled. Every step was a battle. His body begged for mercy, yet his mind raged against it. Move. Keep moving. If you stop, you’re done.

  A root snagged his boot. He crashed to the ground.

  The impact jolted him, but instead of pain there was… nothing. Just cold earth against his cheek. His arms shook when he tried to push himself up, trembling like twigs in the wind. He barely rose to his knees before collapsing again.

  Sleep whispered to him. Dark, gentle, inviting. Just close your eyes. Just let go.

  “No…” His voice cracked. His lips trembled. “No… not yet. Not yet!”

  He clawed at the ground with blood-slick fingers, dragging himself forward inches at a time. His body was giving up, but his will screamed, If I survive this… no, I will survive. I’ll do anything. Anything.

  He felt his mind tipping toward madness, a hollow laugh bubbling in his throat before he even realized it. His lips stretched in a twisted grin as his fingers traced the motion he knew by heart.

  [Mirror Clown]

  He had saved this skill for years, his hidden ace, his weapon for the right moment. Not for a situation like this. Not when he was crawling in the dirt like a dying dog. But what choice did he have? Even a scrap of hope was enough.

  The skill flared to life.

  And the laughter spilled out of him.

  It wasn’t laughter anymore. It cracked and broke, high then low, a jagged sound that scraped from his throat. It echoed between the trees like a cry for help, or a death rattle. It sounded less like joy and more like grief, less like a man and more like a thing already half-dead.

  The sound startled even him. He tried to stop it, but the skill twisted his body, twisted his voice. His ribs shook with it, his lungs tore with it. He laughed and wailed and laughed again until his chest burned.

  Balt clawed forward another inch, blood streaking the dirt, his laughter howling in the middle of the day….

  ….

  Kana had left only minutes ago to capture the painted man. She didn’t rush. Her steps were just the right pace like someone who was walking in a garden, perhaps too relaxed. The illusionary guide—Suri’s work—danced ahead of her, flickering at the edge of her vision, leading her straight to the target.

  Her dagger was still in her hand, though she didn’t expect trouble. The so-called shadow man hadn’t interfered once. If he truly wanted them dead, he’d had more than enough chances already. The thought lingered like a warning in the back of her mind, but she pushed it aside.

  The trees thinned, and there he was—crumpled on the ground. The painted man. Blood streaked his clothes, dark and wet against his skin, though his chest still rose and fell. Kana crouched, watching the way his eyelids fluttered, as though caught in a dream.

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  “Sleeping peacefully, huh? Effective than I thought.” she muttered, tilting her head. “Even with all those cuts.”

  She didn’t hesitate. Rope slipped easily into her hands—where she had pulled it from, none of the others would ever know. Tying him took only moments, her knots quick and tight. When she was done, she lifted him with one arm as though he weighed nothing, and turned back.

  By the time she returned, the muddy wall that had once imprisoned Professor Wor-en was already dust and rubble. Boris was leaning far too close to Elle York, his grin lazy and wolfish. Elle’s expression was unimpressed. Rin stood like a stone beside Suri, who waved eagerly when she spotted Kana approaching. Waving with her heavy mace.

  Professor Wor-en stepped forward, his sharp gaze settling on the captive slung over Kana’s shoulder. He bent low, eyes narrowing. “This man has a large bounty on his head. I can’t believe you students managed to bring him down.”

  Before anyone could reply, a shadow fell over them.

  Kana’s instincts flared. Her dagger was in her hand, ready to strike, but Wor-en’s sharp gesture made her stop. Above them, a vast bird circled, its cry piercing the air. Then, with a rush of wind, it folded its wings and dove.

  Just before impact, the creature twisted, its form shrinking, feathers folding into limbs. In its place stood a man with short black hair, a tunic of muted tones, black-sleeved, and on his chest gleamed a golden insignia: the horse of the royal knights.

  “Artin,” Wor-en greeted, his tone somewhere between relief and irritation. “You’re late. The students already handled the attackers.”

  Artin said nothing at first, only letting his eyes sweep the clearing. His gaze lingered on the broken ground, the bodies, the survivors. He gave a curt nod.

  Another bird, much smaller, swooped from the sky to land on his forearm. A scroll was tied neatly to its talons. With practiced ease, Artin untied the message, scribbled a response onto a new scrap of parchment, and bound it in place. A flick of his wrist sent the bird back into the sky.

  Then, without warning, he crouched over the painted man. His nostrils flared as he leaned close, sniffing. His voice was low when he spoke: “Why do you have this thing?”

  Kana blinked. “I chased him. He’s one of the attackers.”

  Artin didn’t answer right away. His expression was grim. “Looks like no one noticed…”

  His right arm shifted—flesh tearing, bones thickening, muscle knotting. In seconds, his limb resembled the heavy arm of a bear, fur bristling, claws black and curved. He raised it high, then slammed it down on the painted man.

  The students gasped. Rin flinched. Some turned their heads, unwilling to see the carnage.

  But there was no sound.

  The painted man did not bleed, did not scream. Instead, his body wavered like smoke, before dissolving entirely, vanishing in wisps of gray. The ropes Kana had tied fell useless to the ground.

  Kana’s eyes widened. “What…? An illusion?”

  Artin withdrew his clawed arm, letting it shrink back into flesh. “Not quite. A skill, most likely. Something that lets him create replicas of himself. I only caught it because he didn’t smell like natural blood, you could say that is his delicate twin made by skill. Because it can act. Just like him.”

  Kana turned to Suri instinctively. The illusionist shook her head, her face pale. “Don’t look at me. I couldn’t trace him. His real body… it’s hidden. I can’t find it.”

  Artin’s gaze hardened. He stepped aside with Wor-en, the two lowering their voices as they began to discuss something urgent.

  Kana hadn’t meant to overhear—but her ears were sharper than most, and their words carried just enough for her to catch.

  After seeing his unique and powerful transformation, he should be able to find that painted man, right?

  Kana realized something important from that fight. She had been trying to play it safe—too safe.

  The painted man was unlike the shadow man. The shadow man had rules she could predict: he appeared where there was a shadow, his presence tied to the black folds of night and liked to show off his skill to someone he thought was worthy to be opponent. But the painted man… he was different. He could reposition in the blink of an eye, as if the world itself bent to his will. It was almost cheat-like, unfair, a skill with no clear limit. That uncertainty gnawed at her.

  The worst part wasn’t even his speed. It was the danger he posed after he was cornered. If death loomed over him, what would stop him from vanishing into her classmates instead of her?

  That was why she let him go. It wasn’t cowardice. It was the safest way to capture the painted man. Alive.

  Of course, she could have raised her bow, fired a single arrow, and ended it all in a heartbeat. Her aim had been very accurate but too strong; she knew she could strike him down. But if she did, he’d take every secret with him to the grave. And from the way he barked commands, sharp and confident even in chaos, he wasn’t just another lackey. He was a leader. A piece too valuable to simply erase.

  Someone like that… someone who knew more than he should—he’s worth far more alive than dead.

  Kana exhaled slowly, her breath misting faintly in the cold air. The weight of her choice settled on her shoulders. She had played it right, tactically. And yet, all she could feel was the gnawing hollowness of inadequacy.

  She was still lacking.

  A gush of cold wind interrupted her thoughts. Artin transformed into a large bird again, probably going to back up some other group of students.

  She heard him. The target was not just them.