The Insane Regressor: Throne of Pride

Half the lamps hanging from the walls went out at once, plunging the edges of the hall into dense darkness. The columns’ shadows stretched across the floor, but some moved in directions that did not align with the remaining sources of light.

The chaotic power of Mirage.

Bran stopped in place.

His eyes shifted to Ravian’s left, then to his right, before returning to him.

One of his axes suddenly swung toward empty space.

The blade sliced through the air as Bran twisted his entire body, as though fending off an attack no one else could see.

Ravian watched him in silence.

Exhaustion was not the cause. Bran’s gaze kept locking onto different points, his pupils contracting and dilating irregularly as his head tracked people who did not exist.

The Nightmare’s judgment on the loser had begun before his defeat was even complete.

It had not touched Bran’s body first, but his perception.

Bran smiled at the empty air.

”Found you.”

He raised his axe and struck one of the shadows, then spun violently toward a torn curtain and attacked again. His movements were not random; he was pursuing something he could see clearly, something bearing Ravian’s appearance, his voice, and perhaps even the scent of his blood.

The real Ravian, however, remained standing before the window, weary indifference filling his eyes even as his guard remained raised.

Bran began laughing as he moved from one target to another, his smile widening every time he destroyed an image that did not exist.

”How many copies of you am I going to kill?!” he shouted. ”How many times will you make me split you open before you stay dead?!”

’He doesn’t even realize he’s no longer getting any closer to me.’

Ravian observed the distance between them, then looked at Bran’s reflection in the window. It did not show a single man, but dozens of overlapping shadows surrounding him, each raising an axe and charging at a different moment.

Ravian could not see what Bran saw, but he did not need to.

The Nightmare was attacking the very faculties Bran had trusted throughout his entire life: the senses that had guided him to his prey and the instinct that had always told him where to strike.

This time, neither belonged to him anymore.

Bran lunged toward one of the imaginary targets, then stopped abruptly and stared to either side. His right axe rose toward something approaching from his left, while the other drew back in preparation to strike someone behind him.

His lips curled into an entranced smile.

Perhaps he saw Ravian cornered, or perhaps he was finally witnessing the scene he had wanted since the beginning of the chase.

This continued for some time as Ravian observed his every step... and waited.

He was tired; even in his spiritual form, he could feel the strain.

Had he made it look easy all this time? It had not been.

It might have seemed as though he controlled everything effortlessly and possessed a plan for every possibility, but that was not true. Finding a way to slip out at night and return without anyone noticing had been genuinely difficult.

The Nightmare had never been Bran’s nightmare, despite what Ravian had claimed.

It had been eight against one.

This had clearly been the Killer’s nightmare—his nightmare.

Turning that nightmare into an opportunity had not been easy at all.

It had taken every cell in his brain to remain calm while knowing that everyone was desperately trying to uncover his identity and kill him at the earliest possible opportunity.

Despite all that hiding, he had still needed to act at night, out of everyone’s sight.

Most importantly, he had needed to avoid the Mage at all costs, because she was the game’s wild card: she could expose him, while he could not kill her.

Then, at the very end, that madman had come charging at him, swinging his axes without pause throughout the hall.

The Traitor had come for his head while Ravian had been stripped of even the right to defend himself. On top of that, he had needed to convince the Mage not to protect the Traitor at night, or all his efforts would have gone to waste.

’It was difficult...’ Ravian thought as another bead of sweat fell from his chin and a smile appeared on his face. ’Shall we finally end this?’

Dooooooong!

The third toll came slower and deeper than the two before it.

Ravian closed his eyes at that moment, but no sigh escaped him.

’Here we go...’

The remaining lamps went out.

The window trembled, and its surface transformed in an instant into a black mirror stretching from the floor to the ceiling. Bran’s figure appeared within it hundreds of times, but every reflection wore a different smile.

As full night descended over Evernight Palace, Bran’s arms moved.

The right axe swept in an arc toward his left, while the left axe followed an opposing arc toward his right. They were two perfect strikes meant to kill opponents attacking him from either side.

But there were no opponents.

The first blade sank into the left side of his neck until it struck his collarbone, while the second buried itself beneath his right ribs and tore its way inward.

Bran’s laughter stopped.

His eyes flew open, and his body remained upright for an impossible moment, his arms crossed over his chest as he continued gripping the axes embedded in his flesh.

The images he had been seeing disappeared.

The shattered marble, the columns, the torn curtains, and Ravian standing several meters away came back into focus exactly as they were—but far too late.

Bran tried to move his mouth, and blood flowed between his teeth.

”You... didn’t touch me?” Bran asked, his eyes unable to comprehend what had happened to him.

”I didn’t need to.” Ravian looked at the blades buried in Bran’s body. ”You’ve already done enough.”

Bran’s knees trembled before his body pitched forward. The axe handles struck the floor first, followed by his head, and blood spread beneath him in a red-black pool under the mirror’s glow.

He did not move again.

The Nightmare’s mist rose from the floor and surrounded his corpse.

{The Traitor has died.}

{The number of participants is: 3.}

{The Killer remains alive.}

{The Killer has fulfilled the victory condition.}

{The Evernight Palace phase of the Nightmare has ended.}

Ravian remained standing until the words disappeared.

Only then did he allow his shoulders to sink.

Another mass of mist gathered in the middle of the hall and coalesced into two human forms. Mirai appeared first, followed by Aldric beside her. Their faces were pale, but the limbs Bran had severed began taking shape from translucent white threads before gradually regaining flesh and color.

Mirai gasped when her arms returned and pulled one of them against her chest as though she could still feel the blade piercing her shoulder. Aldric, meanwhile, dropped to his knees the moment his feet reformed, then raised his gaze toward the corpse lying between them.

”Bran...” he said quietly.

”He’s dead,” Mirai replied, her eyes shifting toward Ravian. ”And he won.”

Ravian nodded.

Aldric stared at him for a long time, and there was no gratitude in his eyes.

”Elena, Kaiden, Sylvan...” he said. ”It was you.”

Ravian met the old man’s gaze but did not respond.

He offered no apology, nor did he attempt to dress up what he had done. The truth had passed the point where words could change anything.

Aldric lowered his gaze, then said, ”You used us to reach three survivors.”

Ravian raised an eyebrow, his familiar mocking air returning.

”And you just used me—the Killer—to stay alive, didn’t you?”

Aldric fell silent for several moments before a short, joyless laugh escaped his lips.

”I don’t know whether I should thank you or hate you.”

”Do both after you wake,” Ravian replied abruptly, causing Aldric’s eyes to widen in confusion.

What did he mean?

Wasn’t Ravian the only one guaranteed to survive now that he had won?

Dooong!

The bell rang again, announcing something new.

{The Nightmare has entered its final stage.}

{Let the final trial begin.}