The Insane Regressor: Throne of Pride

{The Nightmare has entered its final stage.}

{Let the final trial begin.}

The moment the Nightmare’s two messages disappeared, everything inside the hall came to a halt.

The mist above Bran’s corpse froze in place, the drops of blood sliding from the edges of the two axes stopped midway through their fall, and even the particles of dust scattered between the shattered columns hung motionless in the air.

Aldric tried to stand, but his body refused to respond. Mirai was likewise frozen with one of her restored arms pressed against her chest, while Ravian alone remained capable of moving his eyes.

Purple mist began seeping from the cracks running through the floor and walls.

It bore no resemblance to the Nightmare’s pale mist, which had displayed the rules and choices throughout the past several days. This mist was denser, and it moved as though every thread possessed a will of its own. It gathered in the center of the hall directly above Bran’s corpse, then rose and assumed the shape of a tall human figure.

The entity’s features refused to settle into a single form. It wore the face of a man for a moment, then that of a woman, followed by an old man, before its features smoothed over and became devoid of any identity that could be remembered. The only things that remained constant were its wide smile and the two violet eyes staring directly at Ravian.

The entity raised one hand.

The black mirror behind them trembled, and the names of all nine participants appeared across its surface. The names of Elena, Kaiden, Talia, Sylvan, Garrick, and Bran faded into a lifeless gray, while three names remained illuminated.

Rayan.

Mirai.

Aldric.

Then the palace began to change.

It started with the walls.

The stone surrounding the hall contracted so slowly that the motion could barely be perceived, yet the cracks between the marble blocks narrowed and widened like the gills of some immense creature breathing beneath the palace. Each breath released another wisp of purple mist, and within the mist came sounds that did not belong in an abandoned hall—the scrape of fingernails against locked doors, the faint rustling of silk across empty corridors, and whispers spoken by mouths buried somewhere deep inside the walls.

The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling had gone dark, but their chains continued swaying without making a sound. Their shadows crawled across the vaulted ceiling in the shapes of dangling bodies, stretching their necks farther with every swing, even though the chandeliers themselves remained completely still.

At the edges of the hall, the torn curtains lifted from the floor.

No wind moved through Evernight Palace, yet the fabric rose as though invisible hands had seized it, revealing corridors that had not been there moments before. One passage was lined with countless closed doors, every one of them bearing the same black handle and the same thin trail of blood leaking from beneath it. Another extended into a darkness so deep that the marble floor seemed to pour into it like a pale river, while something enormous shifted at its far end, too distant to see and far too large to belong inside the palace.

Beyond a third archway stood a banquet hall untouched by the battle. A long table filled the room, and nine chairs had been arranged around it. Six were occupied by figures hidden beneath white funeral veils, their heads tilted toward the three empty seats as if they had been waiting for the surviving participants to join them.

The faces carved into the columns also opened their eyes.

Those carvings had once been nothing more than decorative angels, animals, and nameless nobles, but now their stone gazes all turned toward Ravian. Hairline fractures spread from their mouths as their expressions twisted into silent smiles matching the one worn by the purple entity. Some appeared delighted, others ravenous, while several stared at him with the hateful anticipation of gamblers awaiting the final throw of the dice.

Even the floor beneath their feet was no longer ordinary marble.

Dark shapes flowed under its polished surface, resembling pale bodies submerged beneath frozen water. They pressed their palms against the stone from below, their fingers spreading as they searched for a crack wide enough to enter through. One of the figures raised its face beneath Ravian’s feet, but it had no eyes, nose, or mouth—only a smooth expanse of skin upon which the name Rayan slowly appeared before fading again.

Behind them, the black mirror deepened until it no longer seemed to possess a surface. It became an opening into another version of the hall, one where the columns stood intact and every lamp burned with violet fire. Hundreds of silent guests filled that reflected palace, dressed in ancient finery and wearing masks fashioned into laughing faces. They stood shoulder to shoulder from the floor to the distant balconies, watching the three survivors like an audience assembled for an execution.

Yet none of them appeared in the real hall.

Only their smiles crossed the boundary.

One by one, pale crescents formed across the walls, the floor, the columns, and even Bran’s blood, until Evernight Palace itself seemed to be smiling at Ravian.

Above it all, the Black Bell hung in the darkness beyond the ceiling.

It could not actually be seen, but its presence had become impossible to ignore. The vaulted roof bulged inward beneath its unseen weight, and a vast circular shadow spread above the hall. The bell remained silent, yet Ravian could feel the memory of its toll vibrating inside his bones, as though the final note had never truly ended and had merely descended beyond the range of human hearing.

The palace no longer resembled the setting of a game.

It resembled the thing that had been playing it.

”The game has reached its conclusion,” the entity said in a voice that was neither male nor female. ”And the Nightmare World has entered its final moments.”

Its violet eyes shifted toward Ravian.

”The holder of the Killer role remained unidentified until six participants had been eliminated, successfully reducing the number of participants to three while remaining alive.”

A new line appeared across the black mirror.

{The preliminary victory condition of the Killer role holder has been fulfilled.}

Mirai’s trembling smile vanished, while Aldric’s eyes narrowed.

The preliminary condition.

Bran’s death had not been the end of the game. It had merely fulfilled the requirement that allowed Ravian to reach its final stage.

”But the laws recognize only one victor,” the entity continued. ”The presence of three living participants does not mean that all three will leave.”

Threads of purple mist spread around Mirai’s and Aldric’s necks. They did not strangle them, but formed thin collars that clung tightly to their skin.

”If the holder of the Killer role gives the correct answer, he will leave as the sole victor. If his answer is wrong, he will die here alongside the other two survivors.”

Mirai raised her eyes toward Ravian.

She could not speak, but her gaze said enough. She had done everything he had asked of her, refrained from protecting Bran, and remained alive until the number of participants had fallen to three.

Even so, her survival was still not guaranteed.

Ravian showed no concern. He merely watched the entity with an expressionless face, as though the threat held no meaning for him.

The entity’s smile widened to an inhuman degree.

”This is your final opportunity, Rayan, and the answer is not particularly difficult.”

The purple mist gathered behind it and transformed into dozens of silent faces that stared at Ravian from every corner of the hall.

”Tell us who the killer is, Rayan... so that you may win.”

Silence descended.

The question was not difficult.

Ravian was the holder of the Killer role. He had selected his victims and exploited the rules of communication to determine who would die each night. All he needed to do was admit that he was the killer, and the game would end in the exact manner for which it had been designed from the very beginning.

The entity seemed to be waiting for that answer in particular.

Ravian looked at the three names glowing upon the mirror, then at Bran’s corpse, before returning his gaze to the owner of the voice.

With a blank expression, he said, ”That’s easy.”

The corners of the entity’s mouth rose even higher.

But Ravian’s expression changed in the next instant.

A slow, terrifying smile spread across his face, so strikingly similar to the entity’s own that a shudder passed through Mirai’s body. It was not the smile of someone who had discovered the answer, but the smile of someone who had waited a very long time for his opponent to ask the wrong question.

”The killer is the owner of this palace.”