by IMERPUS RELUR
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The room didn't shift. The world didn't tremble. And yet, IMER felt it.
Something was watching him again.
But this time, it wasn't the system.
It was himself.
He stood before a mirror that hadn't been there seconds ago—fractured, streaked with crimson. A thousand versions of himself blinked back. Some screamed. Some smiled. Some didn't move at all.
Only one spoke.
> "You think rewriting sin makes you holy?"
"You're just replacing lies with prettier lies."
IMER stepped closer.
> "Who are you?" he asked.
The mirror self grinned, crooked and weary.
> "I'm the part you discarded. The heresy inside the rewrite. The you who remembered."
One of the reflections lifted its hand. Across the glass, the same sin mark burned—but inverted. A reversed glyph. A loop that folded into itself.
> "This is the price," it said.
"The deeper you rewrite, the further from truth you stray."
The glass rippled. One shard cracked and cut across IMER's cheek.
Not deep—but enough.
Blood fed the glyph. The mirror burned with red light. And the version inside it began to laugh.
Then whisper.
> "Tell me, Rewrite King… how many of your sins were never yours?"
The mirror shattered.
When IMER opened his eyes again, the room was gone.
But the laughter followed.