Squinting her eyes, Nyxara could make out, despite the great distance, that one of the shadows was armed. Only one—that was unusual. Most shadow creatures were dangerous, but they rarely carried weapons, as if their mere presence was threat enough. Yet this one held a sword in its hands, a blade that stood out from anything Nyxara had ever seen. Something about it made her pause. It wasn’t just the weapon’s aura, not just its power, which pulsed palpably in the air even from afar. It was the sense of familiarity.

  A shiver crawled down her spine as she found herself unable to look away from the blade. It was a sword she had never seen before—and yet, she knew it. Then, realization struck her like scales falling from her eyes. The golden light of the blade, the silver hilt engraved with ancient runes, and the violet, apple-core-shaped gemstone embedded in the center—she had read about it. In one of the hidden tomes of the Infinite Library, between pages that carried the breath of other worlds. It was the Sword of Madness.

  An artifact older than memory, forged in a time when light and darkness still waged open war. According to legend, it was the only sword capable of binding madness with clarity—or with will. And now it was here. Charged. Dangerous. Ready to strike.

  And then, just as the violet core within the blade began to pulse, something unexpected happened. The key Oliver carried, hidden deep in his coat pocket, suddenly glowed brighter—as if responding. Or as if warning.

  Nyxara felt her muscles tense. Her grip on Oliver’s hand—and Coin’s on her other side—tightened. She had believed herself ready. She had trained, prepared, prayed, and cursed. But she knew: for this battle, she was on her own.

  And then the mirror began to act. The old, black-framed mirror she had owned since childhood, its origins a mystery to all. It started to rattle—in a rhythm familiar only to her. A melody she had heard in her dreams as a child, just before the nightmare began. It was as if something—or someone—wanted to break free from the mirror. She couldn’t tell.

  Her focus on the mirror was so intense that she didn’t notice the shadows thickening around them. They circled slowly, deliberately. Oliver, Coin, and she now stood at the center of a dark maelstrom of blurred silhouettes. Some barely looked human, others had no fixed shape, yet all seemed driven by a single will.

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  One shadow stood out. Tall. Taller than the rest. Its presence was heavy, oppressive. Without warning, it tore the sword—the Sword of Madness—from another shadow and raised it. The blade crackled, fully charged, ready to strike Nyxara down with all its might.

  Nyxara closed her eyes. There was nothing left to do. She had tried everything. Her strength was already drained from suppressing the Aura of Decay. She clung to the hands of the two people she trusted most. They were her last anchor.

  Then—impact. A sound that didn’t belong to the blade. Not a slash, but a dull thud, followed by a groan. When Nyxara opened her eyes, she saw what had happened: another shadow had thrown itself into the attack, shoving the swordsman aside. The blade missed its mark—and instead sliced through Oliver’s pants pocket. A bright, pulsing light spilled out.

  “The key…,” Oliver murmured, his voice weak, almost toneless. His eyes, so full of hope just moments ago, slowly closed.

  “No…,” Nyxara whispered. But before she could react, Coin turned to her. Her voice was calm. Almost ironic. “Tell her… she could’ve written it better.”

  Nyxara frowned. Tears streamed down her face. “Who?”

  Coin’s smile was pained but sincere. “The author…”

  And then she, too, was gone.

  Silence.

  Nyxara stood alone. Surrounded by shadows that laughed, danced, sang in bizarre rhythms. Their voices sounded as if spoken through hundreds of throats at once—distorted, unnatural, inhuman.

  Her knees buckled. For the first time in years, she felt utterly powerless. And with that powerlessness came something else—something she had suppressed for years: the Aura of Decay and Fear. It wasn’t a controllable ability. It was a manifestation of her deepest emotions. If she didn’t suppress it, everything around her would crumble.

  And yet—Coin and Oliver were dissolving. But not as they would have under her aura. No decay. No slow crumbling. Just a pure, clean vanishing.

  Illusions.

  Nyxara gasped. It wasn’t real. Not her loss. Not yet. And that hope was like a spark in a world of darkness. A spark that gave her new strength.

  But then—another shift. The world around her disintegrated. This time, not because of her, but because of something else. The ground vanished. The shadows screamed—or laughed—or both. It was impossible to tell. Everything turned pitch black. No outlines, no shapes. Just emptiness.

  Only two things remained.

  A gate. Enormous, ancient, with patterns Nyxara recognized though she had never been there. It was the entrance—or exit—of this place. And the glowing fragments of the Truth Key. The once-artifact, destroyed but not erased.

  Nyxara knelt, picking up a piece of the key. It felt warm, as if alive. It reminded her. Of her task. Of her hope. Of the seven artifacts, six of which she still needed.

  One last look at the gate.

  One last look at the void.

  And then—a step forward.