Chapter 11: Constellation Trial (2)

Without waiting, the clones with swords charged at him. Compared to the real one, they were slower—making it easier to avoid their attacks—but it didn't make the situation any less overwhelming when he was faced with ten of them.

All he could do was try to fend them off, blocking multiple slashes aimed at him. Cuts covered his body, and he panted so hard it felt like his lungs would give out. His legs trembled, his arms ached—his body was on the verge of collapsing.

Was it just him, or were their attacks getting faster and stronger?

One of the clones' swords suddenly smashed into the ground near him with such force that dirt and rocks flew into the air. If that had hit him... no, he didn't even want to think about it.

"Well then, time to run," he thought bitterly. "A wise man once said, when in a pinch, the best course of action is to flee."

His legs moved before his mind caught up, stumbling toward a narrow alley he recognized. This was the old convenience store near his house, now barely standing, its shattered sign swinging in the wind.

He ducked inside, pressing his back against the crumbling wall. His breaths were ragged, each one scraping against his chest like broken glass. The clones didn't follow immediately, but he could hear their footsteps—slow and deliberate—echoing through the ruins.

"Think, Tilus. Think," he whispered to himself. His eyes darted around, scanning for anything useful—a broken shelf, debris, anything to buy time.

This place… he had come here countless times, grabbing snacks on late nights. Now it felt like a graveyard, every shadow threatening to come alive. He peeked through the shattered glass, spotting the clones pacing the street.

He had to move before they found him.

There were 20 minutes left. As a sword swung above his head, he thought it was over. Then it came to him—like a vision. In it, he saw himself dodging the enemy's attack and countering with a precise strike, cutting off the clone's head.

His eyes snapped back to the present just as the sword came down. He repeated the movements he had seen, and to his shock, he cut the clone down. The visions kept coming, showing him how to take down each enemy until he defeated the last one.

But as the final clone fell, a searing pain shot through his eyes, unlike anything he had ever felt. Blood dripped from them, and the world around him blurred.

"So this is the price of foresight, huh?" he muttered through gritted teeth, clutching his head.

Then, from the corner of his blurry vision, he noticed a shadowy figure moving toward him.

"Damn it, I can barely open my eyes now," he thought, raising a hand to signal the figure to stop. To his surprise, it did.

"Or not," he cursed, as it grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up. "I'm not a rag doll, you bastard!"

He tried to lift his sword, but the figure stared directly into his eyes. Everything went white.

When Tilus came to his senses, he was no longer in the ruins. The air carried the scent of home—cooking, warmth, and comfort. Blinking, he saw the blurry outline of a familiar kitchen.

"What's wrong, Tilus? Lost in thought?" a gentle voice asked.

He froze. That voice… It was her.

"Mom?" he croaked, turning to see her by the stove, smiling as she prepared a meal.

"Yes, honey? You're acting strange today," she said softly.

Tilus stuttered, "No, nothing." What could he possibly say?

"But we've got your favorite meal today—the family's famous steak."

"Steak?" he echoed, bewilderment flickering across his features.

"Yep, go get your dad; he's probably watching TV in the karaoke room."

Almost on autopilot, Tilus moved toward the room. Everything felt… strange. Hadn't he just been fighting clones? Seeing visions? Perhaps he should stop reading those novels, he mused silently.

"Dad, dinner's ready," he called, shaking his father awake as the TV droned in the background.

"Huh, okay. That was a good nap," his father mumbled as he sat up.

As Tilus turned to leave, footsteps echoed from upstairs—his older brother, just rousing from a nap.

"What's up, chumpy Tilus?" his brother teased.

"Cut it out," Tilus muttered, irritation lacing his tone.

"Tilus, what are you standing there for? Sit down at the table," Mom called.

"Oh, right." Tilus sat, and she placed before him a plate piled with steak, a sunny-side-up egg, pork paste, cucumber, and bread.

As they ate, tears suddenly welled in Tilus's eyes. The familiar taste and the warm atmosphere of a family meal overwhelmed him.

"What's wrong?" Mom asked, concerned in her voice.

"Nothing... but this is something I wished for—a fragment of a past that vanished long ago," he admitted, his voice trembling. In his mind, he cursed the illusion: this fabricated family, the perfect meal, the gentle laughter—a reality meticulously recreated by that mysterious force known as "The One Who Defies Fate."

She had recreated everything—the cozy atmosphere, the food, the semblance of a happy family—exactly as he had once longed for, a place where he could shrug off his burdens and simply be a child. But he knew it was fake. His brother had moved out; family dinners were rare and far from the tender moments he now witnessed. The memories he cherished were tainted by arguments and money troubles. This was merely an illusion of what he never truly had.

Those happier days were long gone, especially after that night—the night he had said things he shouldn't have.

He recalled his last phone call with his father before the disaster called "Stage" began:

"I'm not coming home, Dad," he had declared.

"Why? What's keeping you there? What trouble did you get into?" his father had pleaded.

"I'm fine. I've got to go," he had replied, and that was the final sound of his father's voice.

A week before Stage 1, when he mustered the courage to call Mom, he had asked in a hushed tone, "Mom, how is Dad doing?"

"He's... managing. But he's not well. The finances..." she had trailed off. "Never mind. Just focus on what you need to do, son."

"Don't worry, Mom. I'll figure something out. I promise," he had vowed.

As the idyllic dining scene flickered before him, Tilus clenched his fists and muttered, "That's why I won't get stuck here. I've got somewhere to go, damn it."

In an instant, the illusion melted away, and his eyes snapped open to the cold reality: a sword pressed against his neck and the familiar, older face of the being that had been chasing him.

"You should have stayed in that dream forever," the shadow figure said in a cold tone.

"Hah, so you can talk after all," Tilus retorted, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "That was a sweet dream, but too bad—I'm awake."

"If you refuse the dream, then how about experiencing fear instead?" came the reply.

There were five minutes left. Five minutes—Tilus thought as he raised his sword. But in a blur of motion, his right arm was severed, the blade clattering to the ground.

Blinding, searing pain erupted through him. "Why? Why do I have to go through this?" he screamed internally. X, what are you planning? What do you want from me?

He tried to run, but the shadow was relentless, slicing through his legs next.

Now only four minutes remain.

"I'm going to die here, aren't I?" he thought bitterly, crawling desperately toward his fallen sword. His fingers brushed the hilt as he turned just in time to see the blade plunge into his chest.

"So... this is the end?" Memories surged—regret, shame, every negative emotion swallowing him whole.

A chorus of voices mocked him:

"You are a disgrace. You can't even hold a proper job. Where do you think your life is going?"

"You're a failure. No one will ever love you."

"You've hidden so much from your family that you're ashamed to go home."

A mocking laughter echoed, "Hahaha."

The countdown began:

10... 9... 8...

"I'm sorry, Mom, Dad... I'm sorry I couldn't make you proud," he thought in a heart-wrenching whisper.

6... 5... 4...

Everything turned cold and numb.

3... 2... 1...

A disembodied voice then echoed in the emptiness: "You have failed the bonus Stage: 'Constellation Trial.' All injuries will be reversed back to normal."