Chapter 3: God of Mirrors

A young man stood beyond the veil of silvered glass. Not just handsome—no, that word would be a disservice to the overwhelming beauty he possessed. His presence defied human standards. Ethereal, otherworldly, as if sculpted from divine intention itself. Even the most exquisite beings from Christ's original world would pale in comparison.

Christ—no longer just "Ronald"—had begun to remember. Faint glimpses, fragments of something far grander than what his false life had offered. He was more, much more. Yet the realization came not with relief, but with confusion, a cascade of questions drowning his mind.

What had happened in the Academic City?

Why was he here?

Why couldn't he remember who he truly was until now?

But those questions would have to wait. Now, he was being watched. Or rather, worshipped.

The figure before him was small—youthful, delicate, bearing soft white wings sprouting from his back like those in an old myth. He knelt, trembling. His voice faltered with reverence and fear.

"Uhm... a-are you a god? Have you come to deliver a Divine Message...?"

Christ's expression did not change. He did not blink—because, in fact, he had no eyelids. His face was an enigma, as though it had been carved without the unnecessary parts of a human visage. No eyebrows, no pupils, no clear emotion.

And yet, he radiated authority. Silence gathered around him like gravity.

The winged boy dared not speak again. He was already overwhelmed by the pressure—the presence—that emanated from the figure beyond the mirror. To him, this was a being of prophecy. His ancestors had always said that one day, a divine spirit would emerge from the sacred mirror. And now, that day had come.

But Christ? He was simply observing.

The other part of "Donald"—the vessel he now occupied—seemed to whisper instincts into him, a sense of caution and calculation. It helped him think, to remain detached, to perform. And perform he did.

If he was to survive in this unknown realm, he had to act the part the boy expected. A god. A superior entity. Because anything less might expose him—or worse, reduce his influence before he even understood this new world.

Finally, he moved.

His voice emerged like a wind that echoed through sacred temples—calm, measured, ancient.

"Who are you?"

The boy's head jerked up, startled. Then, as if struck by divine judgment, he lowered his eyes again, trembling.

"I-I am Uso... a member of the Oas... It is... a great honor to meet you, o divine one."

His voice was barely audible. He bowed so low his forehead touched the polished floor. Uso was not just being polite. He believed—truly—that he stood before a celestial being.

Christ exhaled quietly. Inwardly, he analyzed the boy's tone, his choice of words. "Oas"? A tribe? A nation? Worshippers of the mirror?

Interesting.

And advantageous.

"Speak then, Uso of the Oas."

"Why have you summoned me?"

The tone was neither hostile nor warm. It was distant, almost bored. A voice one might expect from a being who had lived beyond time, and for whom mortal concerns were fleeting shadows.

Uso stiffened. He was afraid. And in that fear, he was honest.

"M-my people have always revered the Sacred Mirror. For generations, we believed it housed a sleeping god. We passed down a ritual… a rite of summoning. Today, I attempted it for the first time. I... I did not truly expect it to work. Please forgive me if I have disturbed your rest…"

Christ tilted his head slowly, as if contemplating whether to smite the boy or let him continue speaking. Of course, he was only playing the part. But his face, his body, the very design of this realm—made it easy to appear divine. There were no eyes in his face, and yet Uso trembled as if he were being stared through.

"So you called upon the mirror."

Uso nodded desperately, not daring to raise his head.

"And what did you hope to find?"

"I... I hoped to ask a question. But now, I realize how foolish it was. I was not ready to meet one such as yourself. Please—if I have angered you, punish me, but spare my family. Spare my village."

Christ remained silent for a moment. Let the fear build.

Then he spoke, each word slow and cold, like drops of divine judgment.

"Mortal."

"I was not angry. Until now."

Uso fell to his knees, trembling. "I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"You summon a god from beyond the Mirror to ask a question. Then tremble in silence when that god appears? Do you think my time is meaningless? Do you believe divinity is at your beck and call?"

"N-no! I swear I didn't—"

"Be silent."

The command silenced even the air.

Uso collapsed fully, forehead pressing to the floor. Tears began to form.

Christ's tone shifted—ever so slightly. Not warmth, but amusement. A theatrical pause.

"Very well. You are lucky, Uso of the Oas."

"Your ignorance has amused me."

Uso exhaled, barely believing his ears.

"Leave this place. Do not speak my name, for you do not know it. And do not summon me again unless your reason outweighs your life."

Christ raised his hand slowly, and the world around him began to dim. The light of the mirror dulled. His body began to fade, pixel by pixel, fragment by fragment, like a dream vanishing with the morning sun.

"Now go."

"And do not waste the attention of a god."

Then—silence. The mirror's glow faded, and the glass became ordinary once again.

Uso remained still on the ground for several long seconds, chest heaving. When he finally looked up, the divine figure was gone. Only his own reflection stared back.

"…I… I survived," he whispered, as cold sweat trickled down his neck.

---

Elsewhere, far beyond the mirror, Christ sat back in a strange chair within the boundless library he had appeared in earlier. The echo of Uso's awe still rang faintly in the space behind the glass.

He had played the part well.

More than that—he had learned something important. The mirror responded to his will. He could appear, disappear, speak from it at will. His mind—sharpened now beyond its past fog—was already calculating the possibilities.

They worship me.

They fear me.

And they do not know I'm bluffing.

That alone made him smile.

But now, it was time to focus.

He needed answers. And this place—this endless library—might hold them. If this was connected to the Academic City, or his memories, or even his own fractured identity, then it was here that he would uncover the truth.

He rose, walking among the shelves. The titles of the books shimmered, unreadable at first, but the more he looked, the more he understood. Languages he had never studied became comprehensible. Concepts foreign to him now felt intuitive.

This place wasn't just a library.

It was a temple of knowledge.

And within it, Christ would discover who he truly was.

In this world, cards are more than mere tools or ornaments—they are the foundation of reality itself. Or so most believe.

***

Everything that exists, every phenomenon, every law and every impossibility, is governed, echoed, or enabled by cards. There are Flame Cards that ignite the air, Gravity Cards that bend the world beneath your feet, and stranger still—cards that call upon memories, warp time, or invoke sorrow itself. They are not magic, nor technology, but something in between. A logic of existence condensed into form.

To wield a card is to tie one's soul to it.

But this binding is not without risk. One does not simply hold a card and expect obedience. The card must accept you as well. If the body is too weak to withstand the bond, the best outcome is a painless death. The worst? A transformation into a monstrosity, a being whose soul has been shattered and warped, rendered unrecognizable by the very card it sought to control.

Thus, humans began categorizing cards. They established the Star System: each card is assigned a star value, from one to fifty. The higher the number, the more complex the card's capabilities and the greater the burden on the wielder. But even this system is not perfect. A well-forged twenty-star card may outclass a sloppy thirty-star one. Still, the difference in power is typically exponential.

Humans, to adapt, developed their own form of evolution. It is called Ascension. The process allows them to withstand more cards, bind with more stars, and touch the edge of divinity. But to ascend is no simple feat.

At the lowest level, a human can bind with a single card. No more. And even then, only if their body is ready. Training, meditation, ritual discipline—all of these prepare the vessel.

But those who ascend gain new bodies. New shells capable of more. The names of these bodies are spoken only in reverence:

● Body of Purity

● Body of the Seraphim Wings

● Body of the Colored Horns

● Body of the Purple Flowers

● Body of the Blood-Red Blossoms

● Body of the Scarlet Sky and Bloom

● Body of the Eternally Blue Candle

● Body of the Three Celestials

Each grants a threshold—not merely for how many cards can be bound, but how many stars worth of power one can carry. For example, the Body of Purity may sustain a single five-star card without harm, while the Body of the Seraphim Wings might control multiple tens.

Yet even these names are not absolute.

Some cards require no binding. They function through contracts, much like tamed beasts. You summon them, strike a deal, and they serve your will. These Contract Cards are less stable, easier to steal or corrupt. But they require less of the body.

Some cards do not even resemble cards.

Some are living things. Some are weapons. Some are entire environments. And others—the rarest of all—walk, speak, and think. These sentient cards have developed civilizations of their own, and are known collectively as Tribes.

***

Christ's hand paused mid-page, eyes wide with the clarity of dawning understanding.

"So that's it... Cards are not just tools. They're a cosmological framework. A divine mechanism."

He exhaled, the breath sharp and filled with an edge of awe.

Could it be? Could even this library—this strange, shifting place of endless knowledge—be nothing more than a high-tier card? A forty-star spatial artifact, perhaps? Or higher?

No. More than that. Could he himself be a card?

Was his reincarnation... a binding?

An involuntary contract?

Christ's heartbeat quickened. He reached for another tome. Then another. Book after book spoke of the nature of Ascension, the philosophy of stars, the ethics of binding sentience. His hands trembled with the hunger of comprehension, devouring knowledge like a starving scholar.

At the edge of his thoughts, a voice whispered. Not aloud, not within the room, but buried somewhere within his deeper self. The part that was Donald. The cautious one. The skeptical one. The survivor.

Be calm. Information is power, yes. But remember why you seek it. To control, not to be controlled.

He nodded inwardly.

Christ no longer felt like an amnesiac in a strange world. He felt like a blade being sharpened. With each word, each revelation, he felt a little closer to something larger. His role was not accidental. This library was not a fluke. And Uso... Uso was only the beginning.

He turned his attention inward, reflecting on the moment before.

He had taken on the role of a god.

Uso had summoned a divinity from the mirror. And Christ had played the part perfectly. Cold, ineffable, majestic. The absence of eyes on his face, the shimmering skin, the voice that resonated more as a presence than a sound.

He had not acted. He had simply embraced a truth.

He was becoming something beyond human. And Uso believed it.

Christ stood now, slowly, placing the last book on a pedestal made of folded light. The walls of the library pulsed, as though aware of his thoughts.

"If this world runs on cards..."

He closed his eyes.

"Then I will become the deck."

Christ had already learned much, and yet it was nowhere near enough.

In this world, cards were everything. They weren't simply tools of battle or collectibles of power; they were currency, sustenance, shelter, law, history. A man could starve in a world of abundance if he lacked the right card. A woman could die without a sword, even if her hands were strong, if she didn't hold the correct attribute in card form. Cards governed all. And this truth wasn't metaphorical. It was as literal as the air around him.

" A world so bound by symbols... Perhaps freedom here is just another card, yet to be drawn," Christ mused internally.

The more he read, the more it pieced itself together: the laws of society were printed on cardstock. The archives of wars were locked behind a deck. Even meals were prepared through culinary cards, some edible, others activating consumable illusions. To live was to possess cards.

And yet, what intrigued Christ most wasn't the how. It was the why.

He wandered deeper into the silent labyrinth of the library—a cathedral of quiet obsessions and forgotten truths. With every step, he passed tomes old and new, glowing books and silent grimoires, stacked like relics from extinct gods. And then, he found a new section. Or rather, it found him.

Books that had no titles. Books that felt... alive.

Curious, he pulled one off the shelf. It was heavy—not in weight, but in presence. Opening it, he expected stories. Instead, he found a life.

Birth. Childhood. Innocence. Trauma. Love. Regret. Death.

All detailed meticulously. Too meticulously. Dates, names, thoughts. Not a tale, but a record.

Christ's fingers trembled. He grabbed another. Then another.

Every book was a person. Not about a person. A person.

As if their entire soul had been printed on paper.

It wasn't fiction.

It was existence. Bottled. Readable.

"So this is what they meant when they said knowledge is power... Here, it is also theft," he whispered.

Christ felt watched. As if hundreds of dead eyes were staring at him through parchment.

And worse—he wondered.

Is there a book about me?

He dropped the latest tome. The echo was suffocating.

"No man should read another's soul like a bedtime story. To know someone like this... it's too intimate. Too final. Not even gods should pry this deep."

He wiped his hands on his pants as if trying to remove the residue of a stranger's memories.

Then, with a deep breath, he moved on.

He refused to read another life.

Instead, he searched for something objective, impersonal. A race. A civilization. A people.

He found one.

A thick book etched in sky-blue and white, titled only with a symbol: a spiral of clouds pierced by a shard of glass.

The Oas.

And what he read... scarred him.

---

The Oas were born in the Seventh Age, children of the sky, disciples of the God of Mirrors—a deity said to have sculpted them from reflections of the heavens.

They lived above the clouds, in floating sanctuaries of light, unreachable by ground-dwellers. Their kingdom was suspended in sanctity. No evil could ascend, save for one ancient terror: the Skyriders.

The Skyriders were abominations from the Fifth Age, winged horrors birthed during the War of Crownless Suns. They fed on purity. They feasted on light. And the Oas were the brightest banquet.

But the Oas had faith. Faith in their god.

Each year, a young Oas would be sent to the edges of the kingdom, praying to be the herald of salvation. None returned. But the prayers continued.

Hope, it seemed, was their curse.

Then, a divine plan.

The God of Mirrors would choose a Receptacle—a vessel among the Oas to carry His glory.

And through this child... came annihilation.

The book described it clinically.

But Christ saw it.

As he read, images carved themselves into his mind with cruel precision. Not imagination. Visions. As if the book dragged him through it.

He saw the Receptacle awaken, eyes glinting with mirrored light.

He saw the sky burn as the sanctuaries fell.

He heard mothers screaming, trying to shield their children with wings made of hope and prayers.

He saw fathers crumbling into crystal dust.

He saw children clawing at doors that no longer opened.

He saw the Receptacle smile.

" It wasn't rage... it was peace. That's what horrified me most. That expression... "

Christ slammed the book shut, but it was too late.

He saw the aftermath.

The last survivors, crawling out from shattered clouds, bleeding feathers and sobs, only to be hunted.

Skyriders.

No mercy. No delay. Just teeth and silence.

The final scream of an entire race.

And above it all, a mirror.

Watching. Reflecting. Enjoying.

" Is this god still watching me now...?"

Christ fell to his knees. Vomit scratched at his throat but never came out. He didn't cry. He couldn't. The horror was too vast for tears.

"Books are knowledge," he whispered, trembling. "But not all knowledge is meant for man. Some truths are arsenic wrapped in ink. Some truths... devour."

He looked around the library, now less like a place of learning and more like a mausoleum.

"If every life is recorded here... where do forgotten lives go? Do they fade? Or rot in silence?"

His voice was hollow.

"If a soul is reduced to pages, is it still sacred? Or just another entry in the archive of cruelty?"

And worst of all...

What if my book is already written?

Christ stood up slowly, but the weight remained.

He would not forget the Oas. Nor the mirrored god. Nor the Receptacle.

The world was stranger and darker than he had imagined.

And he would need to be stronger, smarter, and far colder than before.

Because here, survival was not about strength.

It was about what you were willing to know.

And what you were willing to forget.