As Stefan broke free from the illusion, he noticed Tylor lying motionless on the ground. The oppressive presence lingered, weakened but still palpable. He could feel that the lingering presence seems to have weakened, but has yet to disappear. Stefan pondered and discerned that similar to his plight, Tylor might also be facing a precarious situation but is unable to gain an upper hand in that.
Stefan crouched down and realized that Tylor had sustained injuries. His hands were clenched, his body trembling—and suddenly, a tear split his clothes across the chest. Blood seeped through, dark and warm, trailing from a wound that hadn't been there moments ago.
Stefan panicked and called out to Heli, "Heli, are you there?"
Heli replied, "Yes, Host."
"Is there any way in which I can assist him?"
"Host... there is no direct way to break the illusion.."
Just then, another deep gash appeared on Tylor's thin body. Stefan stretched out his trembling hands and felt Tylor's breath, only to find that it was weakening as time passed by.
Stefan pressed a palm to his chest, willing his heartbeat to slow. "Heli," he said, his voice steadier than he felt, "think. Is there truly no way?"
Stefan heard a crackling voice, and then Heli's voice changed to a calm and composed voice.
The voice spoke, 'Host, there might be a way, but it is extremely dangerous. Would you still like to proceed with this step?'
Stefan looked at Tylor, whose rise and fall of the chest was barely visible, and resolutely nodded.
Watching silently, Heli cast a long, unreadable gaze toward Stefan and sighed—like a being ancient beyond comprehension, bound by a script now unraveling."It seems… fate can no longer follow its original path," it murmured.But perhaps… this is for the best, it thought, before beginning to speak.
.....
Inside the illusion
Tylor struggled to stand, his legs trembling under the illusion's weight. In front of him, his uncle and aunt wore the familiar masks of concern, their voices sweet with deception. He shouted, reached forward—but his younger self simply clung to them, eyes wide with misplaced trust. Tylor's voice cracked. "Don't believe them… that's not real!"
"Tylor, dear," his aunt called in a sickening sweet voice, "You don't need to fight anymore. Just give us the treasures. You're tired, aren't you? Let us help you take care of them until you are old enough to manage them."
The younger version of himself—maybe six years old—stood beside them. His tiny hands reached for hers, his face filled with trust. The sight tore something inside Tylor. That isn't you. That's not real. He tried to shout, but his voice barely rippled the air.
"You're being ungrateful again," his uncle said sharply. "We raised you. They died for you. And now you hoard what they left behind?"
Each word struck like a lash. The illusion pulsed brighter with every accusation, feeding on his guilt.
Tylor raised his hands to defend himself—and saw blood. Not illusionary this time. Real. From wounds that hadn't been there moments before.
"What? How am I bleeding? This is an illusion—right? Isn't it?"His voice cracked.
"Is this real? ...Am I real?
Then who's that... in the illusion? Isn't that supposed to be me?"
His breath quickened, mind cracking like glass under extreme pressure.
"If that's not me... then who am I?"
"WHO AM I!?"
Then—a flicker.
A cold wind swept through the illusion.
It was wrong.
In this memory, the air had always been stagnant—heavy with stillness, like a painting that never changed. But now, the wind carried something… familiar. Something real.
A voice.
"Tylor."
He turned towards the sound.
The voice was gentle—achingly gentle—but carried a thread of urgency woven into its warmth.
In the distance, a figure stood. Vague. Unfocused. Like a memory glimpsed through rippling water.
Tylor squinted, heart pounding. He knew that presence. He wanted to call out that figure but no voice came out of his mouth.
Who...? Who are you...?
But the moment he tried to grasp the image, it blurred further, slipping from recognition like a forgotten dream.
Still... he wanted to follow.
The wind sharpened—no longer just a breeze, but a current that cut through the illusion like a blade.
Tylor blinked. The memory-world wavered.
Then, with a sound like shattering glass, a jagged tear split the air before him, glowing faintly gold.
...
As soon as Stefan stepped into the illusion, the air around him turned hostile. The ground shifted beneath his feet, warping into fragments of Tylor's past—twisted, darker, corrupted. This wasn't just any illusion. It was built from Tylor's deepest traumas, magnified by an unseen malice.
"Tylor!" Stefan shouted, but his voice barely carried.
He saw Tylor—curled up, surrounded by phantoms. Every time Stefan tried to run to him, the landscape warped, dragging him away, forcing him into endless corridors of sorrow and doubt.
The illusion attacked him directly—cutting his skin, draining his strength. Blood ran down his arms, and his vision blurred.
His breath was labored, his clothes clinging to him like a second skin soaked in effort. Across his forehead, a trishul-shaped mark glowed—radiant gold, pulsing with a divine energy that didn't belong in this false world. The illusion rippled, recoiling from him like light repelling darkness.
Tylor stared, stunned. "Brother...?"
"You need to wake up, Tylor," Stefan said, voice taut. "This place is draining your life."
As he spoke, the figures of Tylor's uncle and aunt twisted. Their faces distorted—eyes hollow, mouths stretching unnaturally.
"He doesn't belong here," they hissed. "You don't need him. He wasn't even there when you truly suffered. He's not family."
Tylor faltered. Their words struck deep. The illusion twisted with his hesitation.
But then—Stefan stepped closer, ignoring the way the illusion tugged at his body, trying to dissolve him.
From his palm, he held out a small silver ring—simple, but glinting like it remembered more than this life.
Tylor's breath caught.
That ring.
He knew it.
It had belonged to his mother—a relic he had recovered in his previous life, only when he was nearly grown, only when his body was on the brink of collapse.
"This… This isn't supposed to appear now," he whispered, trembling.
"It… It only came to me when I was dying…"
"Does that mean…. This is an illusion?", whispered Tylor.
"Yes! This is an illusion!", answered Stefan firmly.
The trishul on Stefan's forehead flared brightly.
Just as the illusion began to fracture—light bleeding through the cracks like dawn breaking into nightmare—Heli's voice pierced the air, sharp and sudden.
"Host!" Heli called out, frantic. "Time is running out!"
Stefan flinched, still holding the ring toward Tylor. His trishul mark dimmed briefly under the pressure of the collapsing illusion.
"Tylor's real body is deteriorating rapidly. Ghastly wounds are appearing all over him—deep, unnatural. If he doesn't get treatment soon, he will definitely die!"
Stefan's jaw clenched, torn between staying to anchor Tylor's soul and leaving to save his body.
Heli's voice urged again, quicker, more desperate. "Host, we must go… we must go now! Save his body first—this illusion can wait! Let's leave… LET'S LEAVE…"
Then—without warning—the tone shifted.
The same voice, now strangely hollow, echoed with a distorted resonance, like multiple voices speaking over each other in fractured harmony.
"Let's leave... let's leave... leeeet's… leave…"
Each repetition grew more unsettling—not desperate now, but cold. Eerie. Mechanical. Wrong.
Stefan narrowed his eyes.
Something in that voice didn't sound like Heli anymore.
He pulled Tylor closer instead, gripping his arm. The ring between them glowed brighter, anchoring the last flicker of Tylor's fading presence.
"No," Stefan muttered. "We're not leaving without him."
And the illusion screamed in protest.
.........