Fear had crept into Rio's veins like a venomous snake, tightening them with every passing moment. Never, not even in his past life as Christopher Ryde in the modern world, had he experienced such terror. For someone reincarnated from a world of comfort and logic, this situation felt like a nightmare growing more real by the second. The presence of X, that white, faceless god, had driven his mind to the brink of madness. Its threat, like an invisible rope around his neck, choked the breath from him. One wrong step, one misplaced word, and everything—his family, his life—would be crushed in that creature's grasp.
Rio was so terrified that his body no longer felt like his own. His power, the icy force slumbering within him, awakened without his will. A cold, searing wave surged from his fingertips, slowly spreading through the room. The stone floor beneath his feet cracked, a thin layer of ice forming over it, but Rio didn't even notice. His mind was locked in X's prison; that threat, that ominous voice, pounded against his skull like a hammer. His silver eyes widened, unblinking, staring at some unseen point, his face a mask of dread and helplessness.
He clutched the pillow so tightly in his hands that his nails dug into the fabric. After a few minutes, he realized that the ice had swallowed the pillow, turning it into a brittle, frozen shard. He looked around in panic. Half his room was encased in ice; the walls were covered with white, shimmering streaks, and his breath turned to vapor in the air. But the sight only deepened his fear. In his mind, he screamed:
"I have to be strong! I have to stop this!"
But his voice was lost within him.
With trembling legs, he stumbled toward the small mirror in the corner of the room. He saw his reflection: a small boy with disheveled white hair and eyes that glinted with terror. He raised his hand and slapped his face hard. Once, twice, three times. Each strike came with a silent scream:
"Be strong! Don't be afraid! If you do what it says, nothing will happen!"
But deep down, he knew these were just lies to calm himself. X was a god, a being beyond comprehension, unstoppable. The thought that it could take everything from him—his father, his mother, his sisters—at any moment was a dagger tearing through his heart.
Yet soon, that fear began to give way to a burning hatred of himself. He gripped the mirror's frame tightly and stared into his reflection. His eyes, now red with rage and terror, With all his strength, he shouted:
"Be strong! You have to be strong!"
His voice echoed through the room, but it only reminded him of his weakness. He squeezed the mirror harder, his fingers whitening from the pressure, the veins in his hands bulging like ropes beneath his skin. He was just a five-year-old boy, a frail body with a mind full of secrets and fear. He was powerless.
Suddenly, he let go of the mirror and began pacing the room like a caged animal. He plunged his hands into his white hair, yanking at it violently. His breaths came fast and ragged, and with every step, endless questions surged through his mind:
"What does X want? Why doesn't it want me to tell the truth? What is it after in this world? Is it connected to the other two gods, or is it alone?"
The questions buzzed in his head like wasps, with no answers in sight. His legs gave out, and he slumped against the wall, pressing his hands to his head as if he could smother the chaos.
At that moment, a familiar, cold voice filled his ears. It was like a whisper from the past, a murmur of death. He turned to the mirror in terror. His reflection was no longer his own. Christopher Ryde, his past self, stood there. But this Chris wasn't an ordinary human. His face was gaunt and pale, with dragon-like eyes of icy blue that gleamed like cold blades in the dark. His hair was wild, and a sinister, terrifying smirk curled his lips. His body seemed made of shadow and ice, with veins of blue light pulsing beneath his skin. His presence made the room colder, as if turning Rio's breaths to frost.
Chris spoke, his voice like a knife scraping stone: "Pathetic, Rio."
Frozen with fear, Rio whispered, "This is impossible…"
But Chris let out a short, menacing laugh. "Yeah, impossible that a useless coward like you, a selfish brat who only cared about himself, would get a second chance. But apparently, it's possible."
His blue eyes locked onto Rio, twin abysses pulling him in. Rio couldn't breathe. Was this a nightmare or reality? Chris, his past, now stood before him like a terrifying specter, mocking his weakness.
Rio collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, trembling in terror. He scrambled backward with limbs that no longer felt like his own, pointing a shaking finger at the mirror. His voice, broken with fear and disbelief, whispered:
"Impossible… You're dead. The old me is dead!"
Chris, the sinister reflection of his past, sneered. His lips twisted into a cruel smirk as he said mockingly, "Don't act like you're any different, Rio. You're still me. You still only care about yourself. You pretend to care about your family and your new life, but we both know deep down, nothing matters to you but you."
Rio pressed his hands hard against his ears, as if he could block out the words. "I don't want to hear it!"
His scream echoed weakly through the room, but Chris continued mercilessly: "Look where your selfishness has gotten you. What has your attempt to change brought you? You're trapped in a world where death lurks around every corner. A lawless place where only absolute power matters."
His icy blue eyes pierced Rio like daggers, each word seeping into his mind like poison.
Rio gripped his ears tighter and shouted, "I don't want to hear it!"
But Chris, with an arrogant sneer and a venomous gaze, said:
"Did you think this second chance would make your life better? Look around, Rio. Your life's a joke. You have everything, yet it's like you have nothing. You could've gotten close to people once, but you pushed them away. Now that you want them near, they run from you."
Fear and rage twisted together like a storm inside Rio. Vague images of his past life—loneliness, selfishness, mistakes—paraded before his eyes like ghosts. With an animalistic roar, he leapt up, grabbed the small chair in the corner with trembling hands, and snarled, "Shut up!"
He hurled the chair at the mirror with all his might. The glass shattered with a deafening crash, shards scattering across the floor like sharp rain. But his terror doubled when he saw that in every broken piece, Chris's reflection still lived. Dozens of Chrises, with those deadly blue eyes and sinister smirks, stared back at him from the fragments.
Chris was furious now. His voice thundered through the room: "What did you expect to happen? Did you think shaking hands with X would bring you endless happiness? Look at the world and the family it's thrown you into! A chaotic mess of a world, a family where one suspects you, one hates you, and the rest only pity you!"
Rio screamed hysterically, "Shut up! Shut up!"
He stomped on the mirror shards like a madman, crushing them into finer dust. But Chris wouldn't relent: "You abandoned your real parents, and now you fool yourself with this fake family? You don't belong in this world, Rio. We both know it."
Chris's voice rang in Rio's ears like a death knell, each word a barb sinking into his heart.
Driven beyond control, Rio smashed the mirror pieces one by one until only one remained. Before he could destroy it, Chris, with a cold stare and a voice from another realm, said:
"Rio, you know this is just the beginning. You can't change. You never could, and you can't now."
With a scream that tore his throat, Rio crushed the final shard and fell to his knees. Like a lunatic, he shrieked, clawing at his face with violent desperation. Red, painful lines streaked across his skin as blood welled beneath his fingers. His wide eyes brimmed with tears and terror. He screamed and scratched until, at last, he collapsed, darkness swallowing him whole.
The next morning, he opened his eyes in confusion. He was still in the corner of his room, clutching the frozen pillow like a shield. He looked around in panic. The room was intact. No ice, no broken mirror shards, no trace of last night's madness. He glanced at the mirror—whole and flawless, as if it had never shattered. His breath caught. Had it all been a dream? But the fear and pain rooted in his core felt more real than anything. Chris, X, and those ominous words still lurked in his mind, and Rio didn't know if this was the end of the nightmare or the start of something worse.
After a while, Rio pulled himself together. His mind was still tangled in that sinister dream, but the faint sunlight filtering through the window dragged him back to reality. Suddenly, he noticed the time—he was late! He scrambled to his feet, tossing the frozen pillow aside, and changed his clothes with shaking hands. His heart raced, not just from the rush but from the shadow of fear still lurking within him. He ran toward the palace courtyard, his footsteps echoing on the cold stone tiles, his breaths turning to mist in the crisp morning air.
When he reached the courtyard, he stopped, panting. His father, William, was there, standing beside Elian. The newly risen sun glinted off William's red hair, casting his face like a statue of stone and fire. Rio approached with weary, trembling steps, trying to steady his breathing as he said in a hoarse, exhausted voice:
"Sorry, Father, for being late."
William took a deep breath. His red eyes fixed on Rio, cold and impenetrable, like a frozen lake in winter. With a voice that seemed to rise from his depths, he said, "It's alright, my son. A warrior can never be perfect."
His tone was stern but not devoid of warmth. He paused for a moment, then turned to Rio with that same imposing, icy expression and continued, "Very well, let's begin."
The air was still cool, the morning breeze gently rustling Elian's robe. Rio stood there, still catching his breath, but his father's gaze grounded him. The terror of the previous night lingered like a shadow in the corner of his mind, but now it was time to face something new—a beginning he couldn't predict.