At that moment, the clone's voice echoed across the hall, laced with amusement.
"You know, it's terribly rude to ignore your surroundings. One day... that kind of carelessness might cost you your life."
---
Morca said nothing, but his silence was telling. His gaze drifted toward the clone— not in defiance, but in quiet admission. Words weren't necessary. His expression alone revealed that he had accepted the truth, no matter how reluctant he was to embrace it.
A breath escaped him, slow and deliberate, as he quelled the remnants of his temper. Then, steady and composed, he asked, "What happened to my eyepatch?"
Though he already suspected the answer, he asked anyway. Sometimes the act of questioning anchored reality more firmly than assumption ever could.
The clone scoffed lightly. "Isn't it obvious? It melted away. How could something so feeble hope to contain the Oblivion Eye? You've spent so long hiding it— unknowingly, perhaps— but now that it's awakened, everything will change. What you once veiled in darkness will demand recognition."
Morca did not reply. He simply waited, eyes locked on the clone, anticipating what would come next.
"I've been watching you," the clone continued. "The way you wield your skills—it's crude. Shallow. There's no depth to your technique. Just surface movements and borrowed instincts. Let's change that. We'll begin with theory— starting with your unique skill: Blank."
Morca, sensing the gravity behind the clone's voice, pushed aside his distractions. He focused, letting his mind settle into stillness.
"Tell me," the clone asked, voice low and deliberate, "did you ever think Blank skill was more than just a trick to vanish into shadows?"
The question stirred something inside Morca. That had always been its use— disappearing from sight, escaping an enemy's reach. It had served him well in battle, a reliable tactic. But now, the question lingered in his thoughts like an itch beneath the skin.
He recalled the description of the skill; "You are there, yet not there. Grants the authority to enter a state of total calmness and tranquility."
He had never questioned it. But now, those words echoed differently. You are there, yet not there. What did that truly mean?
The clone waited patiently, observing. When Morca looked up, silently seeking clarity, the clone stepped forward and spoke.
"Let's begin with the phrase 'You are there.' Right now, I stand before you. You can see me, sense my presence, even reach out and touch me. But what happens when we shift to the next part: *'Yet not there'? What if I told you that, in that moment, you cease to exist within this dimension?"
The realization hit Morca like a wave.
"In the Blank state, you don't just vanish... you exit. You step into the shadow dimension, blending into the very molecules of darkness suspended in the air. You are not invisible… you are absent. Undetectable. Untouchable. Unreachable by ordinary means. You are, quite literally, not there."
The clone paused to let the weight of those words settle.
"As for the tranquility and calmness," he continued, "it's self explained, that's the key to crossing over. It's what brought you here to your unique domain, after all. A door between the reality you know and the one you've yet to comprehend."
Morca stood still, his mind spinning with new understanding. What he once thought was a stealth technique was something far more profound— a passageway, a shift in dimensional existence.
"I'll stop there for now," said the clone, stepping back. "There are things words cannot explain. You must uncover them for yourself... through battle, through experience. And someday, you won't need tranquility as a trigger. You'll move freely between the veils. But that day is far off."
Morca absorbed every word, the revelations changing the very foundation of his thinking.
"Now," the clone said, "let's move on to the second of your unique skills: Oblivion Blade."
Morca raised a brow. "Isn't that one simple enough? 'Sever anything that possesses life with a single precise slash, bringing an absolute end.' One strike, one kill?"
"You're not entirely wrong," the clone admitted, "but you're far from right."
He stepped closer, his voice growing darker.
"Yes, the blade ends life in one clean strike. But its true horror lies in this... it doesn't merely kill. It erases. It leaves nothing behind. No spirit. No soul. No echoes. Death by the Oblivion Blade is the absolute end. Beyond rebirth. Beyond reincarnation. Beyond transmigration. Beyond anything you can comprehend."
A cold chill traced Morca's spine.
"Such a skill…" he whispered, voice tight. "They say death is rest. A new circle. But if there's no path beyond that… no cycle… what does that make death?"
"An annihilation," the clone replied without hesitation.
And then, as if striking the final blow, the clone said, "You, Morca... you weren't reborn. You weren't reincarnated. And you didn't transmigrate."
Morca staggered as if struck.
"What…?" The word escaped him in a whisper. Then, louder, shaking, "That's not possible. I died. I remember it... the Battle of Ascension. My body fell, my breath ceased… I died. And then I woke up here, on Eden. How is that not transmigration?"
The clone turned, walking toward the side of the hall. He reached for something intangible, as if the truth hovered just beyond physical reach.
"Your will isn't strong enough to bear the weight of the concept," he said quietly. "Ask again when your will has matured."
Morca clenched his fists. "Then tell me— how strong must it be?"
The clone didn't hesitate. "Limited Paragon."
Morca's breath caught in his throat.
"That's the fifth rank of supernatural experts," the clone added.
A grimace crossed Morca's face. He had only just broken through. He was nowhere near that level. To learn the truth of his own existence, he would need to scale an insurmountable peak.
"How frustrating…" he muttered, drawing in a deep breath to calm the fire building in his chest.
"Ah, before I forget," the clone added, "you skipped a cultivation stage during your last breakthrough. You've reached the Silver Rain stage, but your core is unstable. Solidify your foundation before pressing onward. If not, it'll become a burden that haunts your future progress."
Morca nodded slowly, accepting the advice. Strength without control was no strength at all.
"Next time, there will be no more theoretical lectures," the clone said. "We'll refine your abilities through combat."
"Fine by me," Morca replied, then added, "One thing remains— you haven't explained Crimson Moon Thread."
The clone paused, eyes narrowing. "That one… I have no connection to. You'll need to study it on your own. Perhaps, after seeing it in use, I'll have something to say."
Morca smirked, a rare flicker of pride on his lips. At last, something that is mine alone. A strange emotion welled within him. Since meeting the clone, he had felt like a shadow of himself... facing a mirror that was stronger, faster, more complete. But now, he held something that the mirror did not.
And though he couldn't defeat the clone yet—yet—he knew it was only a matter of time.
His path was set. He would rise. He would reach the peak.
He would break every limit, scatter every shackle, and stand unvanquished in the heavens, in the abyss, and in the Oblivion Realm.