Alicia had watched Ling’s entire match, eyes like cold mirrors on a storm. She didn’t know why Arthas walked away, but one thing rang clear: Ling’s attacks hit him like rain on iron, barely leaving marks, and a few of his words cut her core like winter knives, nearly breaking her.

She wanted to go comfort her, heart swelling like hot steam in a glass. Before she could move, Rafi slipped in like a swift breeze. Alicia hesitated, cooled her temper like quenching steel, and turned back toward the arena; right now, charging in felt like stepping onto thin ice.

In the next bout, Alicia fought half-awake, mind a foggy lake. She stepped in once and hammered the mage clean off the stage like a thunderclap rolling a tree. A mage couldn’t beat an S‑rank melee fighter, not in this kind of weather.

On normal days, she’d hold back, mercy like a sheathed blade, leaving space for the other side to keep face. Today, with Ling’s shadow filling her mind like night tide, she didn’t hold back at all.

As for the next two matches, Ling, Rafi, and Alicia didn’t even look, their gazes shuttered like closed windows. Who won or lost meant nothing; to be honest, they had no heart left to step back in.

“Alright, folks, tomorrow’s the final—five-way free-for-all, only one winner.” The announcer’s voice rang like a brass bell across dusk.

With that sign-off, the day’s battles ended in a blur, like a curtain dropping in a windstorm.

Night fell, and a gorgeously dressed house stood in the black like a lit lantern on an ink sea. Ling had bought it with money earned by her own strange methods; she visited whenever, calling it her secret base, a quiet island in the dark tide.

Now, Ling stood naked beneath the showerhead, skin like porcelain under winter rain. She let icy water drum her delicate body, hoping cold would clear the fog in her chest; yet her inner storm didn’t thin, churning like clouded rivers.

Ling’s Reflection

So… did I ruin someone’s life? The question hung like a blade against my throat.

Before she arrived, this world had someone called Yufan Ling, a name carved like a seal on jade.

She should’ve enjoyed invincible power, free as a hawk above clouds. I stole it like a thief in moonlight. I’m useless, yet I took what wasn’t mine, and she lost everything. Worse, I buried the endless talent of this body like seeds under stone. Do I deserve any of it?

My small, childlike hand lifted, and Script bloomed in my palm like a dark flower. Along with it came that chain, a line of frost glinting in the dim.

The book appeared when I did, a twin shadow under one moon. That chain startled me back then like a snake’s sudden hiss. Usually it behaves; if I don’t want it, it doesn’t show. But now, as it crawls back into sight, it feels cold as grave metal.

I stroked the chain; it didn’t bite or tighten, but it wouldn’t come off, fused like winter steel to bone. If it’s part of me, then this chill might be my companion for life.

Following the chain, my hand touched the book’s center, where a strange gem sat like a trapped star. Without thinking, I poured mana into it, a moth to a gleam. The gem twinkled, then white light spilled like fresh snow, and sleep surged over me like a tide.

…

Where… is this place? The question rose like mist over a pale shore.

Confusion first, I pushed myself up, limbs heavy like sand-soaked cloth.

Wait, what’s happening? Alarm beat in my chest like a drum.

I stared at my hands—adult male hands, rough bark where silk used to be. The same hands that had lived with me for eighteen years, old roads under new sky.

“Child, you’re awake?” A woman’s voice echoed like a call in a cave—no, exactly my voice, a mirror speaking.

“Who’s there?” My gaze cut the dark like knives.

“Ling, you’re awake.” “Ling.” “Ling.” “Ling.” More voices, all identical, fluttered in like a flock of crows, wings scratching my ears.

“Stop it. I’m not Ling. I’m not. I’m a failure, just noise. Don’t buzz at me.” My words cracked like ice under a boot.

Being mocked by my own voice isn’t funny; it rasped my nerves like sandpaper on glass.

The voices didn’t stop; they multiplied, waves hammering a cliff until pain bloomed in my skull like a rotten fruit.

“I said shut up! I’m not Yufan Ling!” My shout struck like a single thunderclap, scattering the flock. Silence fell, a lake finally still.

Maybe the voice carried a sly streak, hiding thorns under silk. Just as I breathed, a gentle tone rose again, and I jolted; a single strand of hair sprang up like a startled cat’s tail.

“Child, why deny it? If you aren’t Ling, then who is Ling?” Her question drifted like a falling leaf, and my fright melted back into loss and guilt, a chill settling like dew.

“How could I be that kind of person? I’m so incompetent, so small. No way I’m that person.” My confidence shrank like a candle in wind.

Maybe I didn’t notice, but my words were full of envy, eyes chasing a distant star named Yufan Ling.

“Is that so? So you aren’t Yufan Ling. Then who are you?” The mirror asked the face, still water waiting for a ripple.

“I… who am I?” My name slipped like water through fingers.

“Right, who are you?” The question beat again and again, a drum across a long field.

“I… who was I?” Since becoming Yufan Ling, I threw away eighteen years like old letters. I tossed the part that knew myself, yet kept the thorns of misfortune. Bright stones gone, cuts still in my palm.

Bad stayed, good left; in every way, I am a failure, a broken compass spinning. Now I don’t even know who I am—how ironic, a bitter smile like iron tea.

My silence felt expected; the voice softened into a lighthouse in fog. “Go find it… I hope you won’t stay lost.”

Her words slipped away, and my head swam, the dream snapping like a string. I woke back in my bathroom, water whispering like rain on tiles.

My hands were again small and delicate, silk fitting the bone, and that first-sight familiarity returned like a familiar scent.

So, why do these hands feel familiar even at first glance? So, who am I—Yufan Ling, or the self I threw away? Twin shadows under one moon, and I stand between them.

Has all my pride always belonged to someone else? Am I just a fox borrowing a tiger’s roar, or the tiger itself under the pelt? Who am I?

Bang, bang, bang! The knocking broke my thoughts like stones skimming a still pond. Strange—no one should know this house. Who could it be?

I slipped into pajamas, soft as cloud, and opened the door.

Moonlight poured in like silver water; pink hair drifted in the wind like cherry petals, and the glow sanctified her face like a temple’s calm. If it wasn’t Rafi, who else?

Rafi saw me in a single slip, and heat rose in her nose like a kettle about to whistle. Good thing her will held; otherwise it’d spill red like a broken plum.

“Ling, are you okay today?” Her worry warmed like tea cupped in both hands.

Oh right—I still have her. She doesn’t flinch at my messy heart, a harbor for a storm-tossed boat. She isn’t afraid of the blood I’ve spilled, brave as a gull in gale. She’s the only one who’ll accept my heart, my everything, even the useless me.

At the thought, happiness blossomed like a small sun. “Mm, I’m fine. Not a thing.”

Rafi’s tight brow loosened, bowstring easing, peace settling like rain. “Okay, if you’re fine, good. Come try these; I made them.” She lifted food, steam rising like morning mist.

“Thanks.” Gratitude spread warm as fresh bread.

Whether I needed company or my stomach truly ached empty, I was moved; Rafi always arrives like a lantern at the darkest hour.

Rafi… I like her most, my heart opening like a red flower in night.