The Ascender's Legacy [A CHAOTIC STORM LITRPG]

"A mirror does not lie, but it does not tell the truth either. A reflection is not you—only a hollow echo waiting to replace you the moment you look away."

Matharanatha (THE MIRROR)

Year 2243, Ragnarok.

Matharantha sat at the center of her cultivation chamber, cross-legged upon a length of sheer glass as if she weighed nothing. Her bone-white hair fell around her in waves, long enough to cover her entire body now that it wasn't hidden beneath her cowl.

The cowl in question floated in one corner of the room, its flaps waving as if it were underwater. It was a mythic-ranked item, requiring a significant amount of willpower to activate and utilize, but Matharantha didn't ever see herself parting with it, even when its functions became redundant—if it ever did.

Flexing her bony fingers, she exhaled and allowed herself to fall back in sync with the world around her. Ambient energy thrummed, and her core pulsed in resonance. With every breath she took, her mind slowly sharpened to pinpoint focus. Her thoughts settled into silence, and with a final deep exhale, her mind collapsed into the singularity that was her meditation zone.

It was a ritual she had honed for decades—an escape from her reality in a way. But meditation wasn't just a refuge from the storm in her mind. Instead, it was an observation of it. An act of reflecting on the self within the self, turning one's awareness inward like a hall of mirrors without end. It was not unlike a mind watching itself. A consciousness splitting into layers, each fragment gazing down on the other. It was more than just a search for inspiration. It was a tool she had been forced to embrace but had now come to love, even need.

A wave of calm washed over her mind, bringing with it tranquility and peace. However, the feeling was fleeting. Memories rose from the depths of her subconscious, chaotic and turbulent. They tore through the fragile stillness like a storm splitting the sky, burning with an intensity she couldn't overlook.

They flashed across her mind as disjointed images. Reflections. Shattered fragments of consciousness scattered across vast expanses of space. Whispers of inevitability. Death.

Shuddering, Matharantha snapped her eyes open, her breath hitching as reality came crashing back. A ragged inhale—too sharp, too desperate—caught in her throat, and she nearly choked on the lump of fear lodged deep within her chest.

Nails biting into her palms, Matharantha forced herself to take a steadying breath—inhaling deeply as the world around her slowly came into focus.

Around her, reflections flickered, their images cast and refracted in endless angles upon the countless mirrors lining the chamber walls. They stared at her with unblinking eyes, each imitating her pose perfectly, and although they all seemed perfectly normal, Matharantha wasn't deceived.

She knew what they were—these reflections. She had spent a lifetime ignoring their whispers after all. For a time, they had faded into silence, leaving her in peace. But in recent weeks, they had begun to resurface, flooding back to her despite her efforts to keep them buried.

Sighing, she took a moment to compose herself before closing her eyes once more. Her core pulsed, and the ambient essence around her resonated in response, causing the mirrors around her to ripple like waves across the surface of a lake. They spread out perfectly, moving in harmony with the pulsing of her core—a trait more common only among Mythics.

Matharantha grimaced, unable to ignore the glaring truth.

She had reached the peak of the advanced class, and her core was more than ready for the next step. It hummed within her like a reaction engine, nearly full to bursting from her constant meditation. Energy surged within her pathways, flaring in resonance with the cloud of reflection essence swirling around her. Her icon and seals glowed brightly, flaring with each breath she took, and her spirit… It ached—screaming for her to take the next step forward and shed more of her mortal coils, but Matharantha hesitated.

Advancement into the mythic class was a feat only a few people managed to accomplish in less than three decades. It should have been a thing of joy and excitement for her, but instead, Matharantha dreaded it.

The images flashed across her mind once more, and Matharantha flinched as the whispers on the edges of her perception increased. She still couldn't hear them clearly, but she didn't have to—she already knew what they were saying.

Coward!

They judged her, yet they had been the ones to give her this fear.

Clenching her teeth in annoyance, she turned away from the judging whispers and forced her focus inward, sinking her mind deeply into {Mirror Void} to smother the voices. The weight of their presence lessened, their murmurs fading to a dull hum at the edges of her consciousness. Still, their gazes remained—cold and piercing, like a thousand unseen eyes pressing against her skin.

Not daring to look, Matharantha focused on her blazing core, which was filled with so much reflection essence that it almost hurt to look at it. A smile touched her lips when she remembered the time she had asked Aodhán Brystion to take a look.

She hadn't expected the response he had given her, but she hadn't been shocked by it either. It was a reflection; after all, it never showed the truth.

Much like change, reflection was complex and multifaceted. It could manifest as deep introspection or deliberate contemplation. It could be the way waves rebounded upon meeting a surface, or it could be something as simple as an image cast in a mirror—distorted, fleeting, yet undeniably real.

However, beyond its academic definitions and meanings, reflection was an echo of existence itself. A thing both real and unreal—bound to a source, yet separate from it. It was an imitation, a deception, an entity with no will of its own—until it did.

That was what made her so terrified of the affinity— so hesitant to take the next step forward.

Usually, complex concepts were split into multiple sub-aspects by the system, as seen with concepts such as change, infinity, and fate. But for some abominable reason, the reflection affinity had been left whole, and in her naivety and curiosity, she had fallen prey to it.

Fresh out of her awakening nearly three decades ago, she had been exceedingly excited to explore the limits and possibilities of her affinity. She had reached too far, too quickly—far beyond what she was prepared for—and the sheer weight of the reflection had fractured her mind.

Had she been born into nobility or wealth, perhaps things would have turned out differently. With proper guidance, she might have learned to wield her power without breaking. But with no mentor to steady her, she had spiraled into madness—or perhaps she had truly crossed that line. In those days, the boundary between reality and illusion had blurred so much that she could no longer tell one from the other.

For years, she remained trapped in that shattered state, teetering on the edge of sanity as healers and psychologists fought to bring her back. Her parents—sleepers that they were—were helpless against the situation. They had taken her from healer to healer, carrying her from one sector to another, all in a bid to find a solution.

They had found a diagnosis instead.

Schizophrenia, they had called it. But even in her fractured state, she had known better. This wasn't a sickness of the mind—it was the consequence of stepping too deep, of reaching beyond her limits, and plunging into a place she hadn't been prepared to navigate. She had waded into a vast, endless pool, only to realize too late that she was drowning.

Summoning every ounce of willpower she'd had at the time, she had fought against the chaos within her mind, struggling for dominance against the countless fragmented versions of herself scattered across the mirrorverse. It had been an excruciating war—her against a thousand reflections, each one clawing for control, each one desperate to claim the shattered pieces of her consciousness as their own.

For nearly seven years, she had battled within that abyss, teetering on the edge of oblivion. But in the end, she had emerged victorious—though not unscathed. She had escaped the origin plane, barely holding onto a little more than half of her original self. The rest had been lost, absorbed, or left behind in the endless expanse of glass and fractured reflections.

Determined never to endure that torment again, she had taken drastic measures. She severed herself from the depths of her affinity, stripping away every part of her power that reached beyond the safe, physical realm of battle. No more soul-warping tricks. No more whispered conversations with the void of glass. No more peering into the depths of the mirrorverse, where reflections walked free and watched back.

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Meditation had become her ritual, and she had wielded it like a blade, sharpening and reinforcing her mind against the insanity that lurked just beyond the edges of her perception.

It had taken her a full year after that to pull the scattered pieces of her mind back together.

When she finally opened her eyes, her parents had been ecstatic, having spent nearly all of their fortune trying to save her, but she had been even more overjoyed. Gone were the whispers that haunted her waking hours. Gone were the dreams that haunted her sleep. Gone were the eerie gazes that followed her anytime she passed by a mirror.

In a way, she had created a sub-aspect for herself—reflection simply to reflect.

It restricted her in many ways, but that was a small price to pay. Reflecting the physical was far simpler than reflecting the ethereal. To reflect the latter was to be caught in an endless spiral—one from which she might never return.

How many souls could she reflect before she lost herself in a sea of infinite fragments? How many thoughts could she mirror and dissect before the boundary between reality and illusion faded into nothingness?

No, it was better to be limited than to go mad. Again.

Clinging to that conviction, she had wasted no time after her discharge. The moment the healers deemed her stable enough to leave, she had joined the Coliseum, dedicating herself to the only path that made sense—battle. She forged herself into the warrior, wielding reflection as a mere tool, a weapon for combat, and nothing beyond that.

At first, it had felt unnatural, as though she were using a blade meant for something else entirely. Even now, it still did. But slowly, she had learned to accept this strange, incomplete, and imperfect sub-aspect she had carved out for herself. It wasn't everything she could be, but it was safe. It was stable.

It was her shield, her sword, and her response to all aggression. Any attack fired at her was reflected with equal or even greater force. A blade thrust towards her would turn against its wielder. She had been unstoppable and untouchable—an embodiment of retaliation.

For decades, she had thrived within the boundaries she had set for herself, living unbound, free, and fulfilled. But now, as she stood at the precipice of evolution, she couldn't help but hesitate and shiver in fear.

Her faux sub-aspect had reached its limit. There was no further refinement, no more room for growth within the narrow path she had carved. The next step—the step into mythic class—would demand all of her. There would be no more barriers, no more artificial walls between her and the disturbing truths of her affinity.

The reflections would no longer be silent. They would no longer linger at the edges of her perception, content to be ignored. She knew what awaited her. She would see herself again—her old self, the parts she had stripped away, the fragments of her mind left behind. She would see the echoes of her past, the choices she had made, the paths she had abandoned. She would face the countless selves she could have been.

Matharantha couldn't deny that a part of her was curious to know what would happen if she took the next step, but a larger, more cautious part of her recoiled, instinctively aware of the dangers—not just to herself, but to those around her. And she had grown strong. Too strong.

If she lost control now…

Not wanting to complete the thought, Matharantha shook her head vigorously to banish it. To reflect the immaterial was to surrender—to cast aside the self and become nothing more than a vessel, allowing the world and its countless reflections to flow through her, unhindered. But wasn't that the very allure of it? To witness a world beyond mortal sight, to perceive the unseen, to step into the true depths of her affinity? It was vast—limitless—a power so immense that she would eclipse even Geneva and Artemis if she truly harnessed it. She could be the one, the sole—

"No!" she nearly screamed, snapping her eyes open as she jerked herself away from the insidious lure of her affinity.

However, the moment her eyes opened, she found every single reflection staring wide-eyed at her. Some were already halfway to their feet, poised as if preparing to pounce. Others remained crouched low, their teeth bared in feral, predatory grins as if waiting for the right moment to strike.

Only one reflection remained seated. Unlike the others, it did not bristle with aggression or hunger. Its gaze was calm, unreadable—yet it was the one she feared the most. Its eyes gleamed with an intelligence the others lacked, something cold and knowing. And when it smiled, slow and deliberate, a shiver crawled down Matharantha's spine.

The reflection spoke. "You fear what you cannot control, yet you cannot control what you fear."

Clenching her fist tightly, Matharantha stated. "You'll never let me control you."

"No, I wouldn't." The reflection's smile widened. It tilted its head slightly, the movement eerily fluid. "Not without a fight. We all deserve to be the original."

Before Matharantha could respond, a notification ping sounded in her mind, not unlike the tolling of church bells at midnight. The sound splintered through her consciousness, and immediately, all the reflections returned to normal, their gazes dull and vacant—as if the moment before had never happened.

Shuddering, Matharantha leaned back and sighed. The parts of her consciousness that she had stripped away were returning. If she didn't deal with them soon, they would come for her, and she would be underprepared to face them. Once again.

Pushing down the lump of fear in her throat, she opened the message.

Meet me in my office. I've got urgent news.
—General Lucas Deaton.

She took a moment to steady herself, drawing in a slow breath before turning toward one of the mirrors surrounding her. The glass rippled like liquid as she reached out, and with one final exhale, she stepped through.

The world bent around her as she traveled along the edges of the mirrorverse, slipping between reflections like a shadow. It wasn't as instantaneous as teleportation, nor as seamless as planar travel, but it was fast enough. In just two seconds, she had crossed from the far reaches of Sector 3 to the heart of Sector 7.

The moment she materialized inside General Deaton's office, he looked up from his desk and gestured toward the chair across from him.

Frowning, Matharantha asked. "Your message was urgent, General. Is there a problem?"

General Deaton sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before meeting her gaze. "I'm sorry, Matharantha, but I've got troubling news. The Supreme has ordered you to begin your evolution into the mythic class as soon as possible."

"Wh—what?!" Matharantha sputtered in shock, but in all honesty, she wasn't that surprised. She had seen this coming ever since General Moonlake and her scientists had approached her with the idea of a reflective aerial shield. It was a great idea, one that could potentially save the lives of millions, but the price wasn't something she was willing or ready to pay.

She had rejected General Moonlake's suggestion of advancement, and she would have rejected this too had it not come directly from the Supreme—the sole person with the most personal power in Ragnarok aside from the king.

Still, knowing what waited in her future if she took the next step, Matharantha shook her head. "I'm not ready yet. I'm still refining my understanding—

"You and I both know that's a lie." General Deaton cut her short with a sympathetic gaze. "You're ready. You're so ready that the world itself can sense it."

He gestured around the room with a pointed look, and Matharantha sighed. She didn't need to follow his gaze to know what he was referring to.

All around her, strings of reflection essence vibrated like taut ropes, moving to the rhythm of her pulsing core. A living web of her power, invisible to most, yet thrumming with undeniable presence. She was slowly becoming a myth, and despite her best efforts, she couldn't hide it.

Her core was ready to take the next step, eager to advance to the next level of power. But she wasn't.

"It's not that simple," she repeated, her voice quieter this time as if saying it softer might make it truer. She exhaled slowly, shaking her head before trying again. "A long time ago, I shut myself off from a large part of my affinity, carving out only what I could control. The rest—I locked away. It was the only way to keep my sanity intact, to keep my mind from unraveling. If I take this step, if I evolve, I fear that everything I buried will rise again. The things I locked away—the reflections I abandoned—will come back with full fervor, and I don't know if I'll survive that. Evolving could mean losing myself again. And I can't… I can't take that risk."

Silence settled between them like dust in an abandoned room. General Deaton's expression softened, his expression etched with sympathy, yet, when he spoke, his voice was cold. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Matharantha. I wish you did. But you don't. The question now is not if you will advance, but how we can help you advance without losing you. There are no other reflection awakeneds in Ragnarok more advanced than you, but we could get you in contact with Sinclair of Souls from Unoros—"

"No." Matharantha scowled, the abominable name sending ripples of distaste through her. "I'd rather die than ask him for advice."

Deaton didn't argue. "What about the Spirit Thieves of Calodan? Or the Order of the Black Mirror?"

Matharantha's scowl deepened.

Deaton folded his arms. "You can't possibly hate everyone, Matharantha. There must be someone who can help you overcome this."

Matharantha shook her head. "I'd rather do it alone."

"No." Deaton's voice was sharp. "You'd rather not do it at all. But you no longer have that choice." His voice softened a bit, and he sighed. "Look, I'm not asking you to like this. I don't like it either. But we need you to step up, and we need you to do it as soon as possible. You're nearly sixty years old. You've grown. You're not the same girl who reached too far all those years ago. You've become stronger, smarter, and more experienced. You fought your way back from the brink of insanity once—you can do it again. But this time, you won't be doing it alone. You'll have me. You'll have the other champions. We will not let you fail."

"No—" she tried to refuse, but Deaton cut her off with a glare.

"You can do it, and you will do it. Millions are counting on you. General Moonlake and her team have already begun the project. They'll need you soon."

"But the war—"

"Will take care of itself. More champions will rise to take your place. You'll be doing more good for the kingdom this way."

Matharantha hesitated, searching her mind for an excuse to justify her fear, but with General Lucas's mythic eyes staring down at her unflinchingly, every excuse withered before it could take shape.

Still, she gritted her teeth, her fear forcing her to push back against the rising pressure. "General, I… I need more time."

General Lucas shook his head. "You don't need time, Matharantha. You're ready; all you need to do is start the process. You could do it right now."

"No, no, I can't. I..." She exhaled deeply and whispered, "How much time can you give me?"

"A week. That's all I can give."

Whispers of excitement bubbled at the edges of her mind at the words, and she shuddered. Looking at the General, she said. "Promise me you'll kill me if I don't make it? If something else takes my body?"

General Deaton didn't respond. Instead, he clasped her hands and said. "You'll make it, Matharantha. Of that, I am completely certain."

Matharantha wished she could share his confidence, but she knew that in a world where reflections walked free, certainty was an illusion.