The sound of glass colliding split the Pane like thunder.

Ren's blade met the mirrored copy's weapon in a clash that sent shards scattering like sparks. But these weren't just shards—they were echoes, each one whispering a fragment of his own voice.

"You can't win."

"You'll break."

"You've already lost."

The hunger inside the copy spoke through every fragment, every swing. Its movements weren't just fast—they were familiar. It fought exactly like Ren. Same stances, same feints, same instinct to strike when the opponent breathed too loud.

But with one terrifying difference.

It held nothing back.

Ren stumbled as the copy pressed forward, blow after blow crashing against his guard. His arms shook with the weight of it, not just physically but mentally—every strike was an accusation, every parry a reminder of the weakness he tried to bury.

The shard-winged girl screamed from the edge of the collapsing Pane. "Ren! Don't match its rhythm—it is your rhythm! You'll never win fighting yourself!"

Ren gritted his teeth, blood trailing from his lip. "Then what the hell am I supposed to do?!"

The copy tilted its head mid-swing, eyes gleaming like silver wounds. Its smile widened, and its layered voice seeped into Ren's mind.

"Do nothing. Let go. Rest. You don't need to carry the rebellion. You don't need to bleed for others. Just let me—"

Ren roared and shoved forward, cutting off the words with a brutal strike. Their blades locked, faces inches apart. His reflection's cold breath brushed his skin.

"You're right," Ren spat. "I am tired. I do want to rest."

The copy's smile grew triumphant—until Ren's eyes hardened like fire catching in the dark.

"But I'll never let you carry what's mine."

With a surge of raw will, Ren twisted the Thorn-blade free, his attack breaking the lock. He slashed—not at the copy's weapon, not even at its body—

but at the space between them.

The Pane screamed.

Cracks spiderwebbed outward, jagged light tearing through the air like veins of rebellion itself. For the first time, Hunger's Face faltered. Its blade dipped, its mirrored eyes flickering, as though something in Ren's strike had split more than glass.

The shard-winged girl gasped. "Ren… you're not fighting to kill it."

Ren staggered back, chest heaving, but his grin was sharp with defiance. "No… I'm fighting to prove it's not me."

Hunger's Face straightened, shards swirling tighter around its form, repairing what had been broken. But the smile it wore now was thinner, tighter—almost strained.

The voices in its throat hissed. "Every denial feeds me. Every rejection makes me stronger. You can't erase hunger."

Ren lifted his blade again, sweat running down his temple, but his voice cut through the whispers like a blade sharper than any shard.

"Then I'll carve something you'll never be able to eat—

the part of me that chooses to fight anyway."

The Pane around them cracked wider, the battlefield trembling like it couldn't decide which version of Ren to keep.

And as Hunger's Face lunged again, silver eyes blazing, Ren braced himself. This wasn't just survival anymore.

This was war for the right to be himself.

The Pane quaked under their battle.

Ren's Thorn-blade met Hunger's shard weapon again and again, every strike ringing like broken bells. Sparks of mirror-light flew with each collision, scattering across the battlefield in jagged bursts.

But then the battlefield itself betrayed him.

From every fragment of glass that scattered, shapes began to crawl free. Hands first—thin, gleaming, twisted like glass sculptures—then torsos, then faces.

Faces that were his.

They dragged themselves out of the shards, reflections warped, each one whispering the same voice with slight differences. Some were broken, their jaws shattered as they mouthed words. Some were gaunt, eyes hollow with starvation. Some were grinning, dripping with indulgence.

"Ren."

"Ren."

"Ren."

A hundred voices, layered like a chorus of need.

Hunger's Face stepped back, blade lowering, not because it was tired—no. It didn't need to fight anymore. It raised one hand, and the shard-reflections surged forward in a tidal wave of glass.

Ren barely had time to breathe before the first one was on him. He swung, his blade cutting through the figure—it shattered, scattering into fragments that hissed in the air. But three more took its place. One lunged for his throat, another clamped jagged teeth onto his arm, another clawed at his chest.

Ren roared and spun, the Thorn-blade slicing arcs of rebellion. The air was full of cutting light, full of his own face breaking apart.

The shard-winged girl shouted from the distance, voice trembling between fear and awe. "They're not enemies—they're you! If you kill them, you're just feeding it!"

Her words cut sharper than the glass.

Ren froze mid-swing. The reflection he was about to destroy looked up at him, and in its eyes, he saw something raw.

Not hunger.

Not malice.

Just exhaustion.

The same exhaustion he carried every night.

For a split second, the battlefield tilted, and Ren understood. Hunger's Face wasn't just fighting him—it was multiplying every weakness he denied, every crack he refused to look at.

The more I reject them… the stronger it gets.

The reflections piled on him, dragging him to his knees. Hands like shards pressed against his skin, slicing but not killing. They wanted him down, wanted him still. The whispers grew louder.

"Rest."

"Give in."

"There's no shame."

"You're tired. Let us eat for you."

Ren's breath caught. He was choking—not on blood, not on glass, but on the weight of himself.

His fingers trembled around the hilt of his blade. For a heartbeat, the thought of surrender burned sweet in his chest.

But then—

A hand touched his shoulder.

Warm. Real.

The shard-winged girl had crossed the battlefield, cutting herself on the glass, bleeding from a dozen wounds. She crouched beside him, eyes burning with silver fire.

"Ren. Look at me."

Her voice pulled him out of the drowning.

"You don't have to deny them. You don't have to accept them either. You just have to remind them who you are."

Her wings flared, scattering shards in a blast of light.

Ren's eyes widened. Slowly, painfully, he tightened his grip on his sword. He pressed it into the ground, pushing himself back to his feet even as the reflections clawed at him.

He looked at the swarm of himself and spoke through clenched teeth.

"I'm not running from you. I'm not bowing to you. You're not my masters."

He raised his blade high, its edge burning with thorns of defiance.

"You're just pieces. And I decide what I become."

The Thorn-blade blazed—not with fire, not with hunger, but with a rebellion that even the Pane seemed to recognize. The reflections hissed, stumbling back, their whispers faltering into silence.

Even Hunger's Face paused, its silver smile thinning as cracks spiderwebbed across its perfect form.

Ren's chest heaved. His voice tore out like a vow, aimed not at the enemy, not at the world, but at the mirror that had tried to claim him.

"I'm Ren. And you'll never eat my choice."

The Pane screamed again. The battlefield shook. The storm of reflections shattered into fragments that dissolved into light, leaving only Ren and Hunger's Face standing in the ruins.

The duel wasn't over. But the battlefield had shifted.

For the first time—

Ren wasn't just defending himself.

He was changing the Pane.

The Pane groaned like a wounded beast.

Shards that had once obeyed Hunger's Face began to flicker and dim, collapsing into powdery light. The storm of reflections was gone. Only the battlefield remained—an endless wasteland of fractured glass stretching into infinity.

And in the center of it, Ren stood.

His Thorn-blade burned with an aura that wasn't just rebellion anymore. It pulsed like a heartbeat, as though the weapon itself had fused with his will. Each breath he drew filled the blade with strength, with defiance, with choice.

Across from him, Hunger's Face tilted its head. The silver grin it wore no longer looked smug—it looked strained. Hairline cracks crawled across its cheeks, distorting its perfect symmetry.

"You think…" its voice rattled like broken porcelain, "…choice can shield you? Choice is nothing but flavor. A seasoning to the inevitable feast."

Ren leveled his blade. His chest heaved, sweat dripping from his chin, but his voice cut clear and sharp.

"Then choke on me."

The Pane shuddered. Hunger's Face let out a hiss that tore into a howl. Its silver mask split apart—not shattered, but peeled back, like the skin of fruit being torn to reveal what was festering beneath.

The thing beneath was not a face.

It was a maw.

A maw made of endless teeth—jagged shards arranged in spirals, all gnashing and grinding, reflecting his form in every surface. No eyes. No nose. No humanity. Just hunger given form, a void that devoured light.

The shard-winged girl staggered back, her wings trembling. "That… that's its true self…"

Ren clenched his teeth, refusing to flinch. "Then it was always a mask. Just like the whispers."

The Maw shrieked, a sound that shook the Pane until cracks spread across the horizon. From the wound in reality, waves of hunger surged outward—spectral hands, open mouths, emaciated shadows—all of them rushing toward Ren like an ocean of need.

He didn't retreat.

Instead, Ren planted his feet into the fractured ground and raised his blade skyward. The Thorn-blade pulsed brighter, its edges curling with thorny vines of rebellion. And then—he struck the Pane itself.

The sound was not steel on glass. It was thunder.

The Pane rippled like water, and the wave of hunger dissolved on contact. The vines of his blade spread outward in fractal patterns, stitching across the battlefield. Where they grew, the Pane's surface warped—not with hunger, but with choice. Shards bent, rearranged, reflecting not despair but defiance.

Hunger's Maw reeled, its spiral of teeth churning violently. It lunged at him, crossing the distance in an instant, a tidal mouth seeking to swallow him whole.

Ren roared and leapt forward, blade in both hands, silver light colliding with thorn-fire.

Their clash was not a sound but an earthquake.

The Maw snapped shut on his blade, teeth grinding sparks, but Ren held firm. His arms shook, his body screamed, but he forced the blade deeper, carving into the impossible spiral.

"Eat all you want," he growled through clenched teeth, eyes blazing with fire. "You'll never take me."

The Maw thrashed, shrieking, but the cracks on its surface deepened. Shards rained like glass rain, littering the Pane.

The shard-winged girl raised her arms, her silver wings flaring wide. "Ren—strike now! It can't hold that form forever!"

Ren bared his teeth. With a final surge of will, he ripped his blade upward, tearing the Maw's spiral open from within.

The sound was unbearable—like every hunger, every craving, every bottomless void in existence screaming as one.

Light burst from the wound.

And when it cleared, Hunger's Face was no longer smiling. It was broken, kneeling in the shards, its mask shattered, its maw exposed to the air.

For the first time—

It looked afraid.

Ren staggered, his blade dripping with light, his chest heaving like a war drum. His voice came low, ragged, but unyielding:

"This fight isn't about feeding you. It's about starving you."

The Pane itself fell silent. Even the shards stopped whispering.

The duel was not finished—but the tide had turned.