Shattered Gate: The SSS-Rank Mirror Inheritance

Night had deepened across the battered sprawl of District Five. Streetlights blinked with half-dead bulbs, painting the cracked sidewalks in a sickly orange glow. Reid trudged through the maze of alleys toward his makeshift home: a cramped room in the back of an old auto repair shop. Stonefang's men might still be prowling, but he had no better hideout.

Fatigue weighed on every muscle. His right arm felt strangely numb, as though it still remembered the sudden mirror-bracer from before. He tried not to think about the bizarre system messages that had flashed in his mind. If he allowed himself to dwell on them too much, panic threatened to consume him.

He found the flickering neon sign that read "Zorio's Repairs," though half the letters had died ages ago. The locked side door was marked with graffiti—gang signs, mostly. Reid took out a small key from his pocket. The lock clicked. Relief flooded him as he slipped inside, quietly shutting the door.

The room he rented was basically an oversized supply closet with a single cot, battered desk, and a squeaky door leading to a shared restroom. Old posters of retro cars and racing bikes plastered the walls, courtesy of the building's prime days. None of that concerned Reid now. He tossed his duffel on the desk and leaned back against the door, exhaling.

At last, a moment to breathe.

He rubbed his arms, feeling dried blood on his forearm from the baton strike. "Guess I'll need a bandage." There was a small first-aid kit under the cot. He rummaged through it, hands unsteady. After cleaning his wounds as best he could, he let the adrenaline fade. That's when the throbbing pain truly set in.

He lay down, ignoring the spring poking into his ribs. Eyes on the ceiling, he replayed the night's events. Gorin. Stonefang's enforcers. The baton, the mirror bracer, and that eerie voice: Welcome to the Shattered Gate. Real or a fever dream?

To confirm, he extended his right arm, bracing himself. "Come on…that mirror thing," he whispered, trying to will it into existence. Nothing happened, just his shaky hand in the dim light.

[Due to insufficient Soul Force, the system remains dormant until triggered by circumstances.]

The voice was back. Reid jerked upright, eyes darting around the dark room. "Who are you?" he demanded in hushed tones. "A ghost in my head? A parasite?" He had once heard rumors of parasites that whispered instructions to their hosts, but he'd never believed them.

[We are The Shattered Gate. You are the Awakened Host. The first mirror has been bestowed: Reflection of Motion. Further shards await your progression.]

He tried to keep his voice calm. "And…why me?"

No immediate response. For a moment, he felt a presence swirl in the back of his consciousness, like fingers trailing through water. A mild headache flared, then subsided. It reminded him of how his mother once touched his forehead when he was a child, checking for fever—though that was years ago, before she disappeared. A memory best left buried.

"Progression," he repeated. "So, it's triggered when I face conflict and survive? Some weird magic? Or is it something else?" He realized he was basically talking to thin air in a supply closet at midnight. If someone outside overheard, they'd think he was insane. Then again, a conversation with a cryptic presence in his head didn't exactly scream sanity.

But he needed to understand. The difference between life and death could hinge on how well he used this power next time the Stonefang gang found him. If the Shattered Gate bestowed a "mirror" for defense, maybe there were others for offense. He'd have given anything for a sword or something earlier—fighting with a reflective shield only got him so far.

"What's next?" he asked in a half-whisper, half-plea. "How do I unlock the next mirror or whatever?"

Silence. The presence retreated, leaving him in the suffocating quiet. Eventually, exhaustion claimed him. He drifted off into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of shards of broken glass swirling around him, reflecting countless eyes—each one pinned on him as if he were some caged spectacle.

Morning arrived with a weak sun filtering through the single high window. Reid woke to a stiff shoulder and a pounding headache. The events of last night briefly felt like a nightmare, until he spotted the fresh bruise on his arm. Reality sank in again.

He had to move quickly. Stonefang's men might come searching. The best option was to stash the boards elsewhere or sell them to someone else, and then hide out for a bit. He rummaged through his small wardrobe: two worn hoodies, a pair of jeans with fraying hems, and some old sneakers. He pulled on a grey hoodie and stuffed the boards into a smaller bag, deciding it'd be less conspicuous.

Then, he stepped out onto the street, scanning for suspicious faces. None so far. The bitter winter breeze stung his cheeks as he walked. Trash littered the sidewalks, and the distant hum of broken traffic lights gave the place an eerie calm. People in District Five rarely came out early—there was nothing to wake up for, except maybe a chance to scavenge scraps.

A short walk led him to a tiny sandwich stall run by an old lady known as Tima. She greeted him with a tired smile, revealing missing teeth. "Mornin', kid," she rasped, flipping eggs on a makeshift griddle. "You look awful."

"I feel worse," Reid admitted, sliding a few crumpled bills across the counter. Enough for the cheapest sandwich. "Any trouble around here last night?"

Tima shrugged, dropping some stale bread onto the grill. "Heard Stonefang was snooping around, but that's no news, right? Hardly matters as long as you keep to yourself."

Yeah, if only, he thought bitterly. "Thanks," he muttered, taking the sandwich. He left without meeting her gaze, appetite overshadowed by anxiety. He forced himself to take a few bites anyway—needed the energy.

By the time he finished, he'd reached the outskirts of the old train yard, a place filled with rusted cargo containers, broken locomotives, and derelict tracks. Perfect for hiding contraband. Or ambush. He kept alert, stepping across the gravel. The towering piles of abandoned crates loomed overhead.

He found a forgotten cargo container whose lock was long broken. Inside, it reeked of dust and mold. Some tattered tarps and broken crates were scattered about. This would do. He carefully slid the boards under a stack of rotted wood, brushing debris on top to camouflage them. He'd come back with a plan. Maybe in a day or two, once things cooled down.

Stepping outside, he blinked in the harsh daylight and made his way to the far side of the yard, stepping over rusted rails. The thought of the Shattered Gate weighed on him. If he tried to conjure the bracer again, would it appear? Last time, it had manifested spontaneously. Maybe he needed real danger. He wasn't eager to test that theory, but…

He forced a scenario. He spotted a sturdy metal rod lying near some debris. Grabbing it, he took a deep breath and steeled himself. Lifting the rod, he slammed it against his own raised forearm—carefully, but with enough force to bruise. He expected some ephemeral shards to appear in self-defense, but…nothing. Just pain that made him wince.

"Argh, stupid idea." He tossed the rod aside, massaging his arm. "So it only triggers under real threat from others. The system probably knows self-harm doesn't count." He spat to the ground, frustration building. Another puzzle piece he couldn't solve right now.

A wave of unease washed over him as he imagined Stonefang cornering him again, but this time with a dozen men. Sure, the Shattered Gate had saved him once. But he had no idea if it could hold off a barrage of bullets or multiple weapons. He could be one misstep away from an early grave.