Illusion Report

Thinking about it now, perhaps it was because of the "Virtual Guide to the Infinite Illusion Realm" that Jin Xueli had almost never truly fought a resident—let alone to the death.

Only after being released from death itself did she finally begin to form a theory.

She knew that every resident had a different method of survival and attack.

But the term "method of attack" was still too vague. For instance, punching someone was an attack, but so was using a single sentence to split their neck open. It stood to reason, then, that slowly encroaching on someone’s existence was also a form of attack.

"You said it yourself. Residents alter the details of memories to fill in any gaps, so they’re absolutely convinced they’re the original."

Jin Xueli was about to lose her grip on the towel. If the strength the resident beneath her was using to struggle was also her own, then her long-term physical training had really paid off. It was enough to make her clench her teeth, arms trembling, wondering when she’d be thrown off.

But she had to say what needed to be said. Not a single word could be left out.

There could only be one Jin Xueli in the world. The resident was right about that.

"But when I think about it, I realize I’m not like that. Ever since I found out there was another ’Jin Xueli,’ I haven’t been able to shake my self-doubt, especially after I came back from the dead... I can’t explain why I copied your wound, or why I can’t remember where I bought my pants. If I were the resident, I would have already come up with some glib explanation for all these questions."

The towel was shoved deep into "Jin Xueli’s" mouth, her lips stretched into two long, thin, glistening lines. Her teeth were half-visible, and spit, saliva, and retching sounds churned with her tongue in the back of her throat as if she were still trying to speak. Seeing her own face twisted like that was almost unbearable.

Jin Xueli knew what it wanted to say.

"You want to say that because I’m the resident, when I face unanswerable questions, I take my confusion as further proof that I’m the original, don’t you?"

A guttural sound rumbled in its throat, an angry sound of affirmation.

"Incredible... No matter what questions I raise, you can twist them into my own self-doubt."

The resident slammed a fist into her side. For a moment, it felt like the punch had knocked the very air and light out of the room.

Waves of blackness washed over Jin Xueli’s vision. She fought through the pain, keeping her opponent pinned. She barely managed to twist her body and curl her legs, using one thigh as a barricade to absorb its pounding fists. Her other knee had to stay planted on its other arm, and her muscles were screaming in protest.

"This is your attack pattern, isn’t it?"

She had to say it out loud; it was her only chance of survival. "Between the two of us, you’re the one who is absolutely convinced, and I’m the one filled with fear and uncertainty. Your words only have the power to kill, to become reality, because they’re founded on that tiny bit of doubt in my heart."

The reason her neck had split open from a single sentence wasn’t because she was the resident. It was because of that tiny sliver of doubt within her.

The resident’s attack was "language," but its method was like a syringe full of poison. The needle had to pierce the skin for the venom to work.

And that tiny sliver of self-doubt was the opening in the skin. Without it, the resident’s verbal attacks were useless.

If the resident said the same thing to Anthony, his neck would never split open. His sense of self was crystal clear and had nothing to do with any "resident."

"...Your instinct is to usurp my existence. That’s why you kept pointing out all those problems and flaws, trying to make me believe I’m the resident. ’Jin Xueli’ is a role, a seat. If I die or disappear, that seat becomes vacant, and you can take it for yourself forever, truly becoming Jin Xueli."

"To do that, you slit my throat with a sentence, and then you told me that a resident’s ’replication’ has a time limit. Even if that’s not a real rule, because you said it out loud, I’ll start to gradually turn into a resident, won’t I?"

Her earlier flicker of self-doubt had been the opening, allowing that statement to seep in. Jin Xueli was running out of time.

If she couldn’t deal with the resident in front of her soon, she would likely begin to take its place and become the resident herself...

Even though she felt she had figured things out, as soon as the thought occurred, a small voice surfaced from deep inside her: ’Is that really true?’

’When the time comes, will you be ’taking its place’ as the resident, or will you just be ’reverting’ to what you truly are?’

’...No, this isn’t the time to think about that.’ She was about to lose her hold on "Jin Xueli."

Jin Xueli shook off the voice from the depths of her mind and began speaking faster, trying to get all the words out before the opportunity slipped away.

"When you said residents had a time limit, that’s what made me start to see the truth. Because the real ’Jin Xueli’ would have no idea about that—I even wonder if that rule is real at all. Or did you just invent it to make me take your place as the resident?"

The last syllable of her sentence was drawn out into a cry of pain.

The resident suddenly thrashed, gaining more room to move, and slammed a fist into Jin Xueli’s temple. Amid a ringing in her ears and a flash of white stars, she found she’d been thrown to the floor by the time her vision cleared.

"Jin Xueli" was getting to her feet, coughing dryly. The towel, soaked with saliva, lay heavy on the floor nearby.

"You’re wrong,"

its voice was hoarse, as if its lips and tongue were still heavy and numb. "...The real Jin Xueli *does* know about that. I heard it on the radio last month. The host mentioned it as a rumor, and I remembered it..."

Two words popped into Jin Xueli’s mind: fire axe.

’I can’t let it get the fire axe.’

She couldn’t get up. Pushing herself onto all fours, she began to crawl unsteadily toward the fire axe. The resident clearly saw her objective. It let out a soft sneer and turned as if to kick her. As Jin Xueli scrambled to dodge, she fell back onto the floor, and the resident strode toward the fire axe.

There seemed to be only one way to slow it down.

’Even if it only buys me a few seconds, I need a moment to recover.’

Staring at the back of her other self as it hurried toward the fire axe, Jin Xueli cried out hoarsely:

"Then how come I don’t remember it?"

The other "Jin Xueli" stopped dead in its tracks. It shifted its gaze, looking down at Jin Xueli from under its eyelids.

"You said the real Jin Xueli knows about that, right? If you’re the original and I’m your copy, then it stands to reason I should have that memory, too."

Jin Xueli let out a low, dry laugh. Her throat felt like it had been scraped with sand.

"...The moment you said that, I realized I don’t have that memory. I’m not the copy. You are."

The resident stood there, stunned, as if it didn’t know how to react.

"And don’t forget another crucial point."

Jin Xueli didn’t dare crawl toward the fire axe anymore, afraid of startling the resident out of its stupor. The more confused it was, the better for her. "...Aren’t residents supposed to be unkillable? But I’ve died once already, haven’t I?"

The resident lowered its head, shaking it vigorously.

"No, you could be lying. Pretending not to know something when you really do... that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?"

it said, its voice almost a whisper.

If its voice had a physical form, it would be a long worm burrowing deeper into darkness, shunning the light. "The idea that residents can’t be killed was always just a rumor. Before today, I’d never actually tried to kill a resident... The truth of it was always questionable."

"See?" Jin Xueli said with a breathless laugh. "A resident will always find excuses and reasons to patch up its memories and logic, to convince itself it’s the original."

Silence fell over the hall for a second or two after she spoke.

She watched as her own face slowly lifted to look at her.

A person isn’t very familiar with their own expressions, unless they spend all their time staring into a mirror. So it was hard for Jin Xueli to describe the meaning behind the look that flickered across that face. If she had to put it into words, it was as if something that had been suspended high up in "Jin Xueli’s" mind had suddenly come crashing down.

The next moment, she knew what it was.

"It doesn’t matter which one of us is the resident," her own face said, twisting slightly. "As long as I kill you, I’ll become the real Jin Xueli by default."

Before the words even faded, it had already lunged, snatching up the nearby fire axe. It turned its gaze back to Jin Xueli. Cursing her luck, Jin Xueli yanked off her other sock, scrambled to her feet, and ran for her life.

’Just as you’d expect from a copy of me,’ she thought. ’Faced with the same problem, it came up with the same solution.’

Jin Xueli had thought that shattering the resident’s confidence and planting doubt would create a turning point. But whether the resident was confident or not, it was still trying to kill her. ’Has anything fundamentally changed at all?’

’The worst part is, I can’t kill it, but it can kill me. How can I possibly win this fight?’

The exhibition hall was large, but it felt agonizingly small when someone was chasing you with an axe.

Jin Xueli was barefoot, so she couldn’t run toward the area littered with wood splinters. A splinter in her foot would mean she couldn’t run, which would be a death sentence. That left only one escape route: toward the giant candle.

...and the flickering flame beneath it.

’The resident didn’t turn off the flame or let the candle solidify,’ the thought flashed through Jin Xueli’s mind.

She had noticed earlier, while watching from a distance, that the section it was melting seemed to be from around the time she first met Anthony. In other words, from six months ago.

’Wait, if the part from six months ago can be melted, then—’

Jin Xueli hadn’t finished the thought, but lost in it, her pace had unconsciously slowed.

A heavy, sharp pain sliced through her shoulder, cutting off her train of thought.