Vol3 Chapter 3 I am who I am

Then—one light lingered. Amos. The observation tower slowly sank into silence.

"..."

The crystal stayed the same, perfectly white, the one that show Amos's. One second passed. Then two. Then three. The younger professor frowned.

"Did it malfunction?"

"No." The elderly professor beside him leaned closer. "The illusion has already begun."

"Then why isn't the light reacting?"

No one answered.

Vice Principal Rusell narrowed his eyes. Far away, Inside the examination. Amos opened his eyes and blinked.

"..."

He looked around. Nothing. No battlefield, no monster, no haunting childhood memory. No mountain of corpses, no Ambrosia with a sword at his throat, no Elena revealing years of secret revenge for unpaid emotional debts. Just nothing. Only white—an endless expanse of pure white stretching in every direction.

Amos stood silently for several seconds then nodded.

"I see." He folded his arms. "The examination has finally understood that my mind is already perfect."

He began walking. There was no destination, no horizon, no sign he was moving at all—just the quiet sound of his footsteps. Then, Amos stopped. Another footstep echoed, one that didn’t come from him.

...

Step.

Amos slowly turned but saw nothing. His green eyes narrowed.

"Hmmmn."

Another step sounded, this time behind him. Amos spun around again—still nothing. Then a voice broke the silence.

"How disappointing."

Amos froze.

The voice was—his. No, not his. Similar, but different. It lacked Amos’s casual laziness, his hidden amusement, and that faint awkwardness that crept in when he tried too hard to sound dignified. It was the voice Amos might have dreamed of having if every flaw of his had been smoothed away—a voice that didn’t ask for attention but received it. Amos lifted his gaze slowly. Someone was standing there.

"..."

Amos stayed silent. The man in front of him had golden hair though not like his own. Amos’s hair was forever unruly, no matter how often Elena tried to tame it. This man’s golden locks fell flawlessly into place, each strand seeming intentional. His face was Amos’s, and yet not. It is what Amos’s might have been if every feature had been polished toward some impossible ideal. Simply perfect. Even the endless white world seemed shabby around him.

And in his eyes, Amos’s expression shifted. They were green. The same green. But those eyes held something more—absolute certainty. The stranger looked at Amos, not with hatred, anger, or even curiosity, but with pity. Pure pity. Like a king discovering a beggar wearing a paper crown, declaring himself the king.

Amos stared back.

"Okay." He raised one finger. "I already dislike you."

The stranger said nothing. Amos pointed at him.

"Let me guess." He began counting. "Hidden fear?" No response. "Future me?" Nothing. "Dark version of myself?"

"..."

The stranger's expression remained unchanged.

"Embodiment of my subconscious superiority complex?" A pause. Amos lowered his hand. "Actually, considering me, that one is possible."

Finally, the stranger spoke.

"Amos."

Amos blinked. There was something off about the way he said it—not in the delivery, but in how it felt more like a label, a temporary tag. The stranger’s gaze drifted over him, slow and deliberate.

"I had expected more."

Amos stared. "...Excuse me?"

"You grown poorly."

Amos looked down at himself. Then back up.

"I am fourteen."

"Precisely."

"What does that even mean?"

The stranger ignored the question and stepped forward. The white world didn’t change—no, it yielded. Space itself seemed to fall into order around him. Amos’s eyes narrowed as the stranger stopped a few steps away, close enough to see clearly. There wasn’t a single wasted movement in his breathing, his stance, the angle of his shoulders, even the direction of his gaze. Perfect.

Amos had spent years training. Years experimenting. Years stealing, borrowing artifacts from the family treasury. Years crafting spells, Years fighting as an adventurer. Years pushing himself to get better. And yet, the person standing before him seemed like the ultimate result of all those efforts.

Amos smiled faintly.

"I see." His eyes sharpened. "So that's the game."

The stranger looked at him.

"This examination delved into my mind and crafted an idealized version of me—everything I could possibly become." Amos gestured toward him. "My face, enhanced. My voice, refined. My body, perfected. My power..."

Amos paused, his smile fading just a touch. He couldn’t feel it—that was the problem. No mana pressure, no killing intent, no spiritual force. Nothing. Yet every instinct he had screamed danger. Not monsters. Something else entirely. The stranger tilted his head, and Amos went on.

"...Improved." Then he sighed. "Very creative."

The stranger finally spoke.

"You misunderstand."

"Do I?"

"Completely."

Amos smiled.

"Of course you'd say that. You're an illusion."

The stranger glanced at him. Then his expression shifted. A deeper pity settled in. Amos's smile twitched.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" The stranger remained silent. "Stop that."

Nothing.

"I said stop."

"You truly believe that?"

Amos paused. "Believe what?"

"That I am you."

"You certainly have my face."

"No." The answer came immediately. Amos blinked. The stranger stepped closer.

"You have mine."

The white world fell into an unbearable stillness. Amos kept his eyes fixed on him.

Then— "Pfft." He covered his mouth. "Sorry." The stranger watched. "No, no. Continue." Amos waved a hand.

"This is becoming interesting." He straightened. "So, if you're not me, who are you?"

The stranger looked at him and answered with one word.

"Kyros. That is my name."

Amos stared.

"Kyros."

"Yes."

"Your name is my family name."

"No. It is the name you inherited."

Amos narrowed his eyes as Kyros stared past him, not at anything in particular. There was nothing behind Amos, yet Kyros’s gaze seemed to reach far beyond the exam, beyond the academy, and even beyond the present.

"When the first of our blood took that name, he began something he could not comprehend." Amos remained silent. "Generation after generation."

Kyros slowly raised a hand. The white world shuddered, and hazy images began to form—unclear, broken fragments.

A man stands over a battlefield; another sits before kneeling nobles. A woman is bathed in holy light, while a wounded warrior laughs through the pain. A one grins before an emperor, and a lone swordsman stands apart—along with many more.

Amos’s eyes widened slightly as he recognized some of them—not personally, but from portraits, records, and family history preserved in the archive.

Kyros went on. “One had gathered strength.” A few vanished. “One had gathered knowledge.” Another group disappeared. “One had gathered authority, one madness, one compassion, and one ambition.”

Every image disappeared until only Kyros remained.

"Their victories, their failures, their discipline, their obsession, their blood, their work, their sacrifices." His green eyes settled on Amos. "All of it moved toward a destination."

Amos said nothing. Kyros placed a hand against his own chest.

"Me."

Amos stared at him. Then rubbed his forehead.

"...Right."

Kyros watched Amos.

"I understand now."

Amos pointed at him.

"You’re the mental examination. You dug through my memories of the Kyros family, mixed them with my identity struggles, added my hidden craving for perfection, and created…" Amos gestured up and down at him. "...this."

Kyros stared at him for several seconds, then let out a small sigh. It was barely audible, yet somehow Amos felt insulted.

"You may believe whatever is necessary for your continued mental stability."

Amos froze. "...What?"

"I will not deprive you of it."

"Don't talk to me like I'm insane."

"I did not."

"You are pitying me."

"Yes."

The immediate answer made Amos's eyebrow twitch.

"Listen here, you overdesigned hallucination—"

"Amos."

The world froze. Amos froze. Kyros hadn’t raised his voice, nor had he unleashed any mana—he’d just spoken. Yet Amos’s body had listened. For the briefest fraction of a second, everything in him stopped: muscles, mana, thoughts, even his heartbeat. Then it all came rushing back. He staggered half a step, eyes widening, as Kyros simply watched.

"Do not mistake my patience for kindness."

Amos slowly straightened. There was no humor in his expression.

"What are you?"

Kyros looked at him.

"I already answered."

"No."

Amos's green eyes sharpened.

"You gave me only a name."

"Then ask correctly."

"Why do you exist?"

Kyros smiled. The exact smile Amos had spent years trying not to make.

"To mature."

Amos frowned. Kyros continued.

"I was incomplete." A pause. "Too early, that the vessel was insufficient."

Amos's expression slowly changed. Kyros looked at him with almost clinical calmness.

"So I made you."

...

Amos stared, then let out a single laugh. Not because it was amusing, but because the statement was so ridiculous his mind refused to accept it.

"You made me."

"Yes."

"Me."

"Yes."

"Amos Eos Kyros."

"That is what I said."

Amos pointed at himself.

"You created me."

"Indeed."

The word struck harder than it should have. Amos's smile disappeared. Kyros continued.

"You were required."

"For what?"

"To continue."

"Continue what?"

"Living."

Amos said nothing. Kyros's voice remained calm.

"The body was young, the mind unstable, the inheritance incomplete, and the foundation unfinished. I couldn’t emerge, so I created something that could."

Amos stared. Kyros looked directly into his eyes.

"A lesser self. Adaptable. Imperfect. Emotional. Capable of growing without breaking under the weight of what I will become."

Amos's hands slowly clenched. Kyros continued.

"You are me."

For several seconds, nothing happened. Then Amos laughed.

"...That's good." Kyros watched. "Very good." Amos looked around the white world."The examination almost got me. It did not. No, really."

Amos nodded.

"This is clever." He pointed at Kyros. "Use my identity problem." Then, pointing at himself, he added, "Take advantage of the fact that I already don’t know where one life ends and another begins." His smile sharpened. "Then create some superior hidden personality and claim he made me."

Kyros said nothing.

"Classic. I'll admit it." Amos spread his arms. "For a mental examination, this is an excellent work."

Kyros stared at him. Again, that pity. Amos's smile vanished.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"You are frightened."

"No."

"You are."

"I am just annoyed." Amos stepped forward. "You're me."

Kyros said nothing.

"An illusion, a creation, something born from my mind."

Kyros’s gaze softened but not kindly. Worse, it was like watching a sick person insist the sky was green. Amos’s jaw tightened.

"You are me."

"No."

"You have my memories."

"I possess what came before you."

"My face."

"You possess an unfinished version of mine."

"My voice."

"A crude imitation."

"My power."

Kyros nearly smiled but didn’t. Amos halted, and Kyros turned his gaze on him.

"Your power?"

The words were quiet.

Amos felt something. Kyros let him feel it—just a fraction. Not even a release, more like a leak, a tiny flaw in whatever impossible restraint held it back. And then, the white world cracked.

Amos could not breathe.

Across the vast, endless space, golden fractures spread. The illusion screamed—there was no other way to describe it. Even the examination itself seemed to cry out. Amos’s knees nearly gave way, his eyes widening. And then—just like that—it vanished. Kyros had already put it down.

The world turned white once more, as if nothing had happened. Amos stood still, frozen in place, while Kyros glanced at him.

"Do not compare us."

Amos slowly forced himself upright.

"If you're supposedly the real one." His voice was quieter now. "Then what am I?"

Kyros answered immediately.

"Discarded pieces."

Amos froze. Kyros's expression did not change.

"You are everything I didn’t need—uncertainty, fear, hesitation, attachment, imperfection, and noise."

"You were useful." Kyros continued. "You let the body grow. You let the foundation mature. You gathered experiences. You shaped what I was soon to inherit." His gaze lowered slightly. "But you were never the destination."

Amos stared at him. Kyros touched his own chest.

"I am."

The white world trembled.

Behind him, for one impossible instant, Amos saw them—generations upon generations. Countless figures, not ghosts or spirits, but something symbolic: a lineage stretching back beyond memory. Every victory, every failure, every improbable Kyros who had pushed the family one step further. And at the end—him. Kyros.

"The first began the road." His voice echoed. "Those after him continued it."

"Some conquered, some destroyed, some protected, some healed, some ruled, some failed, yet all kept moving forward. All to reach me." His green eyes shone.

"I am not just their descendant. I am their conclusion."

Amos could not speak. Kyros looked down at him.

"I am the destination. That is why I took the name."

Kyros. The family itself.

Amos's expression hardened. "...You really believe that."

Kyros looked almost confused.

"Belief?"

He tilted his head.

"No. I know."

Amos stared.

"No."

Kyros watched him. Amos stepped forward.

"You don't get to do that."

"Do what?"

"Claim my life."

Kyros said nothing.

My body, my memories, my family.

At that moment, something shifted—subtly. Kyros’s eyes sharpened. Amos noticed and smiled.

"There."

Kyros remained silent.

"Got you." Amos pointed at him.

"You reacted."

"No."

"You did." Amos's grin widened. "Very small." He pinched two fingers together. "Almost nothing but you did."

Kyros watched him. Amos stepped closer.

"Because they're my family—my father, my grandparents, Ambrosia, and Elena."

...

Amos paused. There it was again, very small, imperceptible, but real. Kyros’s gaze had shifted. Just a little. Still, Amos knew himself too well. Or maybe… knew this person too well. He smiled.

"You see?"

Kyros said nothing.

"You are me. You can call yourself whatever you want." Amos stepped closer. "Kyros."

"Destination."

"Prophecy."

"Perfect being."

He stopped directly before him.

"But you're still—"

Kyros lifted a finger and gently touched Amos’s forehead. Amos froze. Kyros regarded him, not with anger or defensiveness, but with pity. Once again.

"I understand."

Amos's expression twisted.

"...Understand what?"

"Why you need to believe that."

Amos went still. Kyros's voice softened.

"You are afraid."

"No."

"That your memories may not be yours."

Amos's pupils contracted.

"That the life you remember may be fabricated."

"That the person you believe yourself to be may never have existed."

Amos couldn't move. Kyros continued.

"That Amos Eos Kyros is merely a temporary arrangement." The white world became silent. "That I am real."

Amos’s lips parted, but no words followed. Kyros lowered his finger and stepped past him. Amos spun around sharply.

"Wait." Kyros continued walking. "WAIT."

He stopped. Amos stared at his back.

"If you really created me. Why?"

Kyros looked over his shoulder. Amos clenched his fists.

"Why make me like this?"

Kyros watched.

"Why give me memories?"

"Why let me think I'm real?"

"Why let me build relationships?"

Amos's voice tightened.

"Why let me care about people?"

Kyros remained silent for several seconds.

"Because I had not matured."

Amos froze. Kyros turned fully.

"And because you were useful."

There was no cruelty in his voice. Amos stared. Kyros continued.

"But I think you misunderstand something."

"What?"

"I do not hate you."

Amos's expression changed. Kyros looked at him almost gently.

"You performed adequately."

"Adequately."

"Yes."

Amos's eyebrow twitched despite everything.

"You're definitely me."

Kyros looked at him, sighed again, like a weary parent, and Amos’s grin faded.

"Stop doing that."

"You may think whatever you wish."

"There it is again."

"If believing I am an illusion allows you to continue functioning, then believe it."

"You're unbelievably arrogant."

Amos blinked. Kyros turned away.

"Wait. Where are you going?"

"Nowhere."

"Then why are you walking?"

"Because this conversation is finished."

"No, it isn't."

"It is."

"I have about four hundred more questions."

"I know."

"Then answer them."

"No."

Amos stared.

"Why?"

Kyros looked back.

"Because this isn't a suitable place."

Amos froze as Kyros casually lifted a hand. The white world began to crack—not with force, but softly, like glass melting into light. Amos’s eyes went wide.

"What are you doing?"

"Ending your examination."

"You can do that?"

"Obviously."

"Wait." The world continued disappearing. "WAIT."

Kyros watched him. Amos stepped forward.

"If you're real—"

"I am."

"If you're actually real—"

"I am."

"Stop interrupting!"

Amos's eyebrow twitched. The white world was almost gone.

"Then when will I see you again?"

Kyros fell silent for the first time—truly silent. Amos watched him closely as his expression shifted, just barely. Something unidentifiable flickered in those flawless green eyes.

"When the time is right."

Amos froze. The world shattered but before everything vanished, Amos shouted.

"YOU'RE STILL JUST ME!"

Kyros stood alone amidst the crumbling shards of white. He glanced at Amos with a look of pity—almost gentle—like one might give to a madman locked in debate with his own reflection. Then he spoke.

"You may think whatever you want, Amos."

Kyros smiled.

"I am who I am."

He lifted one hand.

"Now leave."

The examination obeyed.

...

Amos opened his eyes to find himself back on the academy grounds. Around him, applicants were stirring—some crying, others trembling, a few laughing with relief. Amos did none of these; he simply stood still. His green eyes stared forward.

The magical circle beneath him vanished. From the observation tower, every professor fixed their gaze on the crystal. Amos Eos Kyros’s light had shifted back to white, and Vice Principal Rusell frowned.

"Result?"

A professor examined the array, then looked it over once more. Slowly, his expression began to shift.

"Passed."

"Score?"

...

"I asked for his score."

The professor swallowed.

"...There isn't one."

The room froze.

"What?"

"The examination ended."

"Yes, but it didn't evaluate him."

The professor stared at the readings.

"It says..." His voice became quieter. "...the participant was released."

No one spoke.

Far below, Amos slowly raised one hand.

"What the hell was that?"

And somewhere, far deeper than thought, far beneath memory, something that had long existed stirred and opened its eyes. No longer Amos. Now, Kyros.