The game house had four magic mirrors—four stations for players.

When the game began, each mirror displayed a skill name. The player's task was to deduce what general type of skill it belonged to: offense, defense, recovery, time, theft, support, special, hybrid, and so on.

There were twenty questions total, with no time limit, but each question allowed only one answer, which had to be supported by a logically consistent explanation.

To win, the player needed an accuracy rate of at least seventy percent.

It looked generous on paper—just name the general category and give a reason. Fourteen correct answers and you passed. But the longer Rita studied the rules, the more she realized this game was harder than all five she had played before combined.

Most skill names were tied to a story, an emotion, or a metaphor. The higher the rank, the less literal the name. Guessing from the title alone was madness.

Names like [Lightchaser Moment], [Sin of Arrogance], [Shabby Road]—how could anyone tell what those did?

And, of course, this game—like Move Your Pig Brain and Another Me—had a penalty for failure.

An oddly specific one: "If you answer three questions wrong in a row, your personality will undergo a minor, temporary change. The Divine Game will select a random creature known to you and, using that creature's personality as a template, distort your own for one hour."

Rita mentally translated it: random possession by someone she knew.

Still, compared to losing skills or erasing an entire world's memory, a personality twist for one hour seemed harmless.

Pomango and Fat Goose had already lined up at two of the shorter queues. Rita glanced between them and took her place at the third, fifth in line. Who knew how long it would take.

But as soon as she stepped into place, commotion broke out ahead of her.

"Why are the questions on this mirror way harder than the others?"

"Right?!"

"So it's not just me—I thought I was losing my mind."

After some heated muttering, the players ahead of her simply left.

Under the watchful stares of Fat Goose and Pomango, Rita moved from sixth to first in a single step.

By the time she reached the player at the mirror, that match had just ended.

Fat Goose, Pomango, and several others who had overheard certain rumors all turned toward her, their expressions a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

The mirror wasn't perfectly round but shaped like an uneven smear of silver water, as if painted carelessly with a wet brush.

For an instant, it reflected Rita's face—then dissolved, replaced by a countdown.

When the glowing number one faded, four Arisentna glyphs rippled across the mirror's surface.

First question: [A God's Love]

Rita: "..."

After a long silence, she muttered, "Aba… Aba??" Healing skill. Because love heals wounds?

She sounded like she was dreaming.

The mirror displayed the verdict: "Incorrect. This skill is an ultimate attack, for no target can refuse a god's love."

Rita: "........."

Alright then. That's how we're playing it.

She'd barely finished the first question and already failed, and from behind her came the laughter of Fat Goose, Pomango, and several half-familiar players.

Fat Goose called out, "Told you! The wilder the rumor, the more likely it's true!"

Rita's expression darkened as she glared at the mirror, waiting for the next.

Second question: [Chimney in the Clouds]

"Aba Aba." Attack skill. Chimney—something like a turret's firing port.

"Correct."

…

Fourth question: [I Thought We'd Always Have Something to Say]

"Aba Aba Aba." Silence skill! After silencing, taunt them.

"Correct."

Fifth: [Die Now, Full Refund] — resurrection skill.

Sixth: [Enterprise-Level Understanding] — conversion skill.

The room echoed with the rhythm of her Aba Aba responses as she answered five correctly in a row. Then came questions seven through nine, and she missed all three.

[The Joker], [Bubbles Without Bubbles], [Really? I Don't Believe You.]

She guessed distortion, curse removal, and taunt.

The real answers were summoning, time, and mind-reading. Not even close.

Rita rubbed her temples. Whether she earned a World Graveyard or not, she was definitely getting the penalty. Hopefully the "borrowed personality" wouldn't be too ridiculous.

Out of the remaining eleven questions, she missed two more, scraping just above the seventy percent threshold.

A hand emerged from the mirror, palm up, holding a round platter filled with mahjong tiles. Rita took one at random—"North Wind."

Her sixth tile.

As she pocketed it, the hand withdrew, and the surface of the mirror began to scroll through the names of every being she had ever met.

"Avery." "Shadow.Q." "Zoey."

All fine. Any of them would be manageable.

"Sanchez."

Oh no. Absolutely not. That might actually damage her intelligence.

When the BlueStar names finished rolling by, Divine Game names followed. Rita leaned closer, reading with growing dread.

Then, suddenly, the list stopped.

The chosen name expanded in glowing letters, as if the game worried she might miss it.

"Marmang Seahorse."

Rita: "............"

She couldn't decide which was worse—Sanchez or the seahorse. Both were a hazard to life expectancy.

Yes, she could be sharp-tongued at times, but hers was strategic sharpness—measured, efficient, always preserving self-interest first.

The little seahorse, on the other hand, had no filter, no survival instinct, just raw chaos. It would say whatever came to mind and ram headfirst into anyone who disagreed. Beautifully unhinged, monumentally annoying, completely unaware of danger. Even Crab couldn't control it; it cared about nothing except running its mouth.

Every conversation she'd ever had with it left her wondering if the creature had been born with a debuff that made it bleed out if it stopped talking trash.

Heavy-hearted, Rita left the station and headed toward the exit.

Fat Goose and Pomango were still waiting their turns. When they saw her pass, Fat Goose reached out to block her path. "How many tiles you got now?"

Rita answered without hesitation. "Aba Aba." Not the kind of question a Candlebeast at your level should be asking.

Fat Goose squinted. "...Who'd you draw for the punishment?"

Rita's reply was calm, assured. "Aba." Maple Syrup.

Fat Goose stared at her. Did she really think he'd believe that?

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