Page 200 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Comprehensive formation is ready for whatever institutional creativity has prepared for final testing and systematic revelation.

The final level.

The ultimate challenge.

The conclusion of everything we've survived and sacrificed to achieve.

Pack completion awaits.

THIRTY-EIGHT

THE FINAL MIRROR

~JINX~

The door slides shut behind me with pneumatic finality, sealing me into what appears to be the simplest level I've encountered throughout this entire nightmare.

Just a long corridor stretching ahead like an arrow pointed toward destiny, walls lined with mirrors that reflect my solitary figure from every conceivable angle. No elaborate traps, no environmental hazards, no complex puzzles requiring tactical genius or combat prowess.

Just me and my reflections, walking toward whatever Press has prepared as his grand finale.

"What does this level center on?" I wonder aloud, voice echoing through the sterile space with hollow resonance that makes the question sound more profound than intended.

Silence answers.

Complete, absolute silence.

I turn to look over my shoulder, expecting to see four familiar figures following with their characteristic mix of protectiveness and territorial confidence.

Empty corridor greets my searching gaze.

"What the hell?" I mutter, spinning in place to confirm what my eyes refuse to believe.

The entrance stands vacant, no sign of the Alphas who should be right behind me. No Riot with his predatory intensity, no Sable with his judicial composure, no Ash with his scarred determination, no Corvus with his analytical precision.

Just emptiness where pack unity should exist.

A frown creases my features as understanding crystallizes with sickening clarity. Press knew I'd walk in first. Stubborn, independent, always taking point despite pack hierarchy and protective instincts that demand Alpha leadership during dangerous situations.

He counted on my nature to separate us at the crucial moment.

The speaker crackles to life with electronic precision that cuts through atmospheric tension like blade through silk.

"Four out of the five Alphas have exited the Parazodiac," the mechanical voice announces with bureaucratic indifference that transforms devastating news into administrative notification. "Sixty minutes remain before challenge failure. Without five Alphas, the Omega designation will be unable to leave the Parazodiac and will face elimination. No individual may experience the Parazodiac trials twice."

The words hit like physical blows, each syllable driving home the impossible mathematics of survival and institutional cruelty disguised as regulation.

Four Alphas plus one Omega equals four.

The calculation proves devastatingly simple and utterly insurmountable through any conventional approach or tactical maneuvering.

A timer materializes in the corner of my vision with digital precision, red numbers counting down with mechanical indifference to personal investment or emotional stakes.

59:47... 59:46... 59:45...

But the countdown itself bothers me less than the fundamental problem it represents. How can I tackle this final challenge when the rules themselves seem designed to ensure failure through mathematical impossibility?

The corridor ahead doesn't look particularly long or challenging. No elaborate obstacle course or death trap requiring superhuman capability. Just a straight path toward what appears to be an exit door, maybe a hundred meters of walking through mirrored passage.

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