Enchanted University of Magemenos

Chapter 77:Haunting spectre

"How are we supposed to find our way out?" I muttered, frustration laced in my voice, my breath hitching with exhaustion. No matter which direction I turned, the mirrors betrayed me, reflecting only her—knife in hand, blood dripping steadily, like a haunting spectre closing in on me.

By now, I'd cracked so many mirrors that I might as well apply for a stunt master role in a circus. The shards scattered across the floor sparkled mockingly under the dim lights.

My legs burned, each step heavier than the last. My chest heaved as if my lungs were on fire. This maze felt infinite, endless. My energy drained faster with every frantic turn, and a bitter realisation clawed at my mind: escaping this might be impossible.

I avoided looking at the mirrors as much as possible. Each glance felt like a trap, creeping me out further. It was impossible to tell when she was truly next to me, knife in hand, or when it was just a reflection bouncing endlessly between the two-way mirrors, placed to distort and confuse.

The distant screams and thudding sounds told me one thing: someone was either dying—or had already been killed.

My eyes flicked to the mirror on my left, catching sight of a lipstick imprint—a deliberate kiss, smudged and bold. A chilling sign of someone marking their presence.

"This might be a clue..." I murmured, a flicker of hope sparking within me. Gently, I ran my finger over the upper lip of the print, smudging it enough to leave a small difference, a sign I could recognize if I saw it again. At least now, I had something to set apart the countless reflections from what might actually matter.

This wasn't enough. The lipstick mark was a weak guide—too easily missed among the endless maze of mirrors. I needed something more, something to mark my way out, but I had nothing with me. No marker, no tools. Just my hands, my wits, and my desperation.

I slowed down, my breaths coming in sharp, icy gasps as I pressed myself against one of the mirrors, trying to think. My chest burned from all the running, and the maze seemed to tighten around me like a noose.

Then, I froze.

She was right there.

No reflection this time. No distorted image bouncing across countless panes. The brunette girl stood directly in front of me

"AHH..." I tried to scream, but before the sound could escape, her hand clamped down over my mouth. Instinct took over—I bit down hard, the metallic taste of blood grazing my tongue.

"Ouch!" she yelped, recoiling as she cradled her hand.

I staggered back, ready to run again, but then her voice, surprisingly steady, cut through the chaos.

"I'm okay now! Don't you keep track of time?" she said, her tone edged with annoyance.

I froze, my heart still pounding. As I looked at her, I noticed something—her bloodshot eyes had softened. The veins that had once snaked across her face were fading, retreating like a storm clearing from the sky.

"Eight minutes are up?" I asked cautiously, my voice trembling.

She nodded reluctantly, wiping at her face. "Yeah... The curse wore off."

The lipstick marks were still on the mirrors, stubbornly clinging to the glass, even though the loop had shifted. It was a chilling reminder that not everything reset when time did.

"Yes, bitch," she replied curtly, her voice sharp but steady now.

I swallowed hard, my chest heaving from the relentless running. "Then the maze must have shifted... so would the exits. That means all the markings we made are useless," I said, frustrated.

She gave a small shrug, as if this chaos didn't faze her anymore.

"How many did you kill?" I asked, my voice laced with both dread and curiosity.

She paused for a second, then said flatly, "I'm thinking... one."

"That leaves six of us," I replied, doing the grim math in my head.

"But what happened? Why were you suddenly doing... that?" I pressed, narrowing my eyes at her.

Her lips curled into a smirk that didn't reach her eyes. "The curse. It messes with your mind. It wasn't me—it was like watching myself in a dream, but I couldn't stop. My hands weren't my own."

Her words sent a chill down my spine. If she had no control, how could we know it wouldn't happen again? Or worse—what if it happened to me next?