Chapter 12: ch 12 William in the Mirror
Back in reality, after William finished donning his sleek, high-grade attire, he stepped before the large mirror mounted near the wardrobe. And of course—of course—he paused.
Because for all the power William wielded, for all the galaxies he had crushed or created, there was one truth that remained constant through every life, every death, every reincarnation:
William was a narcissist.
Not the subtle kind. No—his was a grand, unapologetic, poetic kind of self-worship. A full-blown admiration for the masterpiece he believed himself to be.
He stared at his reflection, captivated.
"Truly," he thought, "if beauty had a form, it would simply borrow mine."
His face—sculpted with such precision it would make entire planets’ worth of influencers and idols question their worth. If there were a universal modeling competition, they might as well shut it down before it began. Even the Grand Witch—had she been stronger than him—might have kidnapped William just to study his impossibly perfect face.
He didn’t blame her. Who wouldn’t want to analyze such divine aesthetics?
He gently ran his hand through his hair—long, flowing strands that shimmered with golden streaks woven through midnight-black silk. The golden highlights weren’t artificial; they were naturally occurring, because of course they were.
Then there were his eyes. Deep, piercing blue—so profound, so perfectly luminous they seemed to reflect the birth and death of galaxies. They carried a mystique, a depth, and a ruthless clarity that could inspire awe and fear all at once. One could fall into them and be lost in visions of creation and destruction, of time bending and reality warping.
Power. Elegance. Majesty. Mystery.