The first time Kai Mercer came looking for the woman he believed he loved, I protected the liar who had stolen my face. The second time, I took one look at the famous champion standing beneath a wall of cameras and realized death had given me something mercy never had: the chance to stop being useful to people who hurt me.
Chapter 4
Consequences arrived quickly once nobody was protecting Brier from them.
Her showcase badge was suspended before she left the stage. Sponsors froze their agreements. Payment accounts connected to Kai’s transfers were placed under review, and the university opened a conduct investigation after learning she had used campus networks and resources during the impersonation.
Our landlord received the police documentation and security footage.
Brier moved out within a week.
She tried to livestream an apology.
The title was MY TRUTH: THE VOICE BEHIND LUNABLADE.
It lasted less than five minutes.
Viewers flooded the chat.
Is this the soul or the skill?
Please avoid nearby walls.
Can we verify the apology with device logs?
She ended the stream.
Kai’s consequences were smaller, but public.
He issued an apology the next day.
“I was deceived,” he said from the main stage. “But after I learned there were serious concerns about fraud, I acted selfishly. I asked Maya Quinn to protect my image instead of supporting the truth. That was wrong.”
Two sponsors paused campaigns.
His showcase ambassador role ended early.
He was removed as captain of a charity exhibition match.
The internet, which had spent years worshiping him, discovered that champions were considerably more entertaining when embarrassed.
Three days later, he found me backstage after the final tournament match.
No cameras.
No manager.
No Brier.
Just Kai and me beneath fluorescent lights beside stacks of equipment cases.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I checked my phone.
He sighed. “What are you doing?”
“Checking the delivery time.”
“For what?”
“Your apology. It seems delayed.”
He almost smiled, then decided he had not earned it.
“I deserve that.”
“Yes.”
He leaned against the wall.
“I really was fooled, Maya.”
“I know.”
“I thought the jokes, the messages, the way she talked to me—I thought all of that was you.”
“You wanted it to be.”
He looked down.
“I thought the woman beating me and the woman understanding me were the same person.”
“Because that made a better story.”
He nodded slowly.
For a moment I saw the man he might have been without the crowd, the trophies, the people constantly telling him that every emotional impulse deserved to become part of his legend.
“Can we start over?” he asked.
There it was.
The question that had trapped me once.
In my first life, I had spent years trying to become the woman he believed he had met online.
This time the answer came easily.
“No.”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“Maya—”
“You loved a fantasy Brier built out of my face and your ego. Then when the fantasy collapsed, you tried to make me keep performing it so you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“I’m saying I could do better.”
“I hope you do.”
His eyes softened.
“But not with you,” he said.
“No.”
He let out a long breath.
“You’re colder than I expected.”
I shook my head.
“I’m clearer than I used to be.”
I walked past him, then stopped.
“Kai.”
He turned.
“If you ever call losing to me chemistry again, I’m sending you an invoice.”
He laughed once.
It was the first honest sound I had ever heard from him.
Two weeks later, Ether Rift restored and fully verified my account. My competitive eligibility remained intact. Brier was barred from official events after the investigation confirmed unauthorized access and identity fraud. Legal cases continued, but for once they were no longer the center of my life.
Dax helped me rebuild every security setting I had once ignored.
Hardware authentication.
New passwords.
Locked recovery codes.
Separate devices.
He watched me place the backup codes inside a small safe.
“That’s better than the desk drawer,” he said.
“The desk drawer trusted women with pastel hoodies.”
“A common cybersecurity vulnerability.”
Six months later, I launched my own channel.
No fake romance campaign.
No mysterious woman branding.
No borrowed personality.
Just Lunablade.
Verified.
My first stream was called CARRY YOURSELF.
I played Ether Rift, taught account security, warned younger players about impersonation scams, and explained why records mattered when online conflicts became real-world problems.
Dax became my moderator.
A viewer asked, Maya, are you single?
Dax replied, She is verified. Please respect higher priorities.
Another viewer asked, Is Kai watching?
Dax typed, Statistically possible. Emotionally irrelevant.
I laughed so hard I missed a parry.
Brier attempted two online comebacks over the following months. Each time she used a new channel name. Each time viewers recognized her.
The internet could be cruel.
But it could also remember.
And Brier had spent years believing that changing the packaging meant she could escape what was inside.
Kai eventually returned to serious competition.
So did I.
That winter, tournament organizers placed us in opposite sides of the bracket.
We met in the semifinals.
Crown Kai versus Lunablade.
The arena loved it.
Commentators tried to turn the match into a story about redemption, rivalry, lingering tension.
To me, it was Tuesday.
Kai played beautifully.
He was still a world champion for a reason. Fast reactions. Brilliant positioning. Aggressive instincts whenever the crowd got loud.
But I remembered something about him.
Kai overcommitted whenever he believed his opponent was emotionally rattled.
In another life, he had used that against me.
This time I waited.
Game three.
Final fight.
He feinted left.
I did nothing.
He pushed forward.
Still nothing.
He committed.
One step too far.
I moved.
Cancel.
Turn.
Blade.
The kill notification appeared.
LUNABLADE ELIMINATED CROWNKAI.
VICTORY.
The arena exploded.
I did not scream.
I did not cry.
I simply leaned back and looked at my screen.
For years I had imagined closure as some dramatic moment when the people who hurt me finally understood what they had done.
I had been wrong.
Closure was not Brier losing her audience.
It was not Kai losing a match.
It was not revenge.
Closure was owning my name without needing anyone else to regret stealing it.
Kai typed into postgame chat.
GG.
I smiled.
Then I typed back.
Invoice sent.
The audience saw it on the giant screen and went wild.
From the analyst desk, Dax said dryly, “Payment appears overdue by several years.”
I laughed.
In my first life, I covered for Brier because I thought kindness meant protecting people from the consequences of their choices.
It cost me my reputation.
It cost me my career.
For a while, it almost cost me myself.
The second time around, I learned that mercy without boundaries was not kindness. Sometimes it was simply permission for someone else to keep hurting you.
Brier had the messages.
Kai had the fantasy.
But I had the thing neither of them could manufacture.
My work.
My skill.
My name.
Lunablade had never needed a borrowed voice to become real.
She only needed me to stop giving her away.
THE END.
⚠️ All characters and events are fictional. Do not imitate or apply them in real life. 😌😌😌
