Emissary Of Darkness

The mirror shimmered like disturbed water, rippling outward in silence before it erupted. A figure emerged—slowly, deliberately—stepping into the strange, mirrored realm with a grace that set Hope's teeth on edge.

His breath caught.

It was him.

Every detail mirrored to eerie perfection. The same bushy hair, unruly and dark. The same pale skin, as if carved from cold ash. The same pitch-black eyes, filled with both dread and calculation. The same weary stance, like a man constantly bracing for the next blow life might hurl at him.

The doppelgänger smiled.

Not a kind smile.

It was crooked. Mocking.

Then, with a slow stretch of its fingers, a weapon materialized—an odachi, long and sleek, forged from something darker than night. Its surface didn't reflect the ambient light—it devoured it. The blade hummed, not with sound, but with pressure. A void too heavy for the senses.

"Hahahah…" the figure's laugh was twisted, filled with scorn. "So you're the one blessed by the God of Darkness, huh?"

It tilted its head.

"Pathetic."

Hope exhaled softly.

"Yeah…" he muttered. "I am pathetic."

He didn't need to be told. He knew it—owned it. His whole life had been a series of running, hiding, surviving. Scraps of dignity traded for another day of breathing. There was no shame left to feel.

But he wouldn't die here.

Without a word, his own sword snapped into his hand—summoned from his soul sea.

"You think you can beat me with that?" the replica hissed, narrowing its eyes. "Get ready to die, hopeless...."

The figure lunged.

Fast.

Almost too fast to follow.

Hope barely pivoted aside, his reflexes saving him by a hair's width as the dark odachi screamed through the air, carving a trench into the floor where he had just stood. He felt the shockwave of the blow brush his cheek—sharp, like a whisper of death.

His replica spun around instantly, sword following like an extension of its will, no wasted motion, no overreach.

Hope parried.

Barely.

The impact sent a numbing jolt up his arm.

They broke apart, circling, neither speaking now. Silence fell between them like a pact, both watching, measuring.

They struck again.

And again.

Sparks flew in rhythmic bursts as blade met blade. Not wild slashes. Not brute swings. Every strike calculated. Every movement efficient. They moved like mirrors—feints, counters, sidesteps, and redirects that bled out into a chaotic ballet of survival. Each time Hope thought he saw an opening, the doppelgänger anticipated it, already repositioning. Every trick he tried—the replica knew.

Because it was him.

When Hope dipped low to bait a high guard and counter upward—the replica mirrored it.

When Hope tried to create distance, to reset the pace—the replica matched him stride for stride, eyes narrowing with mirrored frustration.

He tried to trick his opponent with a sudden shift to his intangible Form, letting the darkness curl around his arm just slightly to hint at transformation.

But the replica did the same—at the exact moment.

They clashed in a blur of movement—shadows bursting like ink stains across the mirrors as they both tapped into the abyss inside them.

Odachi and sword ground against one another, locked together in strength and will. Their faces were inches apart, breath mingling in the cold, dark space.

"Is this all you've got?" the replica snarled.

Hope smirked, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

"No. But it's enough for me to kill you, you bastard, no one is me.... I am me."

The clone headbutted him.

Hope staggered back, dazed, barely blocking the next blow. It cut through the air, grazing his ribs, drawing a line of blood through his armor.

"Stop yapping you're making this boring, the replica said in disgust"

He winced—but countered immediately, flipping his blade around and swinging in a tight arc that forced the replica back.

Another exchange.

Another dance of steel.

The mirrors around them cracked under the pressure of their footwork. Dust rose from nowhere. Hope's breath was ragged. Sweat stung his eyes.

But he noticed something.

His clone—his shadow—was just as tired.

Every weakness Hope had, the replica shared.

His stamina limits. His old injuries. His tendency to fake left before going right. The small hitch in his right shoulder when he blocked too many overhead strikes in a row.

He wasn't fighting a perfect version of himself.

He was fighting himself.

Their blades clashed one final time in a storm of sparks, both panting, muscles screaming. The clone pressed in, face twisted in a manic grin.

Hope gritted his teeth and whispered through a breath, "Let's see which of us is more desperate to live."

"Hahahah.... A disturbing laughter came from the clone, you always said you just wanted to survival, why are you now desperate to live uh? Hypocrite"

"hope didn't know what to respond, yes of course he just wanted to survive maybe what he said just now had contradicted him.... He sighed silently "

They shoved off again.

Stalemate.

A perfect, deadly mirror match.

And somewhere in the shifting darkness, the test continued.