Emissary Of Darkness

Their blades met in a storm of steel once more, sparks flying with every parry and strike. The clash rang out loud and sharp through the hall of mirrors, their mirrored silhouettes dancing violently in the reflections around them.

Both fighters were bloody, bruised, exhausted—but neither yielded. Every move Hope made was met with equal precision. Every feint mirrored, every trick countered. It was like fighting himself in the worst possible way—because the replica wasn't just a copy of his skill, but also his instincts.

The clone laughed as their blades locked again, faces just inches apart, breathless and snarling.

"You're getting slower, Hope," it said through a grin. Blood ran down its cheek, but its eyes still gleamed with venom. "You can feel it, can't you? The ache in your arms. The weight in your legs. You're breaking."

Hope didn't answer. He was too focused, his mind calculating, body coiled like a spring.

But the replica didn't stop. It pushed him back with another barrage, their swords ringing out in rapid succession. Hope blocked high, ducked low, sidestepped a sweeping cut—barely. The odachi skimmed his ribs, and he hissed, stumbling back.

Then came the words that stopped his breath.

"If I kill you," the replica said, its voice low and sharp like ice, "I'll go to Massa and Nefer next. I'll cut them down slowly. Let them see your face—your face—as the last thing before they die. Imagine the light fading from their eyes, Hope. Imagine their last thoughts being of you… betraying them."

Hope froze mid-step.

His fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his sword. Jaw clenched. His heart punched against his ribs like a war drum.

"…Are you trying to bait me?" Hope asked quietly, his tone carefully neutral. "Trying to get me to lose my head… fight without thinking?"

But inside, the words had landed. They rattled in his skull. The image of Massa's staff shattered on the ground. Nefer's calm eyes filled with pain. Their bodies broken in some echoing ruin like this one. And his face—the last thing they saw.

The replica smiled.

"I don't need to bait you," it replied. "You're already on the edge. You care, don't you? You've started to care. And that—" It pointed the odachi at him. "—that is weakness."

Hope took a breath, slow and steady. He raised his sword again.

"I swear," he said, voice shaking with something deeper than rage, "I'm going to kill you."

"Then try," the replica sneered.

They clashed again—harder, faster, more brutal than before. Hope attacked with renewed ferocity. He didn't abandon his cunning—but now every blow carried something else. Not just survival. Not just calculation. Conviction.

Their swords rang in sharp, furious bursts. Hope twisted into a low slash. The replica countered with a sharp block, then spun to deliver a reverse strike—but Hope was already inside the arc. He bashed forward with his shoulder, knocking the clone off balance just slightly.

Enough.

Hope brought his blade up and carved a line across the replica's side. Blood sprayed.

But the clone retaliated instantly, catching him with the pommel to the temple. Hope saw stars, staggered, and caught himself on a knee, panting, blood dripping from his scalp.

For a moment, they both stood still—circling, blades up, their breathing ragged. The mirrored world around them flickered as if holding its breath.

Hope didn't speak.

But inside, a fire was growing. Pain, fear, fatigue—all wrapped around a burning core of grim resolve...