Hope narrowly sidestepped the horizontal swipe of the replica's odachi, feeling the wind whistle past his cheek. He twisted his torso mid-movement, lowering his center of gravity as his blade swept upward in retaliation. The steel sang as it bit deep into the clone's side. A sharp hiss escaped the replica's lips as it staggered back, one hand pressing into the deep, bleeding wound carved into its torso. Wisps of black smoke curled from the injury like fog on a cold morning.
Even now, even wounded, the thing smiled.
"Even if you kill me, Hope," it said between ragged breaths, "you'd still die. You can't run from what you are."
Hope tilted his head, eyes wide and wild with pain and something deeper—something unhinged. A crooked smile crept across his face.
"You said you were gonna kill me a moment ago," he replied, his tone almost casual. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
Then, slowly, he lowered his head, shadows gathering across his face like a veil. A twitch ran through his shoulders—his fingers tightening around his hilt. His body trembled, not from fear or weakness, but from the sheer force of whatever emotion he was holding back. The air around him felt heavier… darker.
His next words sent a chill crawling up the replica's spine.
"You know," Hope said, voice low, cracked, unstable, "I've got this voice in my head. Always there. Even in my dreams. Whispering. Breathing down my neck. Reminding me of who I am... or maybe what I've become."
He looked up then, his face twisted in something between madness and epiphany.
"And you think you can make me lose control?"
Then came the laughter. Wild. Unrestrained. The kind of laughter that came from someone who had already been broken and was learning to thrive in the pieces.
"I'm the mad son of darkness," Hope howled. "If you're mad—then I'm your father."
The replica barely had time to raise its sword before Hope exploded forward, his body blurring into motion. The attacks came in rapid, savage flurries—wild yet calculated. The replica parried the first strike, deflected the second, but the third slammed into its shoulder, tearing flesh. The fourth cracked into its ribs. Then another to the thigh.
It couldn't keep up.
The blade in its hand trembled from the impact of each block. Its defenses crumbled as Hope's strikes tore through its form like a storm of blades. A final blow crashed into its chest, sending it to its knees. Black blood dripped down its chin, its breathing erratic, shoulders slumped.
The mirrors all around reflected the kneeling image—a bleeding, beaten version of Hope himself—looking up at the real one with something close to understanding.
Hope stood over it, his own body bleeding, twitching, exhausted. But the fire in his eyes hadn't dimmed. If anything, it had only grown.
He raised his sword above his head.
"Go tell your maker," he said coldly, "that I'm the Emissary of Darkness."
Then, with a brutal downward arc, he brought the blade down.
The replica's head fell from its shoulders, rolling across the mirror-like floor before dissolving into black mist. Its body slumped forward and collapsed, breaking apart into shadowy wisps that curled into the air, vanishing with a whisper.
The mirrored world began to shimmer. Then came the voice.
> You've slain a Veil Creature.
Name: The Cursed Replica
Rank: Corrupted Fiend
The space trembled as streams of shadow peeled from the ground and converged into a single swirling point in front of Hope. A shape began to take form—an ethereal mask, smooth and blank like porcelain, yet covered in faint cracks and intricate dark runes etched into its edges.
> You've gained a Memory
Memory Type: Mask (Upgradable)
Memory Name: Sanity
(If the user wears it, all powers and attributes will be reduced by 40%, but it blocks all mental attacks.)
Memory Description:
"I've been troubled by my own self. Now I seek solace. Ah… the sin of solace."
Hope stared at the floating memory, his breath shallow. Then he smiled faintly—an expression not of victory, but relief.
"Perfect," he muttered, reaching out. The mask dissolved into shadow and was absorbed into his soul sea, the pressure in the air lifting slightly.
He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, the glassy mirrors around him beginning to crack. Lines spiderwebbed across the reflective surfaces, then suddenly shattered outward in a burst of sound and light.
And just like that—he was back.
The circular throne chamber welcomed him once more with its eerie silence, the throne slab behind him. He blinked, adjusting to the light.
Massa and Nefer weren't there yet.
He didn't speak. He just exhaled slowly and dropped to one knee, hands resting on his thighs, head bowed.
The battle had ended. But the weight of it still lingered like smoke in his chest.
And somewhere deep inside, the voice in his head whispered… quieter than before.