Alvios…
Alvios…
Remember.
The voice wasn't loud.
It didn't force itself on him.
And yet it was there—clearer than any thought, deeper than any breath.
Alvios stood on the edge of total exhaustion. His body felt like someone had wrung him out and thrown him back onto the ground. One hand was clenched tight around the grip of his weapon, the other hung heavy at his side. Every muscle burned. Every breath hurt.
Step forward. Stand up. Now.
He tried to rise.
His knees trembled.
Then they gave out.
"Come on… stand up… come on…" he kept muttering to himself, the words cracked, barely more than air. Not a command—more like a plea to a body that no longer wanted to obey.
The glaring light of the binding circle flickered one last time—then died. The oppressive glow around him vanished so suddenly it was as if it had never existed.
The clone blinked.
Blinded by the light, disoriented for a heartbeat—then his gaze refocused. Cold. Targeted.
He raised his sword.
Alvios stood up.
Slowly.
Unnaturally calm.
His face was empty. Not determined. Not angry.
Empty.
His eyes looked like they were staring through the room rather than at it. Something had changed while he'd knelt inside the circle. Nothing visible. No new glow, no aura. But the feeling was there—as if someone had flipped a switch.
The clone didn't hesitate.
He charged, faster than before, the ground splintering beneath his steps. He drew back and aimed straight for Alvios' ribcage. Fulmen crackled, leaping from the blade—a fully charged strike.
Alvios raised his hand.
Not his sword.
His bare hand.
The blade stopped.
Metal hit flesh.
Lightning drilled into his palm, sparks burst, the smell of burned meat filled the air. Any normal human would have screamed. Would have let go. Would have lost the arm.
Alvios didn't react.
No flinch.
No sound.
As if he hadn't felt the pain at all.
The clone's eyes widened.
Alvios lifted his sword and struck. The clone jumped back, the blow only catching his hip—a clean cut, Fulmen eating into it. They both felt the same pain. But only one of them showed it.
Alvios spoke calmly. Too calmly.
"Shouldn't we finish this already?"
He tilted his head slightly.
"This fight is starting to bore me."
The clone ground his teeth.
Alvios raised his sword and took a stance. Sideways by the head, the blade angled slightly downward. The stance was precise. Old. Familiar.
His father's martial art.
One step.
One breath.
Fulmen vanished from sight. Not extinguished—just no longer visible.
The clone took a step forward.
And froze.
Alvios was gone.
His perception staggered. The room spun. He saw Alvios in front of him—then above him. Upside down on the ceiling, sword pointed straight at him.
Why… isn't he moving?
Then he saw it.
Alvios had no head anymore.
Panic shot through the clone—too late.
In truth, it was the clone who had already been cut. The speed had been so high his body registered the pain with delay. His head separated, fell—then grew back the very next instant.
The core was unharmed.
But something had changed.
The regeneration… slowed.
The clone lifted his gaze.
"You're not like before… what did you do?"
Alvios looked at him. His stare was empty.
Calmer than he'd ever been.
"What do you mean?"
A faint smile.
"We're only just getting started."
He raised his sword, the tip angled upward. His lips moved. He spoke a formula—but it wasn't a magical formula. Not a known language. No Aether stream followed.
Something was unleashed.
The clone didn't understand—and attacked.
They both rushed forward at the same time. Blades crossed. Sparks flew. The first strike slid off, Alvios slipped under it. A cut into nothing. A hammering counterblow. The clone dodged.
The exchange grew more intense. Faster. More brutal.
A thrust barely missing.
A kick into the shin.
The clone stumbled.
Alvios grabbed him by the throat and kicked again. The clone squeezed his eyes shut. Pain—pain no normal body could endure—ripped through him.
Alvios stabbed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
He didn't stop.
Stab after stab, until even his own vision darkened, until black crept at the edges of his sight. The clone launched a desperate counterattack. Alvios released the throat, caught his wrist.
The grip was iron.
"That's it."
Alvios drove his sword into the ground and raised his free hand.
"Freeze in ice."
The clone's eyes snapped wide.
Panic—raw, uncontrolled—burst out of him. He yanked at his arm, but Alvios' grip didn't move, as if he were part of the ground itself. For a heartbeat the room seemed to hold its breath.
Then the power discharged.
No spoken spell.
No guided pattern.
And yet the Aether moved.
It did not resist.
Aetherium condensed without word, without gesture.
And in the next instant it released.
A lightning-like beam, cold and blinding, fired from Alvios' raised hand. It wasn't white, not blue—colorless, like someone had ripped warmth itself out of the world. The clone tore his arm free, wrenching himself loose even if it meant leaving parts of himself behind.
Too late.
The beam grazed him.
The left side of his face froze instantly. Ice devoured skin, muscle, bone. His arm, his hip—everything locked into a horrible blend of frost and Fulmen aftershock. The frozen parts began to crack, fine fractures crawling through them.
And something decisive happened.
The regeneration stopped.
The clone dropped to one knee.
"What… did you… do to me…?" he forced out. His voice was broken, warped. Pain—pain he'd never known before—finally crushed him fully.
Alvios stood before him.
His face was calm. Almost indifferent.
As if he'd accepted this outcome long ago.
He stepped closer, picked up his sword. The metal vibrated faintly in his hand, as if reacting to something. Alvios lifted his gaze—and stopped.
His shoulders sagged.
"Is it… already time?" he murmured. The words faded into a quiet breath.
Then he collapsed.
Onto both knees.
His body gave out as if someone had cut the strings. Blood dripped from his mouth. Every breath burned, tearing at his lungs like they were about to rip.
What… the hell…
My body… isn't obeying me anymore…
The clone didn't waste time.
Roots crawled from the ground, twisting together, forming a rough, warped replica of his lost sword. He forced himself upright, the ice splintering further, but he ignored it.
Both stood now on the brink of collapse.
Slowly. Limping. Step by step, they moved toward each other.
The air was still.
The earth was silent.
Even the Aether held its breath.
Everything listened for the final act.
Alvios' face was a mask of pain. The calm was gone. What remained was only will—raw, exhausted, unyielding.
The clone attacked first.
A forward slash.
Alvios stumbled back, barely fast enough. With the last of his remaining strength, he swung his sword at the clone's remaining arm.
The strike was clean.
But too weak.
The arm stayed attached.
Still, the sword fell from the clone's hand and clattered to the floor.
A heartbeat.
Then the clone struck.
His fist hit Alvios in the face. Reflexively, Alvios let his sword drop. The fight turned into something primal. Raw survival.
Fist against fist.
An uppercut slammed into Alvios' stomach. Air burst out of him in a wheeze. The clone had only one arm left—but he used it mercilessly. The fight became brutal, direct, one-sided.
Alvios grabbed the remaining arm.
Held it tight.
And punched.
One hit.
Another.
And another.
Fists crashed into flesh and bone. Blood sprayed. Skin tore. It wasn't a fight anymore—it was a massacre. Alvios could barely hear anything now. His vision blurred. His strength ran out of him like water through open fingers.
Then the clone bit down.
Teeth sank into Alvios' shoulder. Flesh tore free. Pain exploded.
Alvios reacted on instinct.
A knee into the hip.
Both staggered.
No stamina. No technique. Only the last spark of strength drove them on. Fist met fist. Slow. Heavy. Every hit a miracle.
Then they stopped.
Panting. Bloody. Swaying.
The clone laughed softly.
"You have… my respect," he wheezed. "For a copy… you fought well."
Alvios stepped closer.
The clone understood.
His gaze dropped to Alvios' hand, slowly pressing against his chest. Right where something deep inside him was pulsing.
A faint green light shimmered through.
"Even if you were only a copy," Alvios said quietly, "that was actually fun."
He thrust.
The clone was driven to the ground. The impact made his body fall apart. Flesh and blood crumbled into earth, as if the ground had reclaimed him.
Only the core remained.
Glowing green. Pulsing.
Alvios lifted his foot—and stomped down.
The core shattered.
Silence.
The fight was over.
Alvios raised his hand.
A weak, exhausted grin flickered across his face.
"Done…"
Then he turned away. Without looking back, he continued onward and disappeared step by step deeper into the grotto.