He had to talk. The voices quieted when he did.
"What if I just want to talk?"
The copy lunged for the weapons. Iskar moved with it, a sideways shuffle. The double grabbed a sword. Iskar's eyes landed on a pair of short, heavy blades with curved grips. He snatched them up.
"Always the sword," he muttered.
The copy attacked. A horizontal slash. Iskar crossed the blades, caught the sword near the hilt, and twisted. Steel shrieked. He shoved the attack wide and pressed in close, inside the sword's reach.
"You ever wonder why we're here?" he grunted, hacking with the blades. Left, right. Brutal, efficient strikes. The double backpedaled, parrying. "Or do you just do what you're told?"
He backed into a patch of loose sand, kicking it up. The copy flinched. Iskar used the moment. He slammed a blade down on the sword, pinning it for a second, and swung the other at the double's ribs. It twisted away, the edge slicing cloth, drawing a line of red.
It was learning. Its blocks were tighter, its footwork mirroring his chaotic rhythm. Studying the madness.
Iskar grinned, wild. "You see that? You're learning." He feinted high, went low. "But can you learn fast enough?"
Iskar drove the doppelganger back with a series of heavy, alternating chops from the dual blades.
The curved grips allowed him to hook and pull, disrupting the copy's balance. He feinted a high attack and swept a blade low, forcing the creature to leap over it.
As it landed, he was already inside its guard, slamming the pommel of one weapon into its jaw. The crack of bone was sharp and dry.
The doppelganger staggered but did not fall. It adapted, its movements becoming less a reflection of his old sword style and more a twisted echo of his current chaos.
It began to use the environment, kicking up sand to obscure his vision and using the uneven ground to create awkward footing.
A powerful counter-strike knocked one of the blades from Iskar's hand. The shock ran up his arm.
He had to roll backward to avoid the follow-up thrust, the sword point digging into the ground where his throat had been. The sudden, violent motion stole his breath and his words.
In that moment of silence, the voices returned.
"He is you, but better,"
"He is what remains when the doubt is stripped away."
"Just lie down," another whimpered, full of fatigue.
"It would be so much easier. The pain would stop."
"You cannot win a fight against yourself," a third concluded, with the tone of a final judgment.
Iskar scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving. He focused on the weight of the remaining blade in his hand. "You're all very helpful," he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice rough.
He had to keep speak, to drown them out but it wq getting hard as he had to focus. He lunged forward, his attack more reckless now. "But I asked for a conversation, not a committee meeting."
He deflected a thrust and used his free hand to grab a handful of gravel and dirt, flinging it into the doppelganger's face.
It reeled back, blinded for a crucial second. Iskar did not press the attack with his blade. Instead, he slammed his shoulder into its chest, driving it back against the stone pillar.
The doppelganger slid off the pillar, crashing to the ground. Weapons forgotten, they rolled in the dirt, limbs tangled, fists flying.
The copy scrambled on top, pinning Iskar down. A punch landed, once, twice, before he twisted his head aside, and the next strike smashed into the earth beside his ear.
Gritting his teeth, Iskar clawed at the ground, fingers digging into loose sand. He flung it into the doppelganger's face, blinding it for a split second.
Its grip loosened. He seized its wrist as the next punch came down, redirecting the force into the dirt again. With a snarl, he bucked his hips, throwing it off balance.
Now on top, Iskar drove his knee into its ribs. His fists followed, hammering down in brutal, wordless rhythm.
The voices rushed in to fill the silence.
"Yes... kill him, kill him—"
"No, why kill him? Don't kill him—"
"He's your friend. Your only friend—"
"Fake friend. Look at him. Ugly. Weak. Just like you—"
"He's laughing at you. Can't you hear it?"
Iskar didn't answer. His hands left its face, fingers wrapping around its throat instead. He squeezed. The doppelganger's mouth gaped, its own hands flying up to claw at his wrists, his arms, anything to break the hold.
The voices twisted, frantic.
"You're killing yourself—"
"You're so stupid—"
"Kill me instead—"
"No, kill me—"
"Choke him good—"
"What if he likes it?"
"Kill him. Killllll him—"
The doppelganger's fingers hooked into his face. A thumb pressed deep into his eye.
"KILL THEM—"
Iskar screamed.
Hot blood spilled down his cheek. He didn't stop. He choked harder, knuckles white, vision swimming in red-black agony.
The thing beneath him writhed, its other hand still buried in his eye socket, but its strength was fading. One arm dropped limp. The other twitched, fingers lodged inside him like a grotesque anchor.
Blind, half-mad, Iskar slammed its skull into the ground, Once, Twice. A wet crack sounded and his choking hands slackened.
A voice, calm and distant, cut through the noise.
[You have Completed the Trial of Limbo.]
Iskar let go.
He collapsed onto his back, gasping, his face a ruin. Blood pooled beneath him. The voices were silent.
The texture of the ground beneath him had changed.
A hand touched his face. Warmth spread through his ruined eyes, the flesh knitting back together with a slow, itching burn. He blinked, vision returning in blurred streaks of light before clearing.
The Unnamed Speaker stood before him.
"You've accomplished the Trial," the Speaker said. "You will get your reincarnation. And these gifts to open."
The Speaker tilted its head. "So, Iskar al-Sirius of the Limbo... what do you wish for?"