Regressor vs Regressor

The woman awoke with a sharp gasp, her silver eyes wide with terror, her chest heaving as if she had been drowning in her sleep. The dim glow of early morning poured in through an open-carved window, casting soft golden light across the cozy sandstone walls of her room. Outside, the desert village bustled with life—merchants calling out their wares, the distant laughter of children, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone streets.

But inside, in the quiet of her room, there was only suffocating grief.

Tears spilled down her cheeks before she could even register them. She choked on a sob, her entire body trembling as her hands clutched at the sheets. "Alex… Tridra…" The names fell from her lips, broken, shattered things, slipping through the cracks of her voice.

"Alex… Tridra…"

Her breathing turned ragged. The sorrow ripped through her, deep and consuming, a storm inside her chest that would not cease. She dug her nails into her collarbone, then raked them down, as if she could tear the unbearable pain from her body. But it didn't stop. It wouldn't stop.

She folded forward, collapsing onto her hands and knees, fingers clawing at the stone floor. Memories poured in like floodwaters, each one slamming into her, dragging her deeper beneath the tide.

And she cried harder.

Her shoulders shook. Her forehead pressed against the soft sheets, but it did nothing to ground her. Tears dripped onto the blanket beneath her, pooling as she gasped, sobbed, broke.

Then—her face twisted.

Her right hand lifted, and her index finger trembled as she brought it to her chest. Her nail pressed against her solar plexus, sharp against her skin. The words tumbled from her lips, weak, hoarse, nearly inaudible between the sobs.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry…"

The blue glow flickered to life beneath her touch.

Her nail carved into her flesh, tracing something unseen, something etched into her very soul. Soft blue light burned against her skin, searing, cleansing—

And then—

Nothing.

The moment she finished, the grief vanished.

Her face emptied.

Tears still clung to her cheeks, but her silver eyes were now cold, vacant.

Silently, she sat up. She stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in steady, hollow breaths.

Then, after a long pause…

"This feels fucking terrible."

…

(Present Day)

Amunet lifted her head slightly, the grin never leaving her face. The wind tugged at the brim of her hat as her crimson eyes settled on Ophelia.

"I've been wondering…" she mused, voice smooth as silk. "After I died, what did you manage to accomplish while I was gone?"

Ophelia stood still, spear firm in her grasp, mercury flowing seamlessly along her armor in slow, liquid pulses. Her expression was unreadable.

A small pause.

Then, her answer.

"Everything."

Amunet's grin widened.

She tilted her head, gaze dropping lower to her chest.

"Did you ever remove it?"

Ophelia didn't hesitate.

"Yes."

For the first time, Amunet seemed genuinely surprised—not by the answer itself, but by the fact that Ophelia had actually answered. It only lasted a moment, though. Whatever curiosity she had, whatever thoughts stirred behind those blood-red eyes, they didn't matter now.

Because Ophelia was already charging.

Her spear spun like a silver storm, whirling around her wrist before snapping forward in a deadly thrust. Amunet leaned aside, the blade slicing past her cheek, but Ophelia was already pivoting. Her weapon curled behind her back, momentum building before she twisted and drove the spear upward—aiming to pierce beneath Amunet's ribs.

Amunet's scythe twirled in her grasp, her arm moving in a smooth arc as she redirected the attack, sliding her weapon along the spear's length before slashing at Ophelia's throat.

Ophelia bent backward unnaturally, body flowing like liquid metal, the scythe passing a hair's width above her face. In that instant, she snapped her fingers.

A patch of snow beside Amunet hardened—a sharp, jagged spike erupting toward her knee.

Amunet saw it at the last second. Blood from the battlefield snaked up her leg, forming a hardened plate just as the spike struck. The impact shattered the frozen blade, and in the same motion, she let the blood flow downward, twisting into tendrils that lunged at Ophelia's legs.

Ophelia jumped. Mid-air, her spear coiled behind her shoulder before she let it snap downward, the force of her swing splitting the air.

Amunet didn't block. Instead, she rolled forward, the tip of the spear slashing the end of her hat but missing her entirely. As she came up from the roll, she twisted—scythe spinning around her wrist, over her back, down her arm—before slashing in a wide arc, the blood along its blade extending outward into a crimson crescent.

Ophelia's form blurred—[Immaculate Flow] kicking in as she bent at an unnatural angle, letting the blood arc pass harmlessly overhead. She planted one hand against the ground, flipping herself mid-air, and with her free hand, she grabbed a handful of snow.

A flick of her fingers.

A cloud of icy dust erupted in Amunet's face.

For a fraction of a second, her vision blurred. That fraction was all Ophelia needed.

She surged forward, spear a silver blur.

Amunet reacted purely on instinct. She bent backward, her scythe flipping over her shoulder, and just as Ophelia's weapon shot toward her chest—blood exploded outward from the battlefield.

A barrier of corpses' blood rose between them, solidifying just in time. Ophelia's spear crashed against it, sending crimson cracks spiderwebbing through the structure, but she was already moving again.

Amunet leapt back, twirling her scythe across her shoulders, its edge singing as she spun it over her wrist, down her back, around her ankle—gathering speed before hurling a crescent of blood toward Ophelia.

Ophelia's mercury rippled and surged, forming a curved shield along her forearm. The blood crashed against it, hissing on impact, but Ophelia had already vanished.

Amunet's eyes flicked up.

Above.

Ophelia had launched herself skyward. Her spear coiled behind her like a striking viper. And then—she dove.

Amunet whipped her scythe over her shoulder, spinning it like a wheel, the motion gathering blood from the battlefield into a spiraling vortex.

Ophelia's spear crashed into it.

A shockwave burst outward.

The ground beneath them fractured, a deep scar of frozen and bloodied earth splitting open.

And neither of them stopped.

Ophelia shot forward, mercury rippling along her spear as it twisted in her grip, gaining momentum. Amunet met her head-on.

Their weapons collided with a deafening clang, the impact sending out a shockwave that kicked up the bloodstained snow beneath them. Ophelia pressed forward, mercury shifting along her arms, reinforcing her muscles, amplifying her strength. Amunet twisted her scythe, deflecting the spear's edge just enough to slide past it, her body bending unnaturally as she countered with a sweeping slash aimed for Ophelia's ribs.

Ophelia bent backward—too far for a human. [Immaculate Flow] kicked in, her spine arching fluidly, dodging the blade by a hair's breadth. The instant the scythe passed overhead, she snapped forward, twisting her spear around her neck before bringing it down in a vicious overhead strike.

Amunet's free hand flicked.

A razor-thin line of blood shot up from the ground—[Crimson Surgeon]. It solidified in an instant, forming a blade that intercepted the spear mid-swing, blocking the attack just before it could reach her. At the same time, her scythe expanded—[Sanguine Guillotine]—the blood along its edge elongating into a sweeping crescent, forcing Ophelia to vault backward.

The moment her feet touched the ground, Amunet vanished.

Blood mist exploded outward, swallowing her whole—[Veil of the Ripper]. Ophelia's eyes darted around, muscles tensed, grip tightening around her weapon. She didn't trust her vision now.

The attack came from behind.

A scythe blade slashed toward her neck, but her body melted before impact. [Immaculate Flow] turned her flesh to liquid for a split second, letting the weapon pass harmlessly through before reforming. She spun, swinging her spear in an arc—only to hit nothing.

Amunet was already gone.

Another mist explosion. Another shift in the air.

Then a whisper at her ear.

"Sloppy."

Ophelia jerked her spear sideways, but Amunet was already twisting away, her body bending in a way that should have shattered her spine—[Butcher's Ballet]. She pivoted midair, her scythe whirling around her wrist before coming down in a diagonal strike.

Ophelia ducked, mercury pooling at her feet as she used [Alchemical Genesis] to snap the frozen earth beneath them into jagged, unstable shards. The second Amunet landed, the ground shifted beneath her.

Amunet didn't stumble.

Her foot hit a bloodstained corpse, and instantly, the blood beneath her lifted, solidifying into a platform that propelled her forward. She shot through the air like a bullet, scythe spinning in a crimson blur.

Ophelia reacted in an instant, mercury forming a shield along her forearm. The scythe clashed against it, sending sparks flying. Amunet twisted her grip, using the force of the block to vault over Ophelia's head. Midair, her free hand flicked downward—another [Crimson Surgeon] blade burst from the ground beneath Ophelia, aiming to pierce her through the stomach.

Ophelia kicked off the air itself, flipping sideways, narrowly dodging the attack. The second she landed, she retaliated.

Her spear spun across her back, then her shoulders, then her fingers—gaining speed, force, power. Then, she threw it.

Mercury trailed behind the weapon like a comet's tail, shifting mid-flight, adjusting its trajectory to track Amunet's movement. Amunet twisted her scythe in front of her, blood surging from the battlefield to form a makeshift shield. The spear slammed into it, sinking deep into the wall of blood—

Then the wall moved.

Blood lashed outward, tendrils whipping toward Ophelia from every direction. She reacted instantly, [Immaculate Flow] shifting her form—her body twisted and folded unnaturally, limbs bending at angles impossible for a human. She weaved through the attacks, mercury flowing with her every motion.

Amunet lunged.

Ophelia caught the movement.

She reached down, grabbing a handful of bloodstained snow—[Alchemical Genesis] kicked in. The flakes crystallized into razor-sharp needles, and with a flick of her wrist, she sent them flying toward Amunet's face.

Amunet grinned.

The needles stopped mid-air.

Blood surged from the battlefield, coating each projectile. In an instant, the snow transformed—turning into red-tinted, flesh-carving daggers. With a simple motion, Amunet reversed the attack, sending it back toward Ophelia.

Ophelia dropped into a roll, the blood-daggers slicing past her, embedding themselves into the ground. She suddenly formed a new spear of mercury and came up swinging.

Their weapons met again, the sound of metal and blood clashing like a symphony of carnage. Sparks flew. Each strike bled into the next—spins, feints, counters, dodges, footwork so intricate that the ground beneath them became a blur of red and silver.

But Amunet was pressing the advantage.

She moved like a demon, her scythe twisting in her grip, sometimes spinning across her shoulders, sometimes wrapping around her legs before launching back into a strike. The way she fought—it wasn't just speed. It was the unpredictability. The erraticness. Her joints snapped out of place and back in, allowing her to strike from inhuman angles. A normal warrior would have been dead within seconds.

But Ophelia was not normal.

Her battle IQ was too high. She saw the patterns beneath the chaos. The rhythm hidden within the madness.

She adapted.

She anticipated.

The moment Amunet's scythe came in a little too wide, Ophelia dropped low, twisting her spear around her back before snapping it upward. The attack scraped past Amunet's cheek—not a miss. A warning.

Amunet's grin widened.

She faded into blood-mist, using [Veil of the Ripper], allowing her to reappear at Ophelia's blind spot.

Ophelia twisted her body unnaturally, dodging mid-motion, spear whipping behind her in a seamless counterattack.

Amunet contorted mid-air—[Butcher's Ballet]—her body folding in ways that let her evade the strike before she threw her scythe like a spinning guillotine.

Ophelia caught it.

Her mercury armor latched onto the blade, absorbing the impact before she redirected it, sending the weapon back toward Amunet with twice the force.

Blood erupted from Amunet's palm—her scythe stopped mid-flight, reversing instantly, spinning back into her grasp.

They both landed, weapons raised.

Their eyes met.

The storm raged around them.

The moment Ophelia landed, her mind was already racing. Every second of this fight had been leading up to this moment. She had been studying Amunet's movements, reading the way she fought—not just her techniques, but her habits, her instincts, the way she relied on her blood magic.

It had been way too long since she had fought her, so of course, studying her right now was the only option.

From what observed, Amunet fought with overwhelming aggression, forcing her opponents onto the defensive until they crumbled under her pressure. But aggression had a cost. It meant she was always moving forward, always taking ground, always shaping the battlefield to her advantage.

That was what Ophelia needed.

She had been planting the seeds from the very start.

Every dodge, every deflection, every step backward—none of it had been random. It had all been carefully measured, leading Amunet into a precise area of the battlefield. The scattered pools of blood, the embedded mercury needles, the broken terrain she had subtly manipulated with [Alchemical Genesis]—it had all been intentional.

And now, Amunet was exactly where she needed her to be.

Ophelia's grip tightened around her spear. She shifted her stance—just slightly—as if adjusting to the wind. Amunet caught the movement.

She took the bait.

Blood-mist exploded outward and Amunet vanished.

Ophelia didn't react.

She didn't need to.

Amunet reappeared at her blind spot, scythe already mid-swing. It should have been a perfect strike.

Instead—

Her foot slipped.

Only slightly. Just enough to throw her momentum off.

The blood-soaked ground beneath her had mixed with something else—a thin layer of alchemically transmuted mercury dust, invisible in the chaos of battle. Ophelia had been scattering it throughout the fight, bit by bit, letting it blend with the snowy battlefield. The moment Amunet stepped in the wrong place, the mercury mixed with the blood, creating a slick, unstable surface that Ophelia quickly ripped out from underneath her foot.

Amunet's balance faltered.

It was the smallest move. But against an opponent like Ophelia, it was fatal.

Ophelia twisted, using the motion to whip her spear behind her without even looking. The blunt end slammed into Amunet's ribs, forcing her to stagger.

That was all the opening she needed.

Ophelia spun, mercury flowing up her arms, her spear rotating seamlessly through her grip. She stepped forward, forcing Amunet further onto unstable ground, each movement designed to disrupt her footing just a little more.

Amunet realized what was happening.

Too late.

The mercury in the air began shifting—Ophelia had been subtly moving it the entire fight, letting it sink into Amunet's surroundings. Now, with a final [Alchemical Genesis], she triggered it all at once.

The mercury beneath Amunet's feet solidified in jagged spikes—locking her in place just as Ophelia struck.

Her spear's edge ripped across Amunet's chest, a perfect laceration cutting deep into her flesh.

Then the real attack began.

The wound didn't bleed.

Mercury was already inside—it had been in the blood Amunet had been manipulating, in the mist she had been using to vanish, in the air itself. Ophelia had been waiting for the moment Amunet would take a serious hit.

And now, she had.

The mercury poured into the wound, sinking into Amunet's bloodstream before she could react. Poisoning her from the inside out.

Amunet staggered back, hand clutching her chest. Her breathing hitched. A sharp, unfamiliar pain spread through her veins.

Ophelia raised her spear.

"It is over," She muttered, swinging down as hard as she could.

And yet—

A deep, unnatural clunk echoed through the battlefield.

Ophelia's breath hitched.

Her eyes flicked forward.

The slot machine was back.

Blood-red, pulsing, standing in the air between them like a specter of fate. The moment Ophelia saw it, the reels had already begun to spin, symbols flickering in an endless blur.

No.

She had anticipated this.

She had been watching, calculating, waiting for Amunet to use it again.

Ophelia's spear continued to move.

Her mercury spear snapped through the air, her entire body twisting as she poured every last ounce of power into one final swing. This wasn't just a strike—this was everything. Every drop of strength, every scrap of mana, every ounce of will.

The edge of her weapon collided with the slot machine.

CLANG.

The sound was wrong.

Not a shatter, not a rupture—a deflection.

As if she had struck something immovable.

The force of the impact whiplashed through her body, her own power rebounding, forcing her to take a staggering step backward.

And then—

Click. Click. Click.

The reels stopped.

Three identical runes locked into place, glowing with a deep, pulsating crimson.

Amunet's fingers twitched.

Her lips curled, eyes burning with something terrible.

And then—

"Lucky~" she sang.