Chapter 8 Inhuman-8

'I can't deal with the pain of death again. I don't want to lose my credits. You are Zen-Zero clone, you should die,' said the younger clone to the older clone. His voice was strained, as if the weight of the decision he was making was pressing on his very soul.

The older clone, Zen-Zero, studied his counterpart carefully, his expression unreadable. 'Now we both are entangled. That means we are the same thing. Our memory, our learning, it has transferred between us. So how can we decide who deserves to die more?' His voice was calmer, measured, but underneath it was a quiet desperation, an unwillingness to accept the inevitability of what was to come.

The younger clone's hands trembled as he reached into the suitcase, the cold metal of the knife's handle pressing into his palm. The weight of it felt heavier than it should have been, as if the burden of its purpose had seeped into the steel itself. He lifted it, watching how the artificial light of the sterile room glinted off its sharp edge.

'So, this is going to happen in this way,' the younger clone muttered, more to himself than to his opponent. His grip tightened, his fingers pressing into the textured handle of the weapon. His knuckles turned white.

Zen-Zero inhaled deeply. His shoulders tensed. 'There is no other way.'

A silence stretched between them, a silence thick with unsaid words, with the weight of choices neither of them should have had to make. And then, without another word, they moved.

The fight began with tentative strikes, cautious movements as they gauged each other. Their bodies were mirrors of one another, reacting with precision, anticipating attacks before they landed. The younger clone swung the knife in a controlled arc, aiming for the older clone's torso, but Zen-Zero twisted just in time, letting the blade slice through empty air. He retaliated with a swift strike, his hand aiming for the younger clone's wrist to disarm him, but the younger clone saw it coming and pulled back at the last moment.

They circled each other, their breaths coming in measured exhales. It was not so evident at the beginning who had the upper hand. Every move was countered, every attack neutralized, each of them adjusting and adapting in real time. But as time passed, the tide of the fight began to shift.

Zen-Zero's strikes grew more frantic, his movements less precise. The knife felt heavier in his grip now, the weight of it a constant reminder of what he had to do. But the older clone, Zen-Zero, was different. He moved with a calculated grace, each step measured, each dodge effortless. He was learning, adapting, faster than the younger clone could comprehend.

It became clear: Zen-Zero was gaining the upper hand.

Every slash, every thrust of the knife was evaded with fluid precision. It was as if Zen-Zero could see the attacks before they even happened. His body responded faster than conscious thought, dodging, redirecting, countering. It was an eerie, mechanical efficiency, an instinct beyond normal combat skill.

The younger clone's breathing grew erratic. Sweat formed along his brow. His grip on the knife tightened, his strikes became wilder, more desperate. But desperation was dangerous. It made movements predictable.

Zen-Zero could see the flaws, the imperfections forming in his opponent's technique. He could see the tension in the younger clone's muscles before he lunged, the minuscule shift in weight that signaled an incoming attack. He was no longer just reacting, he was anticipating, controlling the rhythm of the fight.

A sharp step to the side, a precise twist of his body, and another attack missed.

The younger clone's frustration was evident now. He gritted his teeth, growling under his breath. 'Why… why can't I land a hit on you?' he snarled.

Zen-Zero didn't answer. He didn't need to. The answer was already clear. He was adapting, evolving with every second, processing data in a way the younger clone could not. His understanding of movement, of reaction time, of probability....it was accelerating, outpacing his opponent.

But then, something shifted. He stopped reacting with brute force and began mimicking. A slash missed, and he mirrored Zen-Zero's movement. A counter was thrown, and he countered the counter.

For the first time, Zen-Zero hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second.

The younger clone smirked, a dark, feral grin. 'You're not the only one who can adapt.'

Their movements became eerily synchronized, a deadly dance of mirrored actions. Every move was anticipated, every strike met with an identical response. It was as if they were trapped in a perfect loop, neither gaining ground, neither falling behind. Their breathing became ragged, their limbs aching, but still, neither relented.

The room, sterile and cold, became a battleground of sweat and blood. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights above seemed deafening now, a constant drone accompanying their desperate struggle. Blood smeared across the white-tiled floor, not from fatal wounds, but from a thousand tiny cuts inflicted in perfect symmetry. Each time one drew blood, the other did as well. A game of balance.

But balance could not last forever.

The younger clone's exhaustion was evident now. He was keeping up, but barely. His body was shaking, muscles trembling from overuse. Zen-Zero, though equally battered, still moved with unnerving fluidity, like a machine running an optimal program.

A flicker of hesitation, a moment of doubt, and Zen-Zero seized the opportunity.

In a single fluid motion, he stepped into the younger clone's space, grabbing his wrist with iron grip, twisting just enough to make the fingers loosen around the knife's handle. The blade clattered to the floor, the sharp sound reverberating through the sterile room. The younger clone gasped, trying to pull away, but Zen-Zero's grip was unrelenting.

For the first time, the younger clone felt it. True fear.

He struggled, but Zen-Zero was in control now. He had always been in control. He twisted the younger clone's arm further, forcing him down to one knee. Their eyes met, and in that moment, the younger clone saw himself reflected in Zen-Zero's gaze. Not just physically, but wholly. The same fear, the same need to survive.

And yet, he was the one kneeling. He was the one who had lost.

A strange realization settled over him, chilling and inescapable. He had never stood a chance. From the moment they had begun, Zen-Zero had already been ahead.