Win

Blood was gushing out of his body like water from a fire hydrant. He didn't know how he was going to make it—but he had to.

He looked everywhere for something that could help him, but there was nothing.

Then he noticed something—the belly of this beast wasn't glowing like the one he had faced on the day he was first transported into the labyrinth.

And the moment life completely left the monster's body, the stones in his pockets suddenly shot into the air like two beautiful fireworks.

From them emerged a gorgeous woman, with hair like strands of gold and eyes as blue as the sea.

"You're not real either… I know it," he said, coughing a mouthful of blood at the same time.

The apparition did not answer. Instead, she extended a hand, caressed his cheek, and kissed him on the forehead—only to disappear a second later.

"Was that an angel?" he thought to himself.

That's when he felt it—a surge of power came ablaze in his heart. One of his eyes started to glow with a light as bright as the sun, while the other was as dark as obsidian.

"I feel like I keep saying the same thing, but what is this? What did she do to me?"

His body began healing. The blood that had flowed out of his body suddenly came back in—the holes in his side disappeared, and his arm actually reattached itself. It was all painless. It felt good, even. He did not feel dizzy anymore—heck, his thirst was quenched.

Fin jumped up, did a couple of jumping jacks, and looked for anything out of the ordinary on his body. Both of his brands were glowing, but everything else was fine. Even his previous injuries were healed—he felt better than ever.

He decided to look inward for some reason, and found two orb-like objects circling the essence of the dead monsters, right underneath his brands. He tried to do something with them, but he couldn't—they weren't answering his call. He desperately wanted to use them, but he couldn't spend days trying. He still had to get out of this damned maze.

He looked forward—only to be blinded by the light of the sun. It hadn't shone on him in gods knew how long. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. The sky had parted in a straight line—and so had the hedges. The labyrinth was no more. What remained was a simple straight road to the end of the maze.

"I guess… this is it." he said in a peaceful tone.

Fin had a lot of questions, but no one to ask them to. The moment of truth was coming—the end of the trial was near. He could run to the end of the trail but decided not to, he took his time and appreciated the warm touch of the sun on his cheek and breathed in the clean air. Time passed and he was now at the end of the road. The walls were now made out of polished white stone and opened up into an arena.

Right at the end of it was the gate of his trial.

"YEEES!!!" he shouted "It's finally over."

But as his voice echoed in the arena the shadows surged and gathered in one spot, and out of it a clone of himself emerged.

Fin stared at himself and realised instantly what he had to do.

"You have got to be kidding! I have to kill Myself now." He screamed at the world

"I am not technically you, I'm just a clone generated by the trial." It answered calmly

Fin didn't answer right away. He was breathing hard again, not from fatigue, but frustration—bone-deep, bitter frustration. He'd clawed his way out of death, dragged himself across this cursed maze, been kissed on the forehead by a woman who may or may not have been real... and now he was supposed to beat himself up?

"Trial this, trial that," he muttered. "Is there ever an end to this crap?"

The clone—his clone—stood motionless. It wasn't intimidating. It didn't flex, didn't posture. Just stared with his own eyes. Same jawline. Same posture. Same face.

But there was no warmth behind those eyes. No weight of the journey. No fear. No hope. Just a reflection.

Fin took a breath and stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "Alright. Let's get this over with."

The clone mirrored him exactly—one step forward, hands loose at its sides, chin tilted just a bit. Ready.

Then, without a word, it lunged.

Fin barely ducked in time. A fist whooshed past his ear, fast as lightning, and he swung an elbow into the clone's ribs. Solid hit. It didn't flinch.

The clone came back with a knee to Fin's gut. He folded, coughed, and stumbled back.

"Damn," he hissed, wiping spit from his chin. "You hit harder than me."

"No," the clone said, stalking forward. "You just hold back."

It came at him again—quick, clean strikes. Fin blocked one, took two, ducked the next. He could feel the clone learning, adapting, tightening its rhythm to match his. It wasn't just a copy. It was improving.

And it was relentless.

Fin grunted as another punch landed against his cheek. He swung wide, desperate, and missed.

The clone grabbed his wrist mid-swing, twisted, and slammed him into the polished floor.

His back screamed in protest.

But as he lay there, staring up at the sky, something clicked.

This wasn't just a physical fight. It never was. This was the final trial. The last test. And it wasn't about beating someone else. It was about confronting himself.

The doubts. The fear. The guilt. All of it—standing there in his skin, trying to knock him back down.

The clone lifted a fist.

Fin didn't move.

"Go ahead," he whispered. "If I'm really not enough, then do it."

The clone froze.

The air thickened.

And in that pause, Fin struck—clean, from the ground. Fist to jaw. The clone reeled, more in surprise than pain. Fin rolled to his feet, panting.

"I get it now," he said between breaths. "You're not just me. You're the part of me that won't let go. The part that keeps doubting even after all I've survived."

The clone charged again, but this time Fin didn't meet it with fists—he sidestepped, grabbed the thing by the shoulder, and slammed it to the ground.

"I'm done running from myself," he said.

The clone didn't get up.

It lay there, breathing. Then its body began to dissolve—into light, into shadow. Nothing dramatic. No screams. Just quiet acceptance.

Fin stood over the spot for a while. Watching. Waiting. Listening to his own breath calm.

Then he turned back to the gate.

And walked toward it—bloody, sore, and whole.