True Battle

"How are you feeling?" Terra asked softly, her hand resting gently on Rachel's arm, now marked with red, glowing scars.

"Terrible," Rachel muttered, forcing a weak smile. "The pain doesn't stop. It's like I'm constantly getting stabbed… from the inside."

"You're lucky," Naemor interjected without opening his eyes, still seated in meditation. "Those are Tier 1 seals. Fairly common, actually. If she wanted to be cruel, she could've upgraded them to Tier 2. With your current constitution… you'd be clawing at your own skin just to end the pain."

Rachel winced. "Tell me I at least got something from this…"

Naemor finally opened one eye and looked at her. "Did you?"

She lowered her gaze. "The only thing I could pick up was… her reluctance. She said she'd already given me the answer." Rachel pressed her palm to her temple. "But she wouldn't tell me what the seals actually do."

"I'm not equipped for mind games," Naemor muttered, exhaling. "Just get ready. Your match could start at any moment."

He closed his eyes again.

Rachel turned toward Terra. "Do you think… he's mad at me?"

Terra smacked her lightly on the head. "Of course he's mad at you. But I think he's more angry at himself."

Rachel looked confused.

"He told you she probably wouldn't kill you," Terra said. "But he didn't account for that psycho binding you with pain-infused seals. And let's be honest—she could've done far worse. This pain? It's temporary."

Rachel's eyes shimmered. "I just… I just wanted to be useful. Naemor's carried us this far—literally and figuratively. Even if we could've survived without him, it wouldn't have been this smooth."

Terra lifted her chin with one hand, forcing eye contact. "I get that. But have you ever asked why he's helping us? He's royalty, Rachel. He could've ignored us like the rest of these noble-born pricks. Let us suffer. Let us fail."

Rachel's lips trembled.

"Maybe… he's just helping us because he wants to. Not because he wants something in return."

Tears spilled down Rachel's cheeks. Her voice broke. "I didn't just want to be useful to you guys… I didn't want to get left behind. Stella—she's just discovering all this and yet… she's growing. I can feel it. What if she surpasses me? What if—what if she doesn't look back?"

Terra wiped the tears away and pulled her into a hug.

"If Stella would abandon you just because she grew faster… then you've misunderstood her. And if you're wrong about her, then fine. But you still have us. We're not leaving you behind. Not now. Not ever."

Across the room, Naemor cracked the faintest smile.

Then—

"Well, isn't this just the sweetest thing I've ever seen," a smug voice said nearby. "While you three were hugging and crying… four people got killed by her clone."

Rachel and Terra whipped their heads toward the speaker—a bored contestant watching the battlefield with detached interest.

"And you're next," he added, looking directly at Terra.

"Me?" Terra blinked, pointing at herself.

"Yeah. You," he said, standing up. "Normally I'd repeat myself for the slow ones, but I'm honestly curious how fast your massacre will be, so I'll let it slide."

"Next contestant," the guide's voice called from above, sharp and commanding.

A hush fell over the room.

A path cleared between Terra and the arena. She looked back at Rachel, then at Naemor, who gave her a small nod.

She stepped forward. Each footfall echoed louder than the last.

She walked into the arena.

Her clone formed in front of her—same build, same face, same fear hiding behind those eyes.

"Begin," the guide declared.

The clone lunged—a blur of speed and aggression. Terra gasped and raised her hands in instinct, eyes shut tight.

She waited for the impact.

It never came.

A wet crunch rang out. The sound of stone cracking and bone being torn.

Terra opened her eyes.

Her clone had been impaled—three jagged spikes of blackened earth had erupted from the arena floor, piercing the clone through the abdomen, chest, and shoulder. Its body hung limply in the air before vanishing in golden smoke.

The crowd went silent.

Terra stood frozen, arms still raised. Her lips parted, trying to form words.

"Pass," the guide announced, voice devoid of emotion.

Terra stumbled down from the stage, blinking at the stunned faces of the crowd. Her heart thundered in her ears. When she reached Rachel, the girl grabbed her by the shoulders.

"What the hell was that?! How did you do that?!"

"I… I don't know," Terra whispered. "I thought I was gonna die. I just raised my hands and… that happened."

Naemor opened his eyes, his expression now unreadable. "What did it look like from your perspective?"

Rachel glanced at him. "The moment she raised her hands, the arena floor shaped itself—the spikes grew straight into the clone. It was moving too fast to stop itself."

Naemor frowned. "Then why didn't the clone do the same thing?"

Terra descended the stage slowly, still staring at her hands, half-expecting the spikes to reemerge at any moment. The murmurs in the room were deafening—contestants whispering, watching, dissecting what they'd seen.

Rachel rushed to meet her. "That was incredible! How did you—?"

"I… I don't know," Terra admitted, looking dazed. "I raised my hands to block the attack and then… the ground reacted."

Rachel blinked. "From our view, the spikes erupted the moment you lifted your arms. The clone was too fast—it ran straight into them."

"But that's the thing," Terra said, her brow furrowing. "Why didn't the clone do the same thing? It's supposed to know everything I know."

A sudden silence fell between them.

Rachel's eyes lit up. "What did you say before?"

"What?" Terra asked, confused.

"Before the attack."

"I don't know. I thought I was going to get pummeled."

"No, that," Rachel said, pointing. "You didn't know. The clone didn't do it… because you didn't know you could."

A beat of silence. Then the realization hit like thunder.

"That's how she won," Rachel whispered. "The blood girl. That's why she couldn't tell me what the seals did. If I knew… then the clone would've known too."

Terra's jaw dropped. "So she tricked it?"

"Exactly," Rachel nodded. "But that raises the final question: how?"

Naemor, sitting nearby in meditation, opened his eyes.

"She didn't trick it consciously," he said, voice calm but serious. "She moved the knowledge. She took it from the surface of her mind and buried it deeper—beneath the reach of the clone's mimicry. Most likely, her family placed protective barriers on her consciousness. She's exploiting that structure."

Terra looked stunned. "That's cheating."

Naemor's eyes met hers, sharp and cold. "Get that foolish word out of your head. In the world we're entering, there's no such thing as cheating. There's only survival. Only results."

Rachel nodded, her scarred arms trembling faintly. "Then… I've already paid for my victory."

Naemor rose to his feet, voice low. "And I haven't. Not yet."

He stepped toward the arena.

Together, they raised their arms, twin flames coiling at their fingertips. Circles of glowing sigils danced in the air, and from them came arcs of fire, hurled like comets. The stage shook as flame met flame, colliding midair and scattering in brilliant flashes. The clash was relentless, a deadly call-and-response—each attack mirrored, each strike answered in kind.

But the clone adapted first. With a flick of the wrist and a chant beneath its breath, it conjured a towering wall of water. It surged forward, quenching the battlefield and plunging the arena into a dense fog of steam. The audience leaned forward, watching the stage vanish into white.

Naemor crouched low, drawing in a breath thick with moisture. He closed his eyes and extended his senses, releasing a pulse of mana that rolled across the arena like a sonar wave. Silence. Nothing. The pulse returned to him empty, untouched. A trap.

His eyes snapped open—just in time to feel the buzzing static above.

Lightning cracked through the fog like vengeful gods roaring. Bolts tore downward, searing through the mist, and the air exploded with blinding light. Naemor raised a shield too late. Heat bathed his skin, boiling sweat into steam. The electricity arced across his body, sending muscles into spasm. His shield flickered, barely holding. His skin blistered and cracked, blood seeping from reopened wounds.

"Mend," he gasped.

Faint golden light gathered around him, coursing through broken flesh. Skin stitched itself together, nerves cooled. But there was no time to rest. He snapped his fingers—"Condense."

The swirling mist crystallized instantly into thousands of floating shards of ice. Each one hovered for a heartbeat… then launched toward the sky.

The clone spun midair, forming a new sigil with its hand. A barrier of wind erupted, deflecting the incoming barrage. Most shards shattered against it, but a few slipped through the gaps, slicing into its limbs. Blood bloomed in the mist.

Naemor narrowed his eyes. He was learning too.

With a roar, he shouted, "Push!"

A shockwave of raw force burst from his body, distorting the air, flattening the steam, ripping deep cracks into the stone beneath his feet. The clone mirrored the motion instantly, and their twin shockwaves collided midair—canceling each other in an earth-rattling explosion.

The mist dispersed, and they saw each other clearly again.

Silence returned, thick and anticipatory.

"Sword."

The command rang from both lips.

Twin blades of golden light formed in their hands, pulsing with quiet fury. No tricks now. No magic formations. Just skill.

They moved—fast. Like blurs streaking across the stage, feet barely touching ground. Blades met in a ringing clash, and then again, and again. They circled, pivoted, ducked, and struck—masters at play, both offense and defense written into every breath.

It wasn't a battle. It was a dance. A deadly ballet, every motion measured. Sparks flew from clashing steel. Parried slashes curved back into elegant thrusts. The audience forgot to breathe.

Until—crack.

The blades collided with a force too great, and both shattered into shimmering fragments.

The clone moved first, backing away and raising both hands. Words spilled from its mouth at breakneck speed, too fast to catch. A circle of runes exploded beneath Naemor's feet. The wind howled as the air began to spiral, forming a vortex.

Debris tore from the arena floor, slicing at him. The pressure mounted, squeezing his chest—he couldn't breathe.

His vision swam.

Enough.

He drew a deep breath, willed his body still, and placed one foot behind the other. With effort, he raised his hands and whispered.

"From starlit forge and silent flame,

I call thee forth, oh arrow's gleam…"

The chant faltered, his breath running short. But the light obeyed.

A bow of golden starlight formed in his hands, radiant and perfect. The string pulled back without effort. A single arrow—not wood, but light itself—shimmered with quiet promise, aimed at the heart of his equal.

The clone, seeing death come, began to sprint, preparing to suffocate Naemor before he could release the shot.

He needed only one word.

"Fly."

The bowstring loosed with no sound, only light.

Time stops.

The arrow doesn't travel—it arrives, instantly, silently, through the clone's chest. The protective film doesn't even have time to break—it is simply gone. The arrow pierces the heart and bursts through the back, leaving a gaping hole where purpose once lived.

The clone's expression freezes—then fades.

It collapses. The wind dies.

The arena settles into silence once more. The formations flicker and vanish. Naemor stands amidst the wreckage, his robes torn and bloodied, his body trembling from strain. But he does not fall.

He breathes.

He walks.

The guide marks his score with a single nod.

"Pass."

Naemor returns to his friends. His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the room like steel.

"This… this is the world you're stepping into. My power? It's a speck. A flicker. Out there—out there they won't care how hard you tried. They'll just decide whether you live or die."