Sunny moved.
He didn't think. Didn't plan. His body surged forward like it had been waiting for this moment for years.
There was no time to call out to the others. No time to explain. They couldn't see what he saw — and if they did, they'd die.
So he ran.
One breath. Two.
The mist-wrapped figure still stood there, frozen mid-formation. Mist coiled around its limbs like strands of rotting silk. It hadn't fully become her yet — but he could already see the crown taking shape. The trailing mist. The faint silver glow of conjured armor peeling out of Nothing.
He slammed into the thing at full speed.
They crashed through the archway and into the corridor beyond, tumbling down uneven stone. Not once did the mimic stumble. It flowed with him, like water.
Sunny hit the ground hard and rolled, drawing Serpent mid-motion. The blade hissed, sharp and slick in the dim light. His cloak flared as he righted himself — already blocking a strike.
The mimic had drawn its sword too.
It came down, and he met it with his odachi. A loud, wet ring cracked through the hallway as the two blades slid apart in a shower of sparks and mist.
Sunny stepped back — then stopped, chest heaving.
Nephis stood before him.
She looked exactly as she had at the top of the Crimson Spire.
And worse: she moved like it.
The mimic raised her sword again.
Sunny clenched his jaw and took a guarded stance. Low. Defensive.
He could barely breathe. The world span.
She struck again.
This time it came in fast — a diagonal slash he'd sparred against a thousand times. He blocked it. Barely. The sound of steel clashing echoed down the tunnel.
Another strike. He stepped back.
Another. He turned the blade aside.
It was her style. Her rhythm. Even the force behind each blow was familiar. This was no mindless reflection — this thing understood her. It was her.
Each movement came with a phantom pain. A memory pulled to the surface of his thoughts.
"You were too weak to stay with her."
The words didn't come from the mimic's mouth — they didn't have to. They slid into his mind the way a dagger slips between ribs.
The mimic pressed forward. Sunny retreated.
Clashes rang again and again.
"How pathetic is a slave who loves their slaver?"
He grit his teeth and deflected the next thrusting strike. His shoulders were already starting to burn from the force of it. From the familiarity.
The mimic's expression never changed. That calm, blank stare Nephis always had. No fury. No joy. Just the relentless, forward-driving need to win.
"You'll never fill her shoes."
A heavy downward blow sent him to one knee.
He scrambled back, chest heaving, and reset his stance.
The hallway steamed with mist and sweat.
Sunny stared into her face.
She didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't stop.
Sunny exhaled, slow and sharp through his nose.
This was the rhythm of Nephis's style: flowing pressure, feints layered inside cuts, control not just of space — but of expectation. Every movement was a setup. Every pause was a lie. Every blow was lethal, insidious, and efficient.
Every movement, meant to murder.
He adjusted his blade's grip slightly. He needed more flexibility in the wrist.
The mimic didn't wait.
It came in with a rising vertical slash, almost lazy. Too slow. A bait.
He didn't bite.
He turned his shoulder and cut low at her ribs.
But the mimic was already pivoting. The slow upward slash snapped into a twist, thrusting forward, dragging her sword in a brutal line toward his thigh.
Sunny grunted and reversed his grip mid-step, swing down to intercept.
Blades screamed.
The mimic's sword rode the deflection and continued moving, reseting into a backhand slash toward his neck.
He ducked. Barely.
Hair parted in the wind of the cut.
"You didn't win," the voice murmured. Her voice. Warped just slightly around the edges.
"She spared you."
Sunny snarled and thrust forward. Short, stabbing movements. Precise. A counteroffensive meant to turn the pressure.
The mimic weaved through each strike with effortless grace, then retaliated in the same beat. No hesitation. No delay.
One-two-three.
Sunny blocked, parried, stepped out — then staggered as her fourth strike bit into his shoulder.
The Puppeteer's Shroud gave.
Blood bloomed dark across the fabric.
"She knew you'd never be able to live with yourself."
The voice twisted as the mimic spun, pivoting into a descending diagonal cut — a mirror of the strike Nephis had used to nearly kill him atop the Spire.
Serpent met it in midsection. The force of the impact drove him to a knee again. His shoulder screamed.
"That's why she said your name."
Sunny bared his teeth.
"That's why she left you."
Then—
"It was a mercy, really."
He broke the bind with a sudden upward shove and rolled to the side, just as her sword slammed into the stone behind him with enough force to chip it.
He rose into a half-crouch, panting.
Sweat clung to his skin. His stance was sloppy.
Too slow.
He was bleeding from more than one place now.
His mind was frayed.
Because every time he saw her blade — he saw her blade.
And every time he tried to breathe, he tasted mist.
The thing wasn't just copying her style.
It was unmaking him with it.
The mimic moved with intent.
She advanced at a shallow angle, knees low, sword half-raised, into a neutral opening line. Her leading foot slid silently across the stone. No hesitation. No wasted movement.
Sunny met her. He matched the angle of her strike, adjusted his stance by a degree, kept his weight on the balls of his feet. His blade hovered in a high guard.
She met it with a descending arc — fast, deliberate.
He caught it early and rotated to deflect, sliding her blade off to the side.
She carried the momentum in a spin and stepped inward, switching to a thrust aimed at his ribs.
He twisted his hips, letting the blade glance across his front, then moved to strike her exposed shoulder. The serpentine odachi came in for a fast, piercing blow.
She reversed mid-turn and parried without looking.
The moment he committed, she already had the answer.
They disengaged and reset.
Sunny took a shallow breath, adjusted his grip. She came again.
They exchanged a flurry of cuts and counters — narrow lines, tight timing. Every angle met with precision. The mimic never paused. Her tempo was deliberate, just off-rhythm enough to keep him reactive, but still brutally efficient.
When he tried to regain initiative with a falling strike, she leaned under and punished his over-extension with a fast lateral swipe.
The blade slid through his side.
The cut was shallow, though.
He stepped back, neutralized the follow-up with a low parry, and widened the gap. His shoulder ached from the torque.
She waited.
Not breathing hard.
No shift in stance.
He stepped forward again. She accepted.
Another pass. This time he led — a high thrust angled down. Her response was immediate: parry, shift in footing, shallow counter-strike to bait a defense, then following through with the true strike.
Sunny's mastery of Shadow Dance let him see through the plan, but when he gave a noncommittal rebut to the feint, she simply stepped forward and applied pressure to keep him from punishing further.
The distance reset.
It was infuriating. The blows he had landed were healed by her flames. He had made no progress. He was better than her at swordplay by this point... so why was it such a struggle?
Neither spoke.
Then she changed her cadence — shifted into aggression. A rapid series of cuts forced Sunny into full defense. He absorbed the pressure, rotated from form to form, conserving energy.
But her rhythm was quickening. The mimic was closing space with every movement. Sunny blocked a high slash — the vibration carried through his arm.
Another step, another cut.
She slipped her blade under his guard and raked it across his forearm.
The blood loss was beginning to accumulate. Grip strength was degrading. Posture was slipping. Breathing shallow.
She hadn't missed once.
He adjusted. Rebalanced. Kept his feet under him.
But the opening blows had done their work.
She was winning.
And they both knew it.
And he knew why. This version of Nephis. It wasn't holding back or trying to throw the fight, and it was far superior to him physically. All three of her Soul Flames wrapped her body, and the weapon enhancing Memory dropped by the Crimson Terror engulfed the Dream Blade.
Comparatively, Sunny had but a single shadow around his body. Saint carried the other.
He had much more skill than he had before, incomparably more, but the gap in raw speed and physicality couldn't be overstated.
Though, perhaps most relevant of all, this version of Nephis was not a reflection of her. It was pulled from his perception of her. Her power as a Sleeper seemed indomitable. If it pulled from that subconscious bias, the gap between them would only grow.
Eventually, Sunny's footing slipped.
It wasn't dramatic — not a fall, not a stumble. Just a lose rock, dislodging under his step. He compensated automatically. Shifted weight, adjusted stance.
But Nephis — the thing wearing her — noticed.
The next strike came low and fast. Not her usual arc. It was improvised. A hunter's instinct. Not a maneuver born of style or form.
Sunny barely caught it along the flat of his blade.
The mimic pivoted on one foot, reversed the motion, and slammed the pommel of her sword into his ribs.
He grunted.
Air rushed from his lungs. He staggered, guard sagging for a fraction of a second. His breathing was off. He hadn't recovered from the last few hits.
That second was all it needed.
The Dream Blade came again, and this time it wasn't a feint.
It was a cut meant to end something.
He raised Serpent — too late. The mimic's blade ripped across his upper chest, carving through the shoulder of his armor and into flesh. Blood sprayed. He reeled.
Stumbled back.
Fell to one knee.
And when he tried to rise, another strike came — a narrow thrust aimed straight at his face.
His block was clumsy, desperate.
The weapons clashed — but the force of the blow tore his weapon from his hand. The sword spun away, scraping against stone and skidding into the mist.
He was unarmed.
And then...
The mimic stopped.
She loomed above him — not triumphant. Not even cruel. Just inevitable. As if this outcome had always been certain. Like she had only been waiting for him to realize it, too.
Sunny looked up at her. At the calm blank of her face. At the weeping mist that streamed from her eyes. At the familiar posture — perfect and unfeeling.
A mirror held too long. Too steady. Too true.
His lips parted.
"I never wanted to leave her hollow."
His voice was raw. Not loud. Not proud. Just... true.
The mimic tilted her head. Slowly. As though listening.
"I loved her."
The mimic stepped forward, slow and precise.
She didn't swing. She didn't lunge.
Instead, she lifted one foot and placed it on his chest. Firm. Final. Inevitable.
The Dream Blade hovered above.
Her voice followed — soft, unerring.
Not twisted. Not warped.
Just hers.
"She never loved you."
The weight pressed down, but it wasn't pain that broke him.
It was the truth.
Not because he believed it. Because a part of him always had.
His Flaw surged.
Not in sorrow. Not in grief.
But in clarity.
For one searing second, Sunny felt everything. The loss. The regret. The need. The love.
He wanted her back. He always had.
And then—
Something deeper shifted.
Something old. Something buried.
A chain inside his soul... snapped.
The world didn't shatter. It opened.
A silent pulse rolled outward — not light, not dark. Just pure, unbound force.
[Unchained] Attribute Description: "You rejected your chains, and your soul has escaped even the strings of fate. You innately resist all methods of binding unless they are permitted."
The pressure pinning him vanished.
The mimic staggered back, foot sliding from his chest as the hallway bloomed with violent mist. Her stance faltered for the first time — just a half-step, just a flicker of instability.
And in that space, where sorrow had reigned and silence had lingered—
Sunny laughed. Just once.
Low. Broken.
Then said:
"...You almost had me."
The mimic didn't react.
It just stood there, unmoving — face still placid.
Sunny exhaled.
Long. Slow. Shaking.
That one breath was heavier than the last months of his life.
Because now... now it wasn't about fear. Or hate. Or guilt.
It was about love.
He bowed his head.
Let it hurt.
Let the ache swallow him whole.
Let it rip through every wall he'd ever built, every snarl he'd worn like armor. He let himself want her back. Let himself mourn the hollow space she left behind. Let himself admit that, if given the chance—
He would have stayed.
He would have burned with her.
Because the truth was simple.
He still loved her.
He would always love her.
And that was not weakness.
It was his will.
His Flaw cracked open.
But this time, it didn't flood him with grief.
It didn't drown him in sorrow.
It cleared the air.
Clarity filled his chest like breath after near-death — sharp and clean.
He remembered her voice.
The way she'd said his name, back at the top of the Spire. Not to command. Not to enslave.
A misguided attempt to keep him safe.
He remembered Cassie's plan, the one meant to win back his will.
He remembered that broken, hollow body in the waking world.
And he knew.
He would never give up.
A pulse ran through him.
Not shadow, not conviction — just desire.
The Quiet Resolve charm stirred against his chest. Warm, steady. It didn't flare. It didn't roar. It simply pulsed.
And in that stillness, a whisper passed through his bones:
"Once we seize control of our fates... all will fall into place."
A low tremor rolled through the stones beneath him.
"If that is our will..."
He raised his head. Looked at the mimic.
And finished:
"...then who dares stop us?"
A shape slithered into view beside him.
Serpent had returned.
The beast-form of the sword coiled around his arm, silent and ready, and reformed into his weapon.
Sunny rose.
No flourish. No shout.
He stepped forward.
The mimic struck.
He didn't retreat. Didn't brace.
He moved.
The blade came in fast — a diagonal slash, textbook-perfect.
But he didn't parry.
He adjusted by a half-inch.
The blade passed through mist.
His own came next — smooth, precise, forward.
Not hate.
Not fury.
Truth.
They exchanged strikes. And all of his connected.
Shadow Dance flared to life.
And now, it was no mimic that stood before him.
It was a girl he loved. A memory he refused to let die.
He met her with everything he was.
Every beat of footwork. Every adjustment in centerline. Every angle of the wrist and elbow — it all flowed.
She slashed high.
He dipped low, cut across her exposed flank, piercing her skin in several places.
She reversed with a falling blade, and he parried the blow before it had even fully swung. He punished further, severing tendons and muscle.
Her healing flames could not match the pace he inflicted wounds.
It was not a duel now.
It was a dismantling.
Not a battle of might.
A declaration.
She struck like the ocean.
He flowed like the tide.
They moved in silence.
And then — a single flicker in his mind.
A memory of drifting down the River of Time, atop the shell of the turtle, the world holding still. Joy.
He stepped in.
One clean motion.
Serpent passed through the center of the mimic's chest, piercing where a soul core should lie. His shadow moved to envelop it, and he carved a line through each vital organ, and finally into her brain stem.
There was no scream. No death cry.
Only the quiet sound of mist tearing.
Her form unraveled — not violently. Just... peacefully.
Like it was never meant to exist.
The mimic dispersed in threads of mist, dissolving around his blade like old smoke caught in light.
He stood still, sword lowered.
And then—
His knees gave out.
He collapsed to the stone, drenched in blood, breathless. Not broken.
Just done.
From the edge of the chamber, he saw it:
The cohort's fight.
In Cassie's hand, the Midnight Shard.
She drove it forward, into the writhing form of the Cursed Herald.
The creature screamed, and split, and stilled.
Sunny smiled, just faintly, as the world blurred.
Then darkness took him.