Edward pov:
Lis—
Skrrrrrch—tchhh—kshkkk.
My internal world shattered, a thousand shards of sound impaling my thoughts. I d-d… tra—skch—tried—
Tried to—! My very will fractured, caught in a swirling vortex of static.
My blade swung. Metal kissed metal in a brutal crescendo, a sound that cracked through the arena—loud, final, filled with fury. It should have been everything. But my mind… wasn't here.
It was elsewhere—fractured, unfocused, slipping through static and scraps of half-shouted memories.
Tha—nojgf—
Ho# i te4 you—
Bzzzzzzzzt.
The noise clawed at me, a relentless, digital screech. It was glitching. Cutting. Like someone had taken my thoughts, fed them into a tape deck, and started tearing the ribbon with their bare hands. Every coherent idea was shredded, leaving only a raw, jumbled mess.
I could still see Leon, his blonde hair a blur of motion. I could still feel the crushing weight of the fight pressing against my body, the relentless rhythm of steel on steel. But inside? It was chaos.
My thoughts weren't thoughts anymore.
They were ribbons.
Warped. Torn.
As if something was chewing through my voice—my very mind—from the inside out. A consuming darkness devouring the core of who I was.
And amid all of this—
I'm still fighting.
Getting cut—bit by bit. Bleeding out, slice by slice. Each wound a crimson petal unfurling on my skin, yet strangely distant.
And yet…
I don't feel pain.
I don't feel threatened.
It's like all my emotions have been drained out of me—wrung dry, like blood from a soaked cloth. The roaring crowd, a distant hum, faded into irrelevance. The very weight of the blade in my hand meant nothing; it was an extension of a body I barely recognized.
What am I even doing?
What kind of fight is this?
And for what?
But before those echoing, nihilistic thoughts could swallow me whole—
A voice tore through the haze, cutting through the static like a sharp blade.
"What are you doing, boy?"
A deep voice—familiar, echoing from somewhere far behind my consciousness, yet resonating with an undeniable, present force.
Time froze. Literally.
The very air grew heavy, still. The wind stilled mid-current, holding its breath.
The crowd halted mid-cheer, their mouths agape, suspended in a silent, grotesque tableau.
Even the clouds above—motionless, painted onto an unnaturally perfect sky.
Everything became still. Every particle of the world around me locked into an infinite moment.
Everything... except me.
I remained fully aware, keenly aware of the impossible stillness.
Frozen in a moment the world had abandoned, an island of consciousness in an ocean of suspended time.
And then—
"I asked you, what the hell are you doing, boy?" The voice returned, sharper, laced with an impatience that defied the paused reality.
From the edge of the deepest shadows, a figure emerged—slowly taking shape. Not walking, but manifesting, solidifying from the suspended air itself.
A tall man, weathered and powerful, his presence as sharp as a drawn blade. His body was built like a war machine—broad-shouldered, every inch defined by hardened muscle and old scars, his stance unshakable. He walked like a soldier who had never known retreat. Stood like a wall against any storm. And though time itself had stopped, his eyes burned with an impossible, fierce life, pinning me where I stood.
I didn't need to turn around.
I knew exactly who that voice belonged to. The very sound of it, a raw memory etched onto my soul.
I had tried to leave him behind on Earth.
But here he was anyway, a haunting specter of a life I desperately wanted to forget.
"Listen, boy," he said, his tone low and commanding, cutting through the silence of the frozen world. "I didn't train you to fight like this." He took another step, his gaze unwavering. "Did I ever teach you to fight a battle with honor?"
No.
No, he didn't.
That voice didn't belong to anyone in Edward's memories, not the Edward I was pretending to be.
It belonged to mine.
Back from Earth.
Back from the life I lived before. The one drenched in blood and desperation, where honor was a weakness.
"You and I—we fight to survive. Not for pride. Not for ideals. Not for some noble cause." His voice was a rasp, a cold, hard truth. "We don't know honor. We don't need respect. All we know—"
He stepped forward again, his imposing shadow towering over mine, swallowing me whole.
"—is how to kill."
"You're no knight. You're the pilot I trained." His voice dropped, a chilling whisper. "A weapon. A ghost on the battlefield. And I didn't teach you to hesitate."
His hand slowly reached out from behind me.
Rough. Calloused. Familiar in the worst way, a tactile memory that sent shivers down my spine.
And then—
It gently, almost reverently, covered my eyes, plunging me into a deeper, more profound darkness.
"Listen, boy."
His voice dropped lower still, a raw, primal whisper meant only for me, meant to shatter any last illusion.
"No matter how far you've gone..."
"No matter how many names you wear..."
"You will never be able to leave that world behind."
His palm pressed slightly firmer—like he was reminding me who I was, or maybe who I could never stop being. A branding touch, searing a forgotten identity onto my consciousness.
"You think you can bury it? That old life? Beneath some new name, some new world?"
"You think becoming him will make you forget you?"
He chuckled—a low, bitter thing, devoid of mirth, filled only with grim understanding.
"There are only two kinds of people in this world, boy."
His hand tightened, the pressure on my eyes becoming insistent.
"The ones who stay alive..."
He leaned closer, his voice a sibilant hiss in my ear, cold and undeniable.
"And the ones who pretend they're not already dead."
A pause.
The kind that felt like it demanded a verdict. An answer that would define everything.
"So tell me—"
"Which one are you?"
I gave him the same answer I always did back then, the words rising unbidden from the deepest, most buried part of myself. The truth I had tried to outrun.
"A dead one."
There was silence. A profound, absolute silence that seemed to stretch into eternity, weighing on me like a tombstone.
Then—
That chuckle.
Dry. Familiar. Cruel in its honesty, because it resonated with my own.
"Then fight like you're already dead."
His hand slipped away from my eyes, taking the impenetrable darkness with it.
The cold returned, a stark, bracing shock.
And so did the world.
Time lurched forward with a sudden, violent jolt—the cacophony of sound, the rush of air, the deafening clash of battle. The blinding light of the arena. The searing, undeniable pain.
It all flooded back in, overwhelming and immediate.
But something in me had fundamentally shifted. A core had re-aligned.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Just the quiet, unsettling stillness of a corpse that refused to fall, ready to unleash the brutality it had always known.
Leon moved again.
But so did I.
I closed the distance—quick, sudden, almost reckless.
A desperate lunge, perhaps, to any casual observer.
Steel flashed between us as I struck, my blade a wild arc, but Leon met it with practiced ease. He slid my attack aside like swatting away a gnat. With the same fluid, almost bored motion, he drove his own sword forward—piercing clean through my left shoulder. A familiar tearing sensation. A dull thud. Then warmth blooming across my tunic.
But I didn't falter.
Didn't flinch.
Because I didn't miss the chance.
This was the moment.
The exact opening I'd waited for.
As Leon's blade claimed its shallow victory, my left hand—useless in his eyes—moved with sudden, surgical speed. It slipped beneath my sleeve, fingers closing around the cold steel of the dagger—the one I'd borrowed from Kevin. My contingency. My buried card.
And I drove it forward.
Not with rage. Not with panic.
But with chilling precision.
Straight into the side of Leon's thigh—just above the tendon. A point I'd studied. A weakness he never imagined I'd aim for.
Precise. Brutal.
I let go of the hilt. Left the dagger buried deep.
Then, with a gasp that tore through my lungs, I stumbled back.
My body trembled. Blood poured freely, a trail of crimson dripping onto dust. My left arm—pierced and screaming—hung limp, a useless weight dragging behind me.
But when I looked up… I saw it.
The first crack in Leon's perfect mask.
At first, there was pity in his eyes.
That cold, confident kind—an expression worn by victors when the outcome is no longer in doubt.
Like watching an animal finally collapse.
But then—
He took a step forward.
And everything changed.
His body jerked. A twitch he couldn't control.
Pain surged through his leg. Real pain.
The pity vanished.
Surprise took its place.
His eyes widened—just a little at first—then more. He blinked, confusion blooming in his perfect features like a fracture through glass.
He didn't understand.
Couldn't.
The tide had shifted, and he hadn't noticed it until it was already too late.
The elegant rhythm of the fight had twisted into something ugly. Something unpredictable.
Something real.
He looked down—finally registering the dagger.
And in that instant, all composure drained from his face.
As I watched him—cracking open, unraveling—something stirred behind my eyes.
A warmth.
Not pain. Not relief.
Something far older.
A memory.
A feeling.
A voice.
"Edward, make sure to make the duel brutal."
The words echoed in my mind like a commandment.
The mirror. The entity—me, but not me. A shadow of my past, a fragment of my true self, waiting in the darkness.
The shadow I had buried.
Now I remembered.
Everything.
The cold logic of survival.
The way the blood tasted when it hit the back of your throat.
The thrill that comes not from winning—but from refusing to die.
So I smiled.
Just slightly.
A slow, chilling curve.
And whispered—my voice a razor gliding through the chaos—
"Looks like it's time to make this duel… brutal."