Leo had been watching his opponents closely from the moment the battle began. Every move, every exchange of blows, every shift in power. And now, a pattern had begun to emerge. Each time one of the clones died, their power wasn't lost—it was transferred to the others. That was the true purpose of Mr. Clone's strategy: more clones didn't just mean more attacks—it meant more minds, capable of independent thought, simultaneous spellcasting, synchronized tactics, and sudden ambushes. But Leo suspected there was more.
One detail refused to escape his notice was that the real Mr. Clone barely moved. Always standing just outside the fray, watching, conserving energy. It wasn't laziness—it was calculation.
As Leo parried another aggressive assault from the clone, the truth clicked into place like a blade sliding into a sheath.
Mr. Clone was stalling. He was letting his clones wear Leo down, drain his mana, chip away at his stamina. Meanwhile, he stood at a distance, slowly recovering his own strength. When the last clone fell, he would possess all of their accumulated power—refreshed, reforged, and fully restored—while Leo would be exhausted and vulnerable. Simple, but devastatingly effective.
But something still didn't add up. A mana potion was nearly useless at this level of power. So how was Mr. Clone recovering his mana so quickly?
There was no time to ponder the question. With a sharp grunt, Leo knocked the attacking clone back with a forceful, blood-empowered slash. His focus narrowed, his will sharpened—and then, with a pulse of crimson light, five Blood Phantoms burst into existence around him, each mirroring his stance with blades drawn.
"You know using that much blood will drain you, right?" Mr. Clone called out with a smile, his voice confident and cold.
Leo didn't flinch. "Don't worry," he replied calmly. "I know my limits."
Without waiting, the five phantoms surged forward in unison, tearing through the place toward the clone. Leo didn't follow. He jumped—high, swift, directly at the real one.
Mr. Clone's smile twisted wider as he began to dart from side to side, dodging Leo's strikes. "So you've figured it out," he said as he moved. "But even if you make me dance, I can still recover my mana. That's the beauty of patience."
Leo didn't reply. Instead, he vanished in a burst of speed, and before Mr. Clone could shift away again, Leo appeared directly in front of him, sword glowing with blood-soaked energy. He slashed upward from below.
Mr. Clone raised his staff to block—but just before impact, he switched places with his last clone, already prepared with its blade raised. The two weapons clashed—but Leo's raw force overwhelmed the clone's defense, slicing through the guard, striking deep, and continuing past to carve an arc into the stone wall behind them.
All the clones were gone. Only one man remained. Mr. Clone now stood alone, a sword gripped tightly in one hand.
"Shall we begin the real fight?" Mr. Clone said, a wicked smile curling on his lips.
Leo's grip on his sword tightened. An aura of blood began to coil around the blade, crackling softly in the silence. At the same time, arcs of lightning flickered across Mr. Clone's weapon, wrapping it in electric fury. Their eyes met—sharp, unblinking, charged with intent—and in the blink of an eye, their figures vanished.
In the next heartbeat, their bodies collided mid-air with a thunderous crash, the force of impact sending shockwaves rippling through the air. Sparks exploded as steel met steel—Leo's blood-enchanted blade grinding violently against Mr. Clone's lightning-wrapped weapon. The clash echoed like a bell tolling across the place, marking the true beginning of their duel.
Their forms became blurs, darting and flickering across the space like shadows caught in a storm. One moment they were at ground level, the next they clashed above shattered stone pillars, only to reappear again on opposite sides of the arena. Leo's movements were aggressive, almost feral—each swing of his blade a calculated burst of destruction, raw force channeled through blood. His strikes hammering forward with such weight that each one threatened to shatter defenses through sheer pressure.
But Mr. Clone was a different kind of storm—controlled, refined, and unpredictable. His weapon was a shapeshifting marvel, constantly evolving: one second a staff to extend his reach and cast precise elemental spells; the next a shield to absorb and redirect Leo's brute-force assaults; and then a sword, sleek and swift, to slash and stab in return.
Each of Leo's blood-infused attacks—slashes that carried not just force but intent—was met with a perfect counter. When Leo sent a wave of blood energy sweeping toward him, Mr. Clone's staff erupted in a spiral of flame to burn it away. When Leo lunged with a thrust aimed to pierce, Mr. Clone's blade turned to a barrier of ice, meeting the strike with frozen resistance. Every blow, every spell, every tactic Leo deployed was countered with the precision of someone not just fighting, but predicting.
The space between them seemed to warp with the intensity of their battle—clones rising and falling, phantoms clashing in the periphery, spells detonating mid-air, leaving scorch marks and cracks along the stone. Each movement was not just physical—it was mental warfare, a chess game played at breakneck speed.
Leo hurled a slash of blood across the field, only to have it neutralized by Mr. Clone's lightning-charged sword. In return, Mr. Clone summoned clones mid-battle, but Leo's Blood Phantoms intercepted them, cutting them down before they could reach him.
Then came a violent clash—Leo's empowered strike broke Mr. Clone's sword in half. Sparks flew. Mr. Clone leapt backward, sliding across the ground as a new weapon formed in his hand, shaped from raw mana.
He looked up with that same twisted smile. "You know," he said, spinning the blade with ease, "I have the mana to keep doing this all day."
As he spoke, four more clones burst from the ground, rising like summoned spirits.
Leo didn't respond. He slowly lowered his sword until its tip touched the stone floor. Blood began to drip from it—not fresh, but thick and already prepared. The droplets spread outward until a pool of blood began to form beneath him, rippling unnaturally.
Mr. Clone's eyes widened. "How much blood do you even have?"
"You're mistaken," Leo replied coldly. "This blood was stored in my sword. I've known you were following me for weeks. Every day, I infused it with just a little more."
"What?"
From the expanding pool, ten Blood Phantoms rose, one after another, their glowing red eyes locked onto Mr. Clone and his duplicates.
…
Before Mr. Clone could fully process the sight of ten blood phantoms rising from the crimson pool, they were already upon his clones—rushing like a flood of death, blades glinting with eerie red light. In seconds, the field descended into chaos. One by one, his remaining clones fell, shattered by the relentless, coordinated assault of Leo's phantoms. The moment the last one collapsed into dust, the phantoms turned in perfect unison and set their gaze on their true target.
Mr. Clone narrowed his eyes and raised his weapon, destroying phantom after phantom with precision and elemental fury. Bursts of lightning, arcs of fire, and jagged shards of ice tore through them, but the phantoms just kept coming, pushing him back, hemming him in.
Then, from the lingering haze of dust and blood, Leo burst forth.
He came from above, descending like a hawk with his sword raised high, Thorn glowing in his grasp. Seeing the blade in his hand, Mr. Clone realized that this was no phantom—this was the real Leo. The phantoms carried weapons made of blood, but Thorn… Thorn was unique. The very object he suspected Leo had been using to channel and control his blood abilities.
Mr. Clone snarled and put all his strength into a defensive slash, his blade crackling with energy as it met Leo's in the air.
But something was wrong. There was no weight behind Leo's swing. No pressure. No force.
Mr. Clone's heart dropped.
"…Don't tell me—" he whispered, realization hitting like thunder, but it was too late.
A blade of blood erupted from his chest. He gasped. Blood sprayed from his mouth as the pain lanced through him, sharp and cold.
Reflexively, he spun and lashed his sword in a wide arc, forcing his attacker to leap back. The blood blade dissolved, but the damage was done. He clutched his chest, staggering, struggling to breathe as he turned toward Leo.
"You gave your sword to one of your clones…?" Mr. Clone wheezed, disbelief etched across his face.
Leo start walking toward him. "They're called phantoms," he said coolly.
Mr. Clone's thoughts scattered. He tried to strategize, tried to focus—but the pain made it hard to think. His chest burned, and he could feel his strength beginning to fade.
Then, just as Leo raised his sword and appeared to lunge from a distance—Mr. Clone's body disappeared. Another sharp pain exploded in his chest.
He looked down. The real sword was there, just inches from his heart. And Leo—the real Leo—stood in front of him now, solid and merciless, his blade buried deep.
"How—?" he stammered.
"You forgot," Leo whispered. "I'm an illusionist. A weakened mind is very easy to fool."
It hit him then. After the first strike, Leo had layered an illusion over his mind. His perception, already compromised by pain and shock, had been twisted. He hadn't seen the real Leo walk up. He hadn't seen the final strike coming.
Mr. Clone's eyes flickered, and blood poured from his mouth. "…Damn you…" he muttered as darkness crept in from the edges of his vision.
Leo was ready to end it. His blade hovered, final and unforgiving. But then Mr. Clone laughed. A dry, broken laugh, coughing blood with every breath.
"I'm Mr. Clone," he rasped. "How do you know I don't have another clone waiting to switch places again? I will be back."
Leo narrowed his eyes, calm but cold. "Then you'll return even weaker than now."
A sick smile twisted Mr. Clone's lips. "I'll find your loved ones," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "And I'll break them. I'll torture them until they beg me for death. And then, I'll kill them slowly."
Leo's expression shifted. Cold turned to murderous. His aura spiked like a spear to the throat.
"…Then I'll show you hell."
He reached out and placed his free hand on Mr. Clone's forehead.
The world shattered. The field dissolved, replaced by a dimly lit room—windowless, silent, with a single glowing magic lamp casting long, trembling shadows. In the center stood a strange, ominous structure: a tall coffin of blackened iron, spiked from within. A relic of ancient cruelty.
Mr. Clone stared, disoriented. "What is this place?"
Then two more Mr. Clones appeared from the corners of the room, grabbing his arms—but these weren't his own creations. Their eyes were blank. Controlled. Illusions.
"What?! What is this?!"
Leo materialized before him, silent and composed.
"This," he said, gesturing to the coffin, "is called an Iron Maiden. A cruel invention from the darker corners of history."
A fourth illusion appeared—another phantom clone—and pulled open the Iron Maiden's doors. Rows of long, sharpened iron nails lined its interior, glinting under the cold lamp light.
"No—what are you doing?" Mr. Clone thrashed in panic, but the grip of the illusions held firm.
"You know," Leo said calmly, "the human brain has an uncanny way of slowing down time right before death. In that final moment, the mind stretches seconds into what feels like minutes."
He leaned in slightly, his voice now ice-cold.
"Now imagine what I can do with illusion magic layered onto that. Every second in the real world will feel like an hour in here. And your body—your mind—will stay alive for at least another ten minutes."
Mr. Clone's eyes widened in horror. "No… No! This is just an illusion!"
The phantom clones dragged him closer.
"This is just an illusion!" he screamed again.
Then, they threw him in. Iron sank into flesh with sickening sound as the nails punctured every limb, every organ. Blood sprayed against the edges of the coffin as Mr. Clone's scream ripped through the chamber, echoing endlessly.
Leo stood before the open Iron Maiden, voice low and steady.
"When you crawl your way back to life—remember this. If I ever find you near anyone I love, I will hunt you down. And next time… the pain won't end."
With no more words, he slammed the door shut.
The nails on the inside of the door drove deep, and Mr. Clone let out another scream, desperate and broken.
Leo turned his back and began to walk away, fading into the shadows.
"Enjoy your next month," he whispered as the illusion sealed itself, leaving Mr. Clone trapped in his own mind… screaming.