Clad in black, its form was featureless, no face, no voice, yet achingly familiar. It was Kael's silhouette, a perfect replica of himself, but distilled to its essence.
Its aura swirled with condensed bloodlust, each step sending tremors through the cracked earth. The air grew thick and oppressive as if the battlefield itself bowed to its presence.
Kael squared his stance, blood dripping from his knuckles, his spine straightening despite the weight of the moment. This wasn't an enemy. It was a question, etched in the form of his own shadow: What does it mean to walk the path of battle?
The replica struck first, faster than thought. Kael barely blocked, his arm shuddering under the force. The doppelgänger flowed forward, relentless, its movements a mirror of Kael's own, yet more.
It wielded techniques he'd forgotten, strikes he'd buried in the haze of survival. It adapted instantly, evolving with each clash, countering his every move with eerie precision.
