The Reaper's staff lifted, and the first rune flared.
Fire.
Flames twisted themselves into burning orbs, hovering like angry spirits before hurling one after the other toward Killmonger. They came fast, relentless.
Killmonger rolled to the side, slicing one with Dreadfang. It hissed and evaporated, but two more came. Then four. Then six.
He moved like a predator, dodging, cutting—his blade trailing heat as it cleaved through flame. But with every one he cut down, the assault grew wilder, almost as if the fire was adapting.
"Enough," he growled, his breath short.
He launched forward with a wide swing, trying to close the distance, but before he could take two steps, the Reaper's staff lifted again.
This time, the water rune glowed.
The small pool beneath the Reaper's feet trembled—then froze. The ice cracked, split, then reformed into jagged spears, long and sharp, their tips glinting with the chill of death.
Without a word, the Reaper sent them forward.
They didn't fly—they lunged. Like they were hunting.
Killmonger gritted his teeth, spun, and swung Dreadfang through the air.
A wave of compressed force exploded outward from the blade.
But the moment it went forward, the third rune lit.
Wind.
A gust, summoned by the Reaper's raised hand, slammed into Killmonger's counterattack, neutralizing the wind wave mid-air. The clash sent dust spiraling as Killmonger stumbled back a step, caught off guard.
He looked up, breathing heavy.
The Reaper hadn't moved from his spot.
And one rune was still untouched.
Killmonger's eyes narrowed.
He didn't wait.
His muscles tensed, and in a blur he lunged forward, Dreadfang poised to tear through whatever shield or trick the Reaper had left. Enough with the theatrics—he was going to end it now.
But the Reaper still didn't move.
Instead, he raised the staff high and then released it.
As it fell, spinning in the air like a descending verdict, Killmonger saw something ripple in the space around the Reaper—like air itself had bent backward.
And then… they appeared.
Three.
No—four.
Four exact copies of Killmonger materialized beside the Reaper, each with identical expressions, posture, and… Dreadfangs.
"What the—" Killmonger muttered, coming to a hard stop mid-dash.
The copies lunged at him with perfect synchronicity, blades flashing in arcs too familiar.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew.
Killmonger blocked the first blow but was clipped by the second. He twisted and ducked as the third nearly took off his head.
"They move like me," he growled, backing up with every strike, forced into defense against himself.
Each step he took, they mirrored with cold, calculated aggression—no ego, no fury, just purpose.
On the other side of the arena, the real Reaper had already caught his falling staff. He leaned it against the ground and simply watched.
Killmonger deflected another slash but was pushed to a knee. He gritted his teeth.
He realised that each one of them had Dreadfang's hunger in their swing.
"What exactly can he do?" Melissa asked, her eyes fixed on the chaos unfolding in the arena.
The scarred man didn't answer right away. Instead, he let a faint smirk tug at the corner of his lips. "What do you think?"
"A summoner?" she guessed, watching the multiple versions of Killmonger circling the real one like wolves.
He chuckled under his breath. "Not quite. Look again."
Melissa squinted. From a distance, the duplicates shimmered ever so slightly at the edges. Not like ghosts—but like heat rising off the pavement. A wavering flicker.
"Illusions?" she murmured.
"Better," he said, leaning in. "He's using the moisture in the air—the water vapor. Tiny particles suspended all around us. He bends them with precision, reshaping how light passes through. To the eye, it becomes something solid. Tangible. Real."
"But how are they holding blades?" Melissa asked, startled as one of the shimmering copies locked swords with Killmonger again, the clash echoing through the arena like thunder.
The scarred man didn't look away from the battle. "Same concept," he said. "Killmonger thinks he's bleeding, but in reality…"
"…he's not," Melissa finished in a breath. She blinked, trying to wrap her head around it. "He's reacting to what he believes is happening."
She stared harder. The blood dripping from Killmonger's arm—was it real? Or just another illusion, placed with surgical precision? The Reaper wasn't just casting tricks—he was forcing his opponent's instincts to betray him.
Awe started to bloom in her chest, but it vanished as quickly as it came.
If she were even half that strong…
Maybe her mother wouldn't have been taken.
Maybe Liam wouldn't be— She shut her eyes, her throat tightening.
Tears welled and fell silently as the crowd around her roared with excitement, but all she could hear was the sound of her own grief. Her fingers curled on her lap, the image of Liam's last breath flashing across her mind. The weight of everything—of not being enough, not being ready—pressed on her again.