They moved so fast the air couldn't keep up.
One moment they were here—trading blows, steel screaming against steel. Then there—a flash of movement, a crack of sound, a trail of dust where nothing had been a second before. Then somewhere else entirely, far from the main battle, far from anyone who might witness what two versions of the same man could do to each other.
Jordan and Wrong Jordan.
Both speed demons. Both silent.
Clang.
Wrong Jordan's katana—Umbralite, black as void—met Jordan's—Kobai Rei's blade, lighter, faster, singing a different song. They held for a heartbeat, then broke apart.
Slash.
Jordan's blade found his evil self's shoulder. Wrong Jordan's blade found Jordan's ribs.
Dash.
They moved again, leaving afterimages that didn't fade fast enough.
Clang.
Slash.
Dash.
No words. No taunts. No breathing. Just the rhythm of battle, the pulse of two men who had spent their lives becoming this—fast, precise, deadly.
Both had cuts now. Both were bleeding. Both were identical in speed, in power, in the way they thought about the next strike, the next block, the next opening.
Jordan couldn't win like this.
But he had an ability. One he didn't like. One that changed him into something thin, something wrong, something that made his friends look at him differently. He had used it against Kobai Rei. He would use it again.
For Lena.
His body thinned.
The transformation was instant—muscles compressing, bones shifting, flesh tightening. He was faster now. Unbearably fast. The world around him slowed to a crawl.
Wrong Jordan's eyes widened.
Jordan moved.
One slash. Two. A hundred. A thousand. Four thousand, eight hundred cuts in under five seconds. Wrong Jordan's body came apart—arms, legs, torso, all of it separating along lines Jordan had drawn faster than light.
Wrong Jordan fell.
But before he hit the ground, his body released.
A liquid—clear, wrong, hungry—sprayed outward. Jordan twisted, threw himself back, but the liquid was fast. It caught his face, his eyes, burning, searing. He stumbled, blinking, trying to clear his vision.
The ground where the liquid landed smoked. Melted.
Wrong Jordan lay in pieces, still alive, his eyes still moving, his mouth still working.
"How?" The word was barely a whisper. "How?"
Jordan stood over him, his vision blurry, his face burning. He didn't answer.
Wrong Jordan stared at his own dismembered body. At the man who had done this to him. At himself.
He twisted his own neck.
The crack was loud in the silence.
He didn't accept defeat. He wouldn't give Jordan the satisfaction of killing himself. He would do it himself.
Jordan watched him die.
He didn't feel victorious.
He wiped the acid from his face and turned away. Lena was somewhere out there, fighting. He needed to find her. He needed to make sure she was safe.
Behind him, his own corpse lay still.
The speed demon had won. But winning felt a lot like losing.